A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot

by George R. R. Washington

  “How dare you…”

  “Did you study to be that ugly, or did it come naturally?”

  “Wait a sec…”

  “You’re so fat that your shadow weighs fifty pounds.”

  “Hey, that one was pretty good.”

  Tritone paused, then asked, “Did you just say something nice about me?”

  Looking around as if to make certain nobody heard him, he offered, “It’ll probably be the last time, because you’re so dumb that you think a riverbank is where fishes keep their money. Hi-yo!”

  Tritone chuckled. “Classic material, Dad, just classic.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know, Henny.”

  In an impressive bit of subject changing, Tritone gestured at the dozens of sleeping bodies and asked, “What’s going on here?”

  “We’re taking down House Barker.”

  “Why?” Tritone asked.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t read Why All the Houses Hate Each Other So Godsdamn Much by that Flaysh guy.”

  “Okay, I won’t tell you I didn’t read Why All the Houses Hate Each Other So Godsdamn Much by that Flaysh guy even though I didn’t read Why All the Houses Hate Each Other So Godsdamn Much by that Flaysh guy. Give me the gist.”

  Tutone admitted, “I didn’t read it either, but if there’s a book about the Houses hating each other, then all the Houses hate each other, and who am I to buck tradition? So how about you help us kill Headcase Barker and that Godsweedehead wife of his?”

  “I don’t know, Pop. Head’s a good guy, and…”

  Tutone put his hand on Tritone’s shoulder and intoned, “Listen, everybody knows that the reason you do stand-up is because you crave acceptance, since you didn’t get enough of it from your father, just like Jeffrey Ross. If you help me bring down House Barker, I’ll accept you, and your daddy issues will be solved. Capice?”

  Tritone said, “Daddy issues? Me? Come on, Pop, I’m a bastion of mental health.” And then the tall Sinister pulled the fat Sinister into an odd embrace and wept onion tears until he could weep no more.

  SASHA

  “Oh. My. Gods. Goof is, like, so Kingly.”

  Sasha Barker leaned against the wall at the far end of the throne room, alone with her two or three thoughts, gazing lovingly at the boy she believed would be her future husband. The emotion from the look she gave Goof was the antithesis of what every other person in the room was feeling—the crowd wanted him drawn and quartered.

  King Goofrey pointed at the fifth person in the third row of the audience—a woman with blond, matted hair and a dirty face—and demanded, “State your name!”

  “Ginalollo Wackypack.”

  “Ginalollo Wackypack, do you swear your allegiance to me, Goofrey of the Houses Barfonme and Sinister, Thankfully the First of His Name, King of the Anuses and the Ryebread and the Fat Fathers, Lord of the Who-Knows-How-Many Kingdoms, and Protector of the Protractor?”

  “Do I have to?” she asked.

  “Just like I told the person before you, and the person before him, and the person before her, and the person before that, yes, you must swear your allegiance.”

  “Can’t we all do it at once?” Ginalollo Wackypack wondered.

  “Just like I told the person before you, and the person before him, and the person before her, and the person before that, No! No no no no no!”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m King, and I want to do it this way, and whatever the King says, goes, so nyah, nyah, nyah!” He turned to his right and asked his Foot, Lord Petey Varicose Bailbond, and his Other Foot, Sur Jagweed Sinister, “That’s right, guys, right? Whatever I say goes? Right? Right?!”

  Tinyjohnson rolled his eyes and grunted, “Whatever.”

  “I don’t like your attitude! Uncle Jagweed, you’re promoted! Tinyjohnson, you’re fired! You’re not my Foot. I’m de-Footing you! I don’t need your help! I hate you! I hate you, and I hope you die!”

  Tinyjohnson grabbed his tiny johnson and snarled, “Bite this, Your Highness.”

  “I would if you had any junk, but you don’t have any, because you’re a eunuch!”

  “You know what?” Tinyjohnson asked. “Let’s put this eunuch business to bed right now.” He pulled down his pants, laid down on his back, spread apart his legs, and called, “Get a good look, people! There you go! The full package! Live it up! Tell your friends!”

  Goof knelt down and stuck his nose right in front of Tinyjohnson’s man parts. “Loyal subjects, he’s right! The full package is there! It’s really, really small, but it’s there!”

