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Authors: George R.R. Washington Alan Goldsher

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BOOK: A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot
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“I … I … I…” Head stammered.

“You … you … you … you’re
right
. My son
is
a moron, Head. My Godsdamn horse is smarter than that little yahoo. And lucky you, he’s only a Summer away from being your son-in-law.”

“Don’t remind me,” Head moaned. “Sasha is thrilled about the whole thing. She can’t wait to marry him. And I have to pay for the wedding. The thought of it gets my ulcer burning as hot as the hottest of hot Summers.”

“As well it should. So listen, I didn’t come here to discuss how idiotic our respective families are. I need to ask you something, face-to-face, man to man,
mano a mano
.”

“Anything, Bobbert…”

“Be my Foot.”

“… except that. No. No way. No how. No sir.”

“Why not, may I ask?” asked the King.

“Well, Summer is coming.”

“An unacceptable answer. Next excuse.”

“Um, okay, I’m not worthy to fill the Functionary’s pants.”

“You are. You da man. You’re so money, and you don’t even know it. Next excuse.”

“Okay, how about Summer is coming?”

“Still unacceptable. Next excuse.”

“How about Foots seem to die a whole bunch, and I have a family to consider.”

Bobbert shook his head as if it were a ball bouncing in a field on a muddy day. “Tough patooties. You’re my new Foot. Pack up your crap. We’re outta here.”

“But … but … but…”

“But … but … but what, Headcase? Out with it.”

“But Summer is coming.”

LOLYTA

Loly Targetpractice—known to those in the know as Lolyta Tornadobutt, Princess of Duckseventually—regarded the odd dress and asked her handmaiden, Magistrate Illinois, “How in the name of Gods am I supposed to get this Godsdamn thing on?” Comprised entirely of 1" × 2" rectangular rectangles, it was like nothing she had ever seen. The rectangles—which were all gold and covered with numbers and letters that might or might not add up to or spell something—were connected to one another by tiny wires; thus much of Loly’s skin was exposed. Loly felt the dress was too haute couture for the season, but as long as Ivan Drago, the King of Dork and her future husband, approved, her opinion did not matter.

Once she finally wriggled into the garment, her brother swished into the room and exclaimed, “My, my, my, Loly, you look most fierce.”

“You think so?” she asked. “Am I showing too much skin? Or maybe not enough?”

Vladymyr—known to those in the know as Vladymyr of the House Targetpractice, the Zillionth of His Name, King of the Sandals and the Ryebread, Lord of the Who-the-Heck-Knows-How-Many Kingdoms and Protector of the Elves—gave his little sister an intense onceover and said, “No question, Loly, you will be queening out on your wedding. And thank Gods for it.”

“Why
thank Gods
?” she asked. “What’re you so concerned about? I’m the one getting married to that stinky manhorse.”

“Because,” Vladymyr explained, “manhorses have short lifespans, and when he dies, I will take my rightful place on the throne.”

The dress was making her itch. Scratching her back, she said, “Okay, explain to me again why you, Vladymyr of the House Targetpractice, the Zillionth of His Name, King of the Sandals and the Ryebread, Lord of the Who-the-Heck-Knows-How-Many-Kingdoms and Protector of the Elves, will succeed Ivan Drago, a full-blooded Dorki and a native of Dork, as the ruler of Dork?”

“Because, Lolyta Tornadobutt, Princess of Duckseventually, everybody knows that the ruling families throughout Easterrabbit are all about inbreeding—it’s been documented on both the page and the small screen—so when Ivan Drago dies, everybody in Dork will think that you and I are dorking, and according to the Dork constitution, whoever is dorking the Queen in Dork sits on the Dork throne.”

Loly shook her head dubiously and opined, “I don’t think that’s the exact wording in the constitution. Nor on the page. Nor on the small screen.”

“That’s my interpretation,” Vladymyr hissed, “and as Vladymyr of the House Targetpractice, the Zillionth of His Name, King of the Sandals and the Ryebread, Lord of the Who-the-Heck-Knows-How-Many Kingdoms and Protector of the Elves,
my
interpretation is the
only
interpretation.” Patting his stringy blond mane, he added, “Besides, look at my hair. That’s royal hair if I’ve ever seen it.”

“It certainly is fabulous,” Loly grunted. “Hey, if you can tear yourself away from yourself, get over here.”

“Why?”

“I need to show you something.” She turned to Magistrate Illinois and ordered, “Take a hike, Chicago. Me and big brother need some alone time.” After Illinois departed, Loly repeated, “Get over here.”

