A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot (7 page)

Malia wanted to smash Sasha’s statue into a million little pieces, then use the shards to wipe that look off of the Sistyr’s face. But she was a resolute little girl, so she went back to work, determined to make her statuette of Sasha’s limbless body look like what Sasha’s limbless body would look like, rather than an ovular rectangle. Or maybe a rectangular oval.

However, she was having trouble concentrating, as Sasha and her friends were chatting at a volume inappropriate for a fusilli lesson. (If Malia had dared speak that loudly, Sistyr G.R.R.M. would have gouged her face with her notoriously rusty sword.) The topic, as usual, was Sasha’s love life.

Sasha’s blond-haired friend Jennyfer squealed, “Goofrey Barfonme
so
loves you.”

Her brown-haired friend Jennyfur added, “And you
so
love him.”

Her red-haired friend Jennyferr predicted, “And you guys are
totally
getting married.”

Her black-haired friend Boberta offered, “And you are so going to bear many children.”

Throwing down a handful of ziti, Sasha said, “Oh. My. Gods. You guys are, like, totally grotty to the max. I’m gonna, like, totally puke. Like,
ewwww
!”

It took all of Malia’s restraint to keep from jamming her ovular rectangle down Sasha’s throat.

Sasha continued, “So I’m, like, going for a walk yesterday, and Goof comes up to me and was all like, ‘Hi,’ and I was all like, ‘Hi,’ and he was all like, ‘You look lovely today,’ and I was all like, ‘I know,’ and I could totally tell he was trying to look down my shirt, so I was all like, ‘Are you checking out my boobs,’ and he was all like, ‘No way,’ then he totally ran away. As if?”

As all five of the girls giggled like chirping baby birds asking their mama for either breakfast or dinner, Malia threw up in her mouth a little bit.

Right then, Sistyr G.R.R.M. knelt beside Malia, glared at her ditalini, and sneered, “You call that art, girl?”

“No,” Malia sneered back. Pointing at Sasha’s creation, she added, “And I don’t call
that
art either.”

“Well, then,” Sistyr G.R.R.M. queried, “what would you call it?”

“Lunch.”

“You do not speak to a Sistyr that way, young Lady. You do not speak out of turn.”

Pointing at the gaggle of giggling girls, Malia pointed out, “
They’re
speaking out of turn.”

“When somebody creates a work of genius like Sasha, we make exceptions,” the Sistyr humphed.

Malia raised a single eyebrow and mused, “Nobody has ever used the words
genius
and
Sasha
in the same sentence. My sister is dumber than dirt. The ditz gets by on her looks.” Then, whispering, she continued, “Kind of like her mother.”

Gesturing to the door, Sistyr G.R.R.M. screamed, “I don’t care if you’re a Barker, or a Sinister, or a Targetpractice, or an Aaron, or a Barfonme, or if you’re from one of the families from books three or five whose names nobody can pronounce and/or remember! You do not speak to a Sistyr with that tone!
Out!
”

Malia tossed a handful of tricolored gemelli into the air, screamed back, “My pleasure!” then sprinted across the room, down the stairs, and out the front door, where she ran toward the comforting fur of Stinky, her beloved direpanda. Stinky gooily licked his mistress’s face, then made a happy direpanda noise when he got a gander of his brother, Fourshadow. The two animals romped around and about as if they had not a care in the world, which irked Malia to no end, so she told Stinky,
“Attack!”

Stinky gave Malia a quizzical look, then gave Fourshadow an even gooier lick than he’d given Malia. Staring disgustedly at her pet, she said, “Wimps.”

“
Maniquí,
¹²
how dare you disrespect my direpanda!”

Malia spun around and smiled at her jerkoff brother Juan. Running into his embrace, she said, “Thank Gods, a Barker with a brain.”

Juan hugged her back, then, noticing the cloudy expression on Malia’s face, said, “
Mierda,
I know
that
look.”

“Yes.” She pouted. “Sasha is being Sasha.”