  With wide eyes and an open heart, Sasha whispered, “Oh. My. Gods. Goof is, like, so Kingly.”

  “You really think so?”

  Sasha looked up: Queen Cerevix. “Like, totally. He’s way tubular.”

  “If he doesn’t settle down,” Cerevix mumbled, “one of these people is going to put him in a tubular and bury him in ten feet of mud.”

  “Queen, you’re, like, so mean sometimes.”

  Cerevix asked, “You want to see mean? Watch this.” She cupped her hands over her mouth and roared, “Hey, Goof, your Uncle Tritone’s really your father!” She told Sasha, “And if you think that was mean, check this out.” Then she roared, “Hey, Jagweed, I’m making it a law that everybody has to call you Sur Impotent.” Over cries of her betrayed family and the amused crowd, she said, “That, young Miss Barker, is mean. Welcome to the family.”

  “Oh. My. Gods. You’re, like, a total bitch.”

  “You want to see bitchy? Goof told me to have you arrested, and even though I don’t have to follow his command…” In a perfect impression of Sasha, she continued, “… I’m, like, totally going to.”

  As the Leghorn brothers dragged Sasha Barker to her cell, she called to Cerevix, “I don’t care how many potential HBO royalty checks I’m blowing with this decision, but I’m, like, totally not marrying him now!”

  TRITONE

  With his giant head resting on Sheastadium’s dwarf breasts, Tritone Sinister replayed that morning’s conversation with his father:

  “Listen, Henny,” the fat Sinister had intoned to his son, unsuccessfully attempting to put his arm around the giant’s shoulders, “I’m demoting you.”

  “Demoting me from what?” Tritone had asked. “You have to be given a job before you lose it.”

  “I’m demoting you from guy-who-might-or-might-not-join-us-in-our-fight-with-the-Barkers to guy-who-stays-at-homebase-and-has-sex-with-a-prostitute-so-he-doesn’t-screw-anything-up-on-the-battlefield.”

  From the waist up, Tritone was insulted—just because he had never fought did not mean he lacked the ability to fight—but from the waist down, he was elated. “Well, Pop, you know how they say, Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country? In my case, now is the time for all good men to come. Ring-a-ding-ding!”

  Nodding appreciatively, Tutone asked, “You come up with that off the cuff?”

  “Nah, I’ve had that one in my back pocket since last night. So where’re the hos at?”

  Tutone cocked a thumb over his shoulder and said, “Fifth tent to the right. Her name’s Sheastadium. She’s the perfect size for you.” He paused, then admitted, “Tritone, as a father, I’ve never been there for you…”

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  “… but I’d like to remedy that. I’d like to impart the wisdom that every father imparts to his son.” He took a deep breath and said, “When two people love each other very, very much, they get certain feelings, feelings of excitement, and their private parts—the man’s is called a penis, and the woman’s is called a vagina—become sensitive to the touch … but in a good way.”

  After twenty more minutes of unnecessary biology lessons, Tritone patronizingly patted his fat father on the top of his head and stated, “Thanks for clearing that up, Shecky. Let me go put this newfound knowledge to work.” All of which is how he ended up with his giant head resting on Sheastadium’s dwarf breasts.


  Just as he and his hooker were about to go for a second time—unlike his brother, Tritone did not have potency issues—the entrance to the tent flew open and a man roared, “Sinister, we’re sustaining more casualties than anticipated! Put away that insanely huge dong of yours, find some armor, grab a weapon, and get fighting!” The man sounded to Tritone like he had three arms, so he assumed it was Sandstorm Leghorn, but since his giant face was buried in between Sheastadium’s dwarf thighs, he could not confirm or deny his supposition.

  Tritone sat up, gave Sheastadium a regretful look, and said, “We’ll always have Paris, darling.” Still naked, he sprinted from the tent and toward the armor tent, ready and eager to come to the aid of his country.

