At that moment Yora’s chair elevator reached the bottom of the stairs. He followed the torchlight until he found Jon and Dennys. Alright Yora. You may be late to the party, but you can still show ’em you’re capable of bringin’ the heat, he thought to himself. Damn. I forgot my skateboard again. He surveyed the room. Eureka! After quickly fashioning a rudimentary skateboard out of twigs and a DIY skateboard-building kit he found, he attempted a gnarly pop shove-it. He severed his leg without making the board move even an inch. “Evening, Your Grace,” he whimpered from the ground.
Jon shook his head and grabbed the skateboard. He piled the gunnes on top and took trips wheeling them out to the beach, where one of Dennys’s boats was waiting for him and Yora.
“Well, I guess this is good-bye for now,” Jon shouted at Dennys, who was still stumbling around inside the cave. “Until next time, Queen Dennys!” Jon helped Yora load his walker onto the ship, and the two disembarked. As the boat set sail, Jon remembered the word he was trying to say to Dennys earlier. It was “thunderfucked.”
The cold air up north by the Trench made Yora Mormon’s arthritis flare up. That specific tingle in his joints meant only one thing. “It’s about to snow,” he said confidently.
“How can you tell?” asked Jon.
“No reason!” he shouted, darting his eyes around. “Uh, um, predicting weather is for those old-ass grandpas at Citadel State. My joints are really healthy. We’re just a couple of young stallions over here. Yeah, that’s right, Jon and Yora: The Stallion Boys!”
“Um, okay,” said Jon.
The two men approached the tall ancient gate to Yeastcrotch-by-the-Pee, the easternmost Night’s Crotch castle built along the Trench—that ancient hole constructed to keep out the zombos and the Mildlings. Legend had it that the Trench was so deep, if you fell in it, you’d never reach the bottom. It was hard to tell exactly where the Trench was, considering that the ancients had covered up the Trench with a magical thin layer of leaves to trick zombos into thinking it was solid ground. The Trench spanned the whole continent, from eastern coast to western coast, and had kept the Mildlings out for millennia. It was quite an expensive public works project to keep up.
“The Night’s Crotch men are going to freak out when they see me,” Jon said to Yora proudly. “I’m sort of a celebrity in the Night’s Crotch.”
Jon opened the heavy gates to the castle in one swift motion. “Lads!” he shouted, sticking his arms out.
Jon was greeted with the sound of a cricket snoring. The hustling and bustling Night’s Crotch men continued to go about their business, ignoring Jon and Yora.
“I said… LADS!” he tried again, this time sticking his arms even further out. Jon cleared his throat and stuck his arms out an uncomfortable amount. “Fellas! It’s me, Jon Dough! Your old Bored Demander of the Night’s Crotch!”
“You isn’t Bored Demander,” said one of the guards. “The Bored Demander is named Eddddd. Eddddd is the greatest.”
Don’t cry, thought Jon. Do not cry.
Yora tried to explain the situation. “No, see, he’s, um, bros, with Eddddd. He’s super, uh, tight? Yeah, tight’s the word. He’s really tight with Eddddd!”
“Well why didn’t you say so?” said the guard. “Boys!” he shouted. “These guys are friends with Eddddd!”
The men all dropped what they were doing and raced to Jon and Yora.
“You mean you two met the Eddddd?!”
“You actually know Eddddd? Like Eddddd Eddddd?”
“What’s Eddddd like in real life? Is he perfect? Is he glowing?”
Jon turned around so Yora wouldn’t see him cry. But right before he could start spewing tears, he spotted some Mildlings. Mildlings? thought Jon. Surely they’d remember him!
“Mildlings!” shouted Jon. “It’s me, Jon Dough, your savior!”
One of them looked up at Jon. “Oh yeah. I think I remember you.”
“Remember?” shouted Jon. “You followed me to Wintersmells and risked your lives to help me retake my family’s castle?”
“Oh, yeah,” said the uninterested Mildling. “Jon Dough. Cool.”
Everyone went back to work and left Jon and Yora to themselves. Well, that’s it, thought Jon. I’m a has-been. Jon unsheathed his sword and began to contemplate committing suicide right there on the spot.