“As you wish, Queen-to-be.” While flitting across the room, he asked, “What is it those Dorkis call their Queens? It’s starts with a K, and they always capitalize it.”

“KERBANGER.”

“Right, KERBANGER in caps. Is it true they used to use italics?” Vladymyr asked.

“Correct,” Loly explained. “But the Dorks’ printing equipment isn’t particularly sophisticated, and their italics always looked lousy, thus the caps.”

“Got it.”

“Good. So. In a few days, I’ll be KERBANGER Lolyta. How cool is that? Youngest KERBANGER in Dork history.”

“That’s wonderful, little sister. Now why did you want me to come over here?”

“Quick favor.” Unfastening four of the rectangles, she said, “Can you pinch the tip of this, please?” She pointed at her bare breast.

Vladymyr squinched up his face at the sight of his sister’s nipple. “What’s this, Loly?” he inquired.

“A nipple. You’ve probably seen them before. Granted, never one as perfect as this.”

Vladymyr mumbled, “It’s not as perfect as the ones on the queynte who’ll be playing you on the HBO show.”

“HB
what
?”

“Small screen,” he explained, then adjusted a growing bulge in his crotch and continued, “I’ve seen plenty of perfect nipples before. Boys have them too, you know.”

“You mean you’ve seen other boys’ nipples?” Loly asked.

“Um, no. No. No, I’ve seen my own nipples, and they’re perfect. And girls’ nipples. And lots of them. Lots and lots of them. Lots and lots and lots of them. And I know exactly what to do with girls’ nipples, that’s for sure.”

Loly smiled. “Perfect. I was hoping you’d know what to do with nipples, because I’d like you to do that to mine.”

Vladymyr puckered his lips as if he’d jammed his tongue deep into a giant lemon. “I’d rather not. That’s gross.”

“Why is it gross?” Loly asked, freeing her other breast. “We’re siblings. And according to the page and the small screen, that’s what siblings do. Do stuff with their siblings’ nipples. Among other things.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I’d rather you did.”

“It would be gross.”

“It would be lovely. As future KERBANGER, I command you, Vladymyr of the House Targetpractice, the Zillionth of His Name, King of the Sandals and the Ryebread, Lord of the Who-the-Heck-Knows-How-Many Kingdoms and Protector of the Elves, to pinch my nipple as hard as you can, and not to stop until I’m either screaming or bleeding.”

Vladymyr’s pale face paled to the point of translucence, and several dots of sweat materialized on his forehead. “If you insist,” he whispered, then gingerly reached out his right hand and grazed his sister’s right nipple with his pinky, then jerked his hand away as if Loly’s breast were piping hot, which it arguably was, although not as hot as the ones on the queynte who played Loly on the first season of the HBO show.

Loly said, “Really, Vladymyr? Really? That’s it? That’s the best you can do? I can find a duck who’d do that better.”

Shaking his head, Vladymyr said, “I don’t understand your obsession with ducks. You’re the only person in Easterrabbit who yammers on about ducks. With everybody else in this Godsforsaken story, it’s all games, and thrones, and clashes, and kings, and storms, and swords, and feasts, and crows, and dances, and dragons, and mud, and onions. But with you, it’s all ducks, ducks, ducks.”

As she removed her dress, Loly said, “And I don’t get your obsession with dragons.”

“Dragons are fab,” Vladymyr pouted.

“Dragons are extinct. And nobody cares about them. Hell, there aren’t even any in
The Lord of the Rings,
” Loly noted.

“Yeah, but there’s one in
The Hobbit,
” Vladymyr said. “Smaug.”

Waving her hand dismissively, Loly said, “Tolkien’s a schmuck. You can’t trust anybody who has that many
R
s in his name. I mean, J. R. R.? Seriously?” She paused, then continued, “So listen, are you going to pinch the hell out of my nipples or not?”

“Not.”

“Fine,” she simpered. “Then get out of my face, you girly-man.”

“I am not a girly-man!”

“You go ahead and keep telling yourself that, Vladymyr. And send Illinois in here. I need a bath.”

After the Magistrate filled up the tub, Loly climbed in and positioned herself so her head was the only part of her body not submerged in water. Once Loly was settled, Illinois turned to leave, but before she could even take a step, the future KERBANGER said, “Don’t move a muscle. I need to do the thing.”

The Magistrate took a deep breath and asked, “Must you?”

Loly said, “I must.”

“And with me here?”