  There were only seven suits of armor: six mediums and one large. (Tritone had never been fitted for a Knight’s outfit, but he rightly assumed that he would need an XXL, extra long, a size that nary a House produced.) He picked up the bottom half of the large and attempted to pull it up his long legs; somehow, someway, Tritone was able to yank the armor pants up to his waist. Unfortunately, they ended at his knees—his calves and ankles were exposed—and he was not able to take a full step without having his manhood squashed. He squeezed into the top half with a similar result, then wondered, Is it too late to go AWOL? Tritone then snatched up the biggest available sword and waddled out of the tent toward what turned out to be a chaotic battle.

  There were a dozen or so small, awkward skirmishes on the periphery, but the main action was in the middle of the field, where Bobb Barker was surrounded by six of Tutone’s men, all of whom were taking turns bopping Barker on the head. From what Tritone could tell, Bobb’s response of “Ouch, quit it … ouch, quit it … ouch, quit it…” was not endearing him to his troops.

  The Barker-boppers seemed like they were having a good time, so Tritone sauntered toward the fracas nearest to him, on the way to which he tripped over a hardened mud ball, fell, and rolled into the legs of a Barker soldier’s horse. Domino-like, the horse fell down, knocking over another Barker horse, who fell and knocked over another Barker horse, who fell and knocked over another Barker horse, and so on, until the only Barker horse left standing belonged to Bobb. Bobb shook his head, sighed, and rode off, head hanging like a snake coiling, then uncoiling. (Last snake metaphor, we promise.)

  The Sinister army gawked at Tritone, then one of the Surs broke the silence with a cry of “The giant has given us victory! Long live the giant! Long live the giant! Long live the giant!”

  While the rest of the Knights took up the chant, Tritone extricated himself from the mud puddle, pulled himself to his knees, and answered, “Thank you very much, ladies and germs! That’s all for me this afternoon. Tip your waitress, and try the veal with onions, and please always remember, and please never forget, wherever you go, there you are!” He walked off of the battlefield to a raucous round of applause, and a chant of “Tri-tone!… Tri-tone!… Tri-tone!”

  On his way to Sheastadium’s tent for a celebratory round of two people loving each other very, very much, he ran into his father, who put out his arms and uttered, “Henny.”

  “Shecky,” Tritone answered.

  “Henn-uh-luh.”

  “Shecky-sheck.”

  “Henny hen hen hen.”

  “Sheck-a-doodle-doo.”

  And then the tall Sinister pulled the fat Sinister into an odd embrace and wept onion tears until he could weep no more.

  HEADCASE

  The wounds he suffered during what the residents of Capaetal Ceity had taken to calling the Great Onion Pie Massacre were becoming more painful by the second, and Lord Headcase Barker was not happy. “Guards,” he called, wincing as he wiped the drying blood from his neck, “where’s my heroyne?! You can’t imprison me without allowing me my opiate!”

  Tinyjohnson sauntered over and said, “Lord Barker, I’m afraid your guards are otherwise occupied incarcerating your daughter. But I’m here to help.”

  “Wait, I thought you were in Vailcolorado.”

  “Enough of that business already! I was there then, but I’m here now!”

  “Which begs the question,” Head questioned, “what are you doing here now?”

  “I just wanted to let you know what’s going on in Summerseve,” Tinyjohnson explained.

  “How do you know what’s going on in Summerseve?” Head asked. “I thought you were in Vailcolorado, then here.”

  Ignoring him, Tinyjohnson explained, “House Barker and House Sinister are about to engage in an epic battle that will result in six or seven more books. I don’t want that, and I know you don’t want that, so let’s figure out what we can do to put an end to this mess.”

  Head explained, “I can’t do anything about it from in here, and I doubt that Cerevix is going to be freeing me anytime soon, so you’re on your own.” After a pause, he sighed, “You know what, Tinyjohnson? I hate House Sinister more than anything in this Godsforsaken world.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything.”

  “More than the New York Yankees?”

  “They buy championships, they don’t build them. It goes against the spirit of professional sports. If baseball would adopt a hard salary cap, it wouldn’t be those Godsdamn Yankees year after year after year. But yeah, I hate the Sinisters more.”

  “More than broccoli?”

  “Why is it that the healthiest vegetables taste the worst? Put the Selenium in something people will eat. Like apples. Or onions. But yeah, I hate the Sinisters more.”

  “More than J. R. R. Tolkien?”