Juan took her hand and said, “Come,
mi querido,
I have something that will cheer you up.” He led Malia to the jousting field on the other side of the castle, where a gaggle of young men covered in armor were paired off, clumsily thrusting their swords at one another. On the far end of the lawn, a man clad in a short-sleeved chainmail shirt and too-tight chainmail shorts blew his whistle and roared, “Alright, buttercups, that’s the worst display of swordsmanship I’ve seen in Summers! Drop and give me fifty! And if I see anybody not eating mud, he’s running laps! Actually, you’ll
all
run laps!” He jogged to the center of the field and bopped two of the boys on their helmets. “You two dummies, drop your cocks and grab your steel. I want to see some fighting.”

In unison, the boys chanted, “Yes, Sur Anklewankle!”

As he walked away from his students, Sur Anklewankle noticed Juan, pointed at the young man, and said, “Ladies, there’s a guy you should pay attention to. He’s a jerkoff, but he’s got serious game.”

In unison, the boys repeated, “Yes, Sur Anklewankle!”

To Juan, the teacher said, “You wanna take over my class? These buttercups are driving me batshit crazy.”

Before Juan could answer, one of the two boys Sur Anklewankle singled out chirped, “I’m ready to battle, Sur.”

The other parroted, “As am I!”

Juan leaned down to Malia and said, “Do those voices sound familiar?”

Malia grinned. “Bobb and Goof.”

“Correcto!”
¹³

Her grin widening, Malia hissed, “This’ll be fun. Bobb’ll wipe the floor with him. Sasha’s boyfriend is going
down
.”

Juan frowned. “I’m afraid not.”

“You would be against Bobb?” Malia asked. “He’s so much better than Goof.
I’m
even better than Goof.”

“It’s not about who’s better,” Juan explained. “It’s about politics.”

Before Malia could ask what politics had to do with fighting, she heard the familiar sound of steel on steel. Five clinks into the bout, Bobb fell to the muddy ground with a loud squish, then, in a flat voice, said, “Ouch, ouch, ouch. Never have I suffered such an embarrassing defeat. I don’t know what hurts worse, my soul or my leg.”

Goof raised his sword above his head, jumped up and down, and giggled, “Yay me, yay me, yay me! I’m the greatest jouster
ever
! Yay me, yay me, yay me!”

Bobb stood up, seemingly not the least bit hurt, removed his helmet, and told Goof, “You’re the greatest, Goof.” Then Bobb and Sur Anklewankle rolled their eyes at one another.

Malia said to Juan, “Bobb took a dive, didn’t he.”

Juan nodded.
“Sí.”

“Why?”

“Because Goof is a
quejumbrosa poco perra,
¹⁴
and if he loses to a Barker, he’ll whine to his father, and if he whines to his father, his father will whine to Lord Barker, and if the King whines to Lord Barker, Lord Barker will whine at Bobb, and the cycle of whining will never end, all because Goof is a
quejumbrosa poco perra
.”

Grinning an evil grin, Malia queried, “Does Sasha know her future husband is a
quejumbrosa poco perra
?”

“No,” Juan explained. “The
idiota
¹⁵
is blinded by love.”

Goof stumbled over, removed his helmet, and asked Malia, “I apologize that you had to see that. It must be a great embarrassment to you to see your blood be vanquished.”

Over Goof’s shoulder, Malia saw Bobb flipping young Master Barfonme the double bird. Biting her cheek to keep from laughing, Malia said, “I have never seen such a performance, and for that, I’m more embarrassed than you’ll ever know.”

As Goof galloped away, Malia told Juan, “Goofrey Barfonme and Sasha Barker is a match made in heaven.”

Juan frowned. “Or
infierno
.”
¹⁶

Letting loose a series of prickly tush toots that were felt two floors below, Allbran Barker stared out the window and sighed. There on the front lawn stood Bobb and Juan, shooting arrows at a newly constructed mud statue that looked suspiciously like Goofrey Barfonme. Juan’s aim was slightly better than Bobb’s, and every time Bobb missed, he would snarl, “
Bastard,
” to which Juan would respond, “You mean
jerkoff
. ” Allbran had no idea what they were talking about, but he did not care; all he wanted was to join his brothers in their adventures. Unfortunately, he knew that this was not to be, partly because he was a little boy, and partly because of his uncontrollable flatulence.

He tried to manage his gastrointestinal issues, Allbran did, following the advice given to him by Summerseve’s best doctors: Eat lots of raw onions. To Allbran, it felt like the vegetable compounded the problem, but he did not want to anger his parents, so he choked down one huge onion with each meal. He knew it made him unpleasant to smell both coming and going, but maybe someday the treatment would work.