“Is that Jon Dough?” shouted Whoremund while eating a chicken drumstick, including the bone, in one bite. “Jon?” Whoremund dropped the rest of his chicken and sprinted for his old friend. “I missed you so much, Jon Dough!”
Jon put away his sword. Thank the Gods, he thought. I really did not want to kill myself. Jon gave Whoremund a big hug. “I told you these guys go nuts for me, Yora,” he said, smiling confidently.
Whoremund hoisted Jon above his head, yelling about the greatness that was Jon Dough for his subordinates at Yeastcrotch.
Jon fluttered his long eyelashes and asked really nicely if Whoremund would help them capture a zombo. Whoremund agreed but said they’d need more men, and he had just the man in mind.
For weeks, Manwhore “The Clown” OfPain had been stuck in a Yeastcrotch jail cell. Every night he had night terrors about how scary fire was and woke up the whole castle screaming. Why was he afraid of fire? Aside from the normal reasons of it being hot and hurting to touch? You see, when Manwhore was a child, he tried to play with a toy that belonged to his older brother, Ser Greggy “The Building” OfPain. His brother got mad and pushed Manwhore’s face into a fire, giving him a burn on his face that looked exactly like a dog. Because of this, people called him “The Clown” because of how absurdly clownish it was for a man to have a hound-shaped burn on his face.
“Fuck no, I won’t help you,” shouted the Clown, practicing cuss words to himself as Jon, Yora, and Whoremund arrived. In exchange for his helping them capture a zombo, Whoremund offered to free the Clown. “Fuck no, I won’t help you,” shouted the Clown. “Sorry, just a reflex.” His practice had worked too well. “I’ll come help.”
The next day the four men set out for the lands north of the Trench.
It was cold and dark north of the Trench. Unlike the warm boob I’m holding in my left hand and the hot toddy in my right. It’s George—sorry, sorry, back to the book.
“Heeeeeerrrrre, zombo zombo! C’mere, zombo! Here, boy!”
It was no use. They’d been walking for almost a day and still they hadn’t found a zombo.
“Mind if we take a rest?” whispered Yora, drenched in sweat and loudly wheezing, to Jon. “I think the Clown is past his prime, not young and spry like us. He needs a break.”
“If only we could lay some sort of trap,” said Jon looking around at the white, barren wasteland. “What do zombos love?”
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” said Whoremund, “but zombos love baby boys, and I happen to have this newborn in my rucksack.”
“What? Why do you have that?” asked Jon.
“I don’t know man. It’s not a big deal. You can have it.”
“We can’t kill this baby,” said Jon.
“I don’t give a shit about the baby,” said the Clown. “Let’s kill it.”
“Jon,” said Yora, “I do give a shit about the baby, but I’m willing to sacrifice it to save humanity.”
Jon thought about the moral implications of this for—ahhh, who am I kidding. Jon immediately took the baby and placed it on the ground. The four men hid behind a boulder while spying on their zombo trap. A couple hours later, they realized a zombo had been there literally since the moment they put the baby down and was still devouring the infant boy. The Clown sprinted out and got on all fours behind the zombo. “Tabletop!” shouted Jon as he pushed the zombo over the platform the Clown had made with his back.
Whoremund picked up the zombo from the ground and grabbed its arms, shoving them repeatedly into the zombo’s own face. “Why are you hitting yourself? Why are you hitting yourself?”
Jon took a shoelace and tied the zombo’s feet
together really tightly. The zombo tried to run away and immediately tripped and fell. The zombo got back up, and Jon shouted, “Your shoe’s untied!” and then pushed the zombo’s face up with his finger, even though the zombo did not look down at its “shoes” because it did not understand English.
Whoremund tied up the zombo’s arms, legs, and mouth and then shoved it into a burlap sack. He swung the burlap sack above his head around and around and around, going, “Yeeehawww, I got a zombo!” until something caught his eye that made him stop. “Jon, buddy?”
Jon was too busy high-fiving the Clown and Yora to pay attention.
“Uhhhh, Jon?”