“I must,” Loly repeated, then spread her legs apart and rubbed herself in the spot where virtually all of the thirteen-year-old girls in Easterrabbit like to rub themselves. Her mouth opened, her eyes went to half-mast, her breathing quickened, and Magistrate Illinois covered her ears, because she knew what was coming next:

“Oh my Gods,”
she yelled,
“bring it, bring it, bring it! Right there! Harder! Now softer! Now faster! Now rounder! Rounder! Rounder! Yes, yes, yes, give me those scallions, you stud! Scallion me like you’ve never scallioned before!”

After Loly finished (twice), Magistrate Illinois said, “Do you still need me here, ma’am?”

Flushed, Loly panted, “Give me a minute to recover. That was a good one. Or a good two, I guess.” Once she regained her composure, she complained, “If stupid Vladymyr would’ve tweaked my nipple like I asked, I might’ve gone for a tripleheader. Can you grab my robe?”

“As you wish, Lolyta.”

Immediately after Loly donned her garb, there was a harsh knock at the door, so harsh that it caused the walls to shake. Loly and Illinois exchanged nervous glances, after which Loly asked, “Who’s there?”

No answer—just another knock. Except it was louder.

This time Magistrate Illinois asked, “Who’s there?”

Another knock. Even louder.

Loly pulled her robe tighter, grumbled, “Screw this,” and then wandered over to the door and flung it open. She was greeted by a sight unlike anything she had ever seen.

Loly looked the creature up and down, taking in his long, oily black hair, his bottomless black eyes, his bulging chest, his toned arms, his flat stomach, his creative facial hair, his four legs, his shaggy tail, and his enormous horse dong. Their eyes met, and after a seemingly endless staring contest, she said, “Ivan Drago, I presume.”

The manhorse nodded and grunted, “Ooga booga. Unga bunga. Moo moo moo, poo poo poo.”

She gave him a half grin and said, “That’s easy for you to say, handsome. Why don’t you and your tail come on in here?” As Ivan Drago hopped over the threshold, Lolyta Tornadobutt, Princess of Duckseventually, asked him, “So what’s your stance on nipple pinching?”

JUAN

Being that he was a jerkoff, Juan Nieve knew he would never be invited to the feast celebrating the arrival of the House Barfonme royal family, but that did not stop him from hovering outside of the castle to get a peek at what many were calling the event of the season … and considering the season lasted a lengthy, yet undetermined, unexplained period of time, that was saying something.

Normally he was not the type of boy to arrive at an event such as this without asking or being asked, but A) if he did not go, he would have lost one of his few chapters, and a relatively important one at that, as without this chapter, we would not meet another character who will die a painful and surprising death, and B) he was feeling randy, so he figured that rather than stay home, grab a scoop of oily mud, and pleasure himself, he would hang out by the castle and see if his Barker bloodline would impress any unattached young ladies. If that failed, he could always use his adorable direpanda—whom he had named Fourshadow—as chick-bait. And if that failed, he would go home, grab a scoop of oily mud, and pleasure himself.

Juan positioned himself by the side of the building, peeked through an open window, and found the feast a sight to behold, and a scent to be-smell. The interior and exterior walls of the castle were covered with the banners of the two Houses in attendance—you’re already familiar with the Barker insignia; the Barfonmes were represented by a fluffy black and white kitty cat—and the attendees were dressed in their finest finery. There was enough food on the long tables to feed all of Summerseve: yak with boar sauce, boar with yak sauce, leg of wolf with a citrus coulis, a thick stew with some red chunks that Juan could not readily identify, onion soup, onion tarts, onion juice, onion steaks, and whole onions swimming in an onion puree.

One by one, House Barker’s important characters walked the dining room’s red carpet, where they were accosted by a slender, red-haired, loud woman who shoved a long stick in each of their faces and asked them odd questions like “Who are you wearing?” and “Can you tell me about your latest project?” This both confused and bored Juan to no end, so he decided to relocate.

When he repositioned himself at the front of the castle, he got a gander at Sur Jagweed Sinister, and he could not look away, as Jagweed was an Easterrabbitian legend, at once revered and feared by the continent’s denizens. Over the last several Summers, Jagweed had attempted to assassinate dozens of rulers, including King Rychard DeThyrd, King Hynry DeEighth, King Solomon DeOnly, King Kong DeGrylla, King Jarry Lawlyr, King Byskit Flowyrhour, Burgyr Kyng, and Gnat King Cohl. Jagweed’s plan of attack was nothing if not brave: Storm the castle all by himself, unsheath his oddly bent sword, and take down everybody in his path until he got to the throne, where he would mercilessly mutilate the ruler and endeavor to take over the region in the name of the family Sinister.

BOOK: A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot
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