Then he remembered the few saltine crackers he had stashed in his pocket from the tavern a few towns ago. He began unwrapping their packaging. The dragons growled louder, and Dennys motioned, this time more dramatically, to his crackers. “No. Please, this is my only food. They have so so so much food. Please.” Dennys crossed her arms again.
Jon put his head down and held the crackers out. Dragun licked them off his hand and then spit them out, not perfectly content with their level of salt.
“Now that they are fed, we ride.” Dennys walked over to them and hopped on Dragun’s back. “Well, go on,” she called out to him. Jon approached Jragon. Never had he been so close to a veritable beast.
“Okay… Here goes nothing,” Jon said timidly. He jumped a few inches in the air and landed in the exact same spot where he was standing.
“You have to mount it!” Dennys cried out annoyed.
“Well, okay… How do I mount it?” As he finished his words, Jragon picked Jon up by the shirt and flung him onto his scaly back. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Okay… Now how do I ride it?”
“Oh Jon, you silly goof. Just watch how I do it.” She yipped Dragun into motion, and they took to the skies majestically.
Jragon took off, catching up to his brother. Jon fell off almost immediately and plummeted back toward earth. Jragon begrudgingly swooped back down and caught him on his back once more.
“What do I hold onto?” Jon cried.
“Um, maybe the dragon,” Dennys laughed, twirling through the air on the back of Dragun.
“Oh, no!” Jon cried as he slid off the dragon’s back during a sharp turn. “The only thing with any grip on this damn beast is his… his—”
To Dennys’s surprise, she turned behind her to see her beloved Jragon wincing in pain as Jon dangled below him, grasping his testicles. She made the executive decision to land right then, and she assumed both Jragon and Jon would be relieved.
They descended into a beautiful stretch of luscious grass, complemented with a booming waterfall that fell into a glistening river.
“Don’t you just love it out here?” asked Dennys, with a twinkle in her eye. She touched Jon’s arm ever so slightly. “The way the crispness of the cool air bites your skin as the scenery fills your mind with epic reminiscences of the beauty of life?”
“To be honest, this type of scenery doesn’t really get my dick that hard.”
“Hm,” Dennys frowned. “You do not need to be so blunt.”
“Nah. That’s what I’m saying. If you would listen, it’s not blunt; it’s, like, just completely flaccid right now.” Jon sighed. He turned toward Dennys in order to avoid the boring scenery and suddenly felt a stirring in his heart. “Dennys, now that I’m looking at you, I must admit you’re so much prettier than all these dogshit trees and rivers around us. Like, much, much prettier.”
Dennys’s frown was replaced by a subtle smirk. “Well, Jon Dough, the feeling is mutual, I assure you.” She stepped to Jon and grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. It was only a moment until they had made their way to the ground. And the rest, as they say, is sex.
Throughout the entirety of Jon and Dennys’s lovemaking, both dragons locked eyes with Jon while dragging their fingers across their throats, as if to signal that Jon was dead meat. Dragun pounded his fist into his hand, while Jragon mimed ripping a person in half. Dragun mouthed the words “dead man walking.” Steam billowed out of their angry ears.
As for Jon, he was just happy to see the dragons getting into it as much as he was.
Just as they were finishing up, Jon said, “I need to tell you something important.”
“Do you have an STD? Another family? Does your other family have STDs?!”
“No, no, it’s nothing that serious,” he reassured her. “Although you may lose all of your power and claim to the throne,” he mumbled under his breath.
“What was that?”
“Oh, nothing. I just was saying you look very pretty in the light of Jragon’s fire breath.”
Jon suddenly became nervous to tell his beautiful Dennys the news. His palms were sweating, his knees felt especially weak, and his arms were heavy. However, on the surface, he looked calm and ready. He gazed into her eyes as if it were the last time, feeling as though things might never be the same between them. Jon took a deep breath and began.
“I love you too,” Dennys blurted out just as Jon announced he was a Grandslam and had a claim to the Pointy Chair. “Oh, I thought you were gonna say something different,” she despondently uttered.
“I, well… um.”
“But how can you be so sure of all this?”
“Bland and Ham both knew.”
“So your brother and your best friend told you that you’re the rightful heir to the Chair? Checks out!”
“How do you feel about this information?”
“I’m a little weirded out since I’m now learning I just had sex with my cousin… again.”
“No, no we’re nephew and aunt!”
“Oh, okay. Well, that’s still not that cool. That’s, like, just about as bad in my eyes—”
“Hell yeah!” Jon yelled, not paying attention. He went in for the high five.
Dennys turned away and brushed her hand through her long blonde wisps. While she descended deep into thought, Jon began daydreaming about how beautiful their children would be, once he was able to convince her that he’d “had a vasectomy.” And once you were able to look past the genetic deformities. Dennys would have made a wonderful ruling queen, but think of how great she would be as a homemaker, Jon thought chivalrously.
Up in the Great Hall, the battle against the undead was being drawn up on the strategy table, known in Wintersmells as the “Table of Strategy.”
“When I inevitably die, I hope it’s from someone big and strong because it