Jon was organizing a three-way chest bump with Yora and the Clown now.
“JON!”
Jon looked over and saw the horde of thousands of zombos standing in front of them, led by White Wieners on horses.
“Oh. Sorry about that Whoremund,” said Jon. “RUUUUUNNNNNN!!!!!!”
The four men took off as fast as they could, carrying the zombo with them, but they knew they’d never outrun the horde. I’ve got it! thought Jon, having one of his trademark “aha moments.” Zombos famously can’t swim! “Gentlemen, follow my lead,” shouted Jon, sprinting off the side of the cliff they were running along. “Cannonbaaaaaaall!”
Jon made a huge splash in the lake below the cliff and began swimming to a small island in the middle. Next went in the Clown, who did a 360-degree cannonball, followed by Whoremund, who did a 540-degree cannonball plus a backflip, followed by Yora, who belly-flopped and threw up in the lake. As the horde of zombos surrounded the lake, unable to do anything that even resembled swimming due to the specific limits of their magical reanimation, Jon and the men knew they were safe, for now at least.
Hours passed, and the air became colder and colder. One bold zombo looked down and realized the water in the lake might not be so liquid after all. Oh shit, thought Jon. Is this zombo going to run at us on the now solid ice, causing the rest of the zombos to realize they can do the same? The zombo sprinted forward and immediately fell through the weak ice. Phew.
But then, several more hours later, another zombo tried the same thing, this time having several extra hours’ worth of cold air on its side to freeze the ice even more solidly, and that zombo too fell through the ice immediately. Phew.
For two weeks this continued. A zombo would get brave, sprint onto the ice, and immediately fall in. Phew. The men had nothing to eat except ice and the steady supply of fish provided by the lake. Eventually the ice will get strong enough for them to reach us, thought Jon. Right? Or are zombos really fat? Will they never be able to stand on the ice because they’re, like, super fat or something? Jon chuckled to himself at the thought of the fat zombos. “Fatties,” he said, making direct eye contact with the emaciated reanimated corpses around the lake.
At that moment, one of the zombos tested the ice for the first time in a couple days. The zombo carefully placed its first foot onto the ice. No cracks. The zombo took its other foot, moved it onto the ice, and began sprinting and immediately fell through the ice.
A loud “Fuck!” echoed through the valley. It was the Nighty Night King. He shrieked from atop the cliff where he was controlling the horde and started waving his arms around in what seemed to be a tantrum. The White Wieners next to him tried to calm him down, but it was no use. The Nighty Night King summoned all the zombos and sent them sprinting into the lake by the thousands. At first the zombos starting drowning, but soon enough their bodies piled up so high that other zombos could walk over them. Within minutes they’d reach the island and kill the humans.
“Men,” said Whoremund, taking a big swig of ice, “I don’t want to die a virgin. If one of you would do me the honor, I would be extremely grateful.” But before Yora could enthusiastically agree, he was cut off by the sound of a dragon roaring. Dennys Grandslam had arrived with her three dragons to save the day. They all began to think victorious rescue music in their heads as they watched the dragons spit fire, burning every zombo in sight almost effortlessly. Jon and the rest rejoiced. Jon hugged Whoremund, and when the Clown refused to hug Yora, Yora hugged the zombo in the burlap sack.
Dennys did a few loop-de-loops on Jragon and then parked in front of Jon. “Miss me?” she said cockily.
“Actually yes, very much,” said Jon, visibly showing signs of hypothermia. “What made you come save us?”
“I was worried when I hadn’t heard back from you,” she said. “Also I figured it would actually be extremely helpful if I brought the dragons. Do you realize how easy this mission would have been if I’d flown up here with you guys from the start? Did you see how easily I just toasted those zombos to a crisp?”
The Nighty Night King could hear her bragging from atop his cliff. He ripped off his tunic. Underneath he was wearing a track-and-field singlet and short shorts. He stuck out his hand, into which his righthand White Wiener placed a javelin. He counted out one hundred steps backward and then bounded forward. He sent the javelin soaring into the air with perfect technique. It stuck Draggin and ripped his stomach open completely. “Sixty meters!” shouted out one of the White Wieners holding up a tape measure underneath the dragon. The Nighty Night King began to high-five his friends.