Suddenly bored with his bedroom, Allbran hopped out of his window and pulled himself up to the castle’s roof. The roof was his home away from home, a place where he could be alone with his thoughts and his farts, a place where nobody would tease him for being small and smelly, a place where he could be himself.

Allbran noticed that Bobb and Juan had ceased their archery and were riding their respective direpandas. He shook his head, knowing that he would never mount his pet Hinky, because that would be degrading, and if anybody knew what it was like to be degraded, it was Allbran. Bobb and Juan’s direpandas eventually got fed up with the state of affairs, so they bucked off their riders and ran off toward town, with Bobb and Juan following close behind. Again bored, Allbran wandered along the perimeter of the castle roof, balancing on the ledge as if he were an expert ledge-balancer.

Right as he turned the gargoyled corner, Allbran heard two voices from below, one a man’s, and one a woman’s. The voices both sounded snobby, tinged with a sense of self-entitlement that made him cringe. The man said, “No way that Headcase Barker could be a good Foot. He governs like a dodo bird flies: badly.”

The woman said, “Do you realize just how horrible your metaphors are?”

“My metaphors are fine,” the man complained. “They’re like muddy flowers on a warm Summer day.”

“Just stop,” the woman exhaled, then, after a pause, added, “I can’t argue with your assessment of the current regime. Taxes are up, unemployment is up, and interest rates are up.”

The man said, “The populace seems happy…”

The woman interrupted, “The populace, the populace, it’s always about the populace. You can’t be a good leader if you spend all your time worrying about the populace. Look at King Goerge at House Busch. He doesn’t give two shits about the populace, and House Busch is the wealthiest region in Easterrabbit. When you become Goofy’s Foot, you should get the little prick to emulate King Goerge.”

“Good idea. Hey, have you spoken to Aunt Millye and Uncle Iryving?”

“No. I owe them a ravengram.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that.”

“Why?” the woman asked.

“They’re waiting for us back at the castle.”

The woman groaned. “They always show up without sending us a ravengram beforehand. We’re never prepared.” She paused, then asked, “Speaking of prepared, what’s going on down there? Something bothering you?”

“What?” the man chuckled, sounding nervous to Allbran’s ear. “Bothering me? Nothing’s bothering me at all. I’m good. As a matter of fact, I’m
great
.”

“That what’s the holdup?”

“I’m tired,” the man whined. “I can’t always work on command.”

“Don’t get defensive,” the woman said. “It happens to a lot of guys.”

“Not to me!” the man blustered.

“Except for that time last week,” the woman pointed out.

“I was drunk.”

“Whatever.” After a pause, the woman asked, “Do you want me to kiss it?”

“That’s what I wanted in the first place.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” she asked. Allbran then heard some slurping noises that made him giggle. He covered his mouth so as not to be detected.

After a minute or two, the woman mumbled, “Still nothing.”

The man said, “Here, let me try something.”

Allbran then heard a quiet slapping sound. He kneeled down to get a better sense of what was happening, then slipped and tumbled off the roof. He would have fallen to the ground had he not grabbed the ledge of the window of the room on which he was eavesdropping.

As Allbran hauled himself up, the man and the woman simultaneously screamed. When he peeked his nose over the sill, he saw that it was Queen Cerevix Barfonme and her twin brother, Sur Jagweed “The Not-Kingslayer” Sinister. The Queen was lying on the bed, naked except for her bejeweled crown, while the Not-Kingslayer was completely naked, gripping his shriveled, limp manhood as if it were a sword. A small sword, granted, but a sword nonetheless.

Jagweed let go of his penis, grabbed a sheet from the bed, and covered himself. “What did you see?” he demanded.

“What I saw here,” Allbran claimed, “was a brother and sister doing the kind of thing that most brothers and sisters in Easterrabbit do, because, according to those who have seen this sort of thing, Easterrabbit is the land of doing your brother and sister. What I saw here has been documented in a number of mediums—on both the page and the small screen, for example—so there’s no way I couldn’t know what I saw here.” He paused, then added, “That all being said, I’m not sure what I saw here. But it didn’t look like much.”

Queen Cerevix sneered, “Exactly, Allbran: nothing much.”