  “Oh, come on, I don’t hate Tolkien. He’s just overrated.”

  Nodding, Tinyjohnson agreed, “I agree. But I didn’t come here to discuss sports, nutrition, or literature. I spoke with Cerevix, and I negotiated a deal for you. I can get you out, so long as you call off Bobb and make sure that this is the last book of this series. But on one condition.” He pulled a white burlap short-sleeved shirt from his pocket and showed it to Head. “You are free to go only if you wear this at this afternoon’s rally in the center of town.” He then threw the shirt at Head and said, “It’s your decision, Lord Barker.”

  After Tinyjohnson exited, Head read the slogans on the shirt.

  On the front, in big black letters: HOUSE BARFONME RULES.

  On the back, in bigger black letters: HOUSE BARKER SUCKS DIREPANDA COCK.

  Lord Headcase Barker dropped the shirt to the floor, fell to his knees, covered his face, looked to the heavens, and wailed, “Nooooooooooooooooooooo!”

  GATEWAY

  “So. How’d it go? Did your no-plan plan work out like you thought it would?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Lady Gateway Barker shook her head sadly and grumbled to Bobb Barker, “Did you attack from the rear like I told you to?”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it,” Bobb repeated.

  “How many of your guys survived? Twenty? Thirty? Fifty?”

  Again, Bobb said, “I don’t want to talk about it!”

  She stared silently at her son for several seconds, then asked, “You lost all of them, didn’t you? Great, now the HBO casting director has to set up another audition for extras, and the budget for the show was already blown after the third episode, so we’ll probably have to get non-union people, and that’ll be an insurance nightmare.” She paused, then added, “We’d better get a whole buttload of Emmys for putting up with this crap.”

  Bobb stomped toward the front exit, bitching, “Oh, Miss Know-It-All, you think you’re soooooo great, don’t you, Mom? Miss I’m-So-Cool-Because-I’m-a-Bully. Miss I’m-Married-to-a-Tactical-Genius. Miss-I-Am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar.” At the door, he stopped, spun around, and said, “I bet you can’t do this, Miss Fancy Pants Weedehead.” And then he left.

  Gateway slumped onto the floor and thought, Speaking of weedehead, I’m dry, and Bobb got Sur Thaistik Skunkafornia killed, so I’ll be dry for a while. As she contemplated life without her righteous bud, she heard the
front door open, followed by the familiar clatter of armor. “Hello,” she called, then stood up and asked, “Can I help you?”

  “The question, Mother, is, Can I help you? And the answer is a resounding Yes.” And then Bobb entered the room holding a prisoner: Sur Jagweed Sinister.

  Staring at the Not-Kingslayer, Gateway asked Bobb, “How did you find and capture him so quickly, Bobb?”

  Tightening his chokehold on Jagweed, Bobb explained, “In Easterrabbit, events generally unfold with the speed of a heavy onion rolling through the thick, thick mud, but once in a rare, rare while, things happen quickly. This, Mother dear, is one of those times.”

  “But you were gone for only three minutes.”

  “Mom, you’re overthinking this.”

  “I thought he was in Cap Ceity. Goof made him his Foot. What would he be doing three minutes away from our castle?”

  “Let it go, Mother.”

  “Or maybe this isn’t Jagweed. Maybe it’s his lookalike.”

  Bobb roared, “I don’t have to take this! I’m in charge, and you don’t speak to leaders this way!” He let Jagweed out of the chokehold, then ordered, “I order you to leave.”

  Jagweed turned to Bobb and said, “Wait, let me get this straight: you’re telling me to go?”

  “I am.”

  “You’re releasing your best possible bargaining chip, just like that.”

  “Just like that.”

  “Why?” Jagweed asked.

  “Why not?” Bobb answered.

  Jagweed looked at Gateway and queried, “How do you feel about that?”

  Shrugging, she answered, “He’s in charge.”

  The Not-Kingslayer clapped Bobb on the shoulder and told him, “Keep up the good work, buddy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a rival to execute and a twin sister to screw.” And then he ran from the castle, leaving Bobb and Gateway to prepare for their respective appearances in A Crash of Bling: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot, Book 2, coming March 27, 2138.