Draggin’s blood, internal organs, and stomach contents spilled out of his body onto Jon, Dennys, and the rest. “Eeeeewwwwwwwwww!” shouted the men as Draggin’s body went crashing down into the lake and sank to the bottom.
Jon, Yora, Whoremund, and the Clown hurried onto Jragon, hoisting the captured zombo with them. “Skrrt skrrt!” said Dennys in high Ovarian, wiping away her tears and snot. Off went the two dragons into the sky. Dennys wept the whole way home, making the men too uncomfortable to raise their arms and shout “Weeeee!” on what was their first-ever dragon ride.
Malarya
Wintersmells wasn’t quite as Malarya had remembered it. The last time Malarya had been there, she’d been but a wee girl. So whereas the outer walls used to appear to be roughly seventeen times her own height, now they only appeared to be fifteen, maybe sixteen, times her own height. Eerie, she thought, approaching the gate.
Malarya spotted two men guarding the entrance to Wintersmells. One was tall and skinny, while the other was short and skinny. Targets, she thought, smiling. As she got closer, she noticed that they were donning House Snark armor. Damn. Friendlies.
“Trying to enter Wintersmells, eh?” asked the short one.
“Indeed. I’m Malarya Snark, daughter of Deaddard Snark, and I’ve returned home.”
The guards looked confused. “But—but, Malarya Snark is supposed to be dead,” said the tall guard.
If they think I’m an imposter, I’ll definitely be allowed to use violence to get into Wintersmells, thought Malarya, hornily moving her hand over her blade.
“So this is fantastic news that you’re alive!” he exclaimed.
Fuck! thought Malarya.
“What a miracle that you, Malarya Snark, have returned,” said the other one.
Double fuck! thought Malarya.
“Now, we both trust that you are in fact Malarya Snark. However, technically we wouldn’t be doing our jobs if we just let you through the gates without verifying your identity. Do you mind if we go get your sister Pantsa to come and verify that you are in fact Malarya?”
Close enough, thought Malarya. “What’s that over there!” she yelled, pointing behind them.
“Huh?” said the guards in unison, stupidly turning around 180 degrees like idiots.
“I wish you hadn’t made me do this,” Malarya said unconvincingly before quickly pulling out Noodle and severing both of their heads. “Verify that,” she quipped, sheathing her sword and chuckling to herself.
Malarya took a deep inhale and smelled the familiar stench of human poop being burned for warmth. Home, she thought, smiling. Now she was off to see Jon, the only family member she ever cared about.
As Malarya strolled along toward Jon’s chambers, a distressed woma
n cried and ran toward the front gate. “My sons!” she yelled. “My two boys were the guards of the gate! Someone’s killed my two beautiful sons!” Dumb old hag, thought Malarya. This place didn’t used to have such loud and annoying people.
Malarya tiptoed into Jon’s creaky old room so she could surprise him by running up behind him with a sword. He’d turn around and draw his own sword, and they’d have one of their classic little practice fights. She saw him sitting down facing the fire. I’ve got to maintain the element of surprise, she thought, or Jon will beat me just like he used to. “AAAAHHHHHHHHH!” she yelled, sprinting at Jon from the other end of the room with her sword held high above her head. The figure in the chair remained still. “HIIIIIIIIIIIYAAAAA!” shouted Malarya as she chopped her blade down at his right bicep. SHWING. Her sword bounced right off the bicep. It was far too strong to chop. She looked up at the man in the chair. It was not Jon Dough.
“Bland?” she said, disappointed to see her lamest brother.
“I’m not Bland anymore,” he said, doing a pull-up on a bar he’d installed above the fireplace and letting his sense-deprived legs dangle into the burning fire. “I’m the Pink-Eyed Raven now.”
“What?” said Malarya, confused. “What does that mean?”
“It’s hard to explain,” said Bland angstily.
“Can you try?” bargained a frustrated Malarya. “Like, can you try to explain a little? Do you expect me to know what that means just from saying it?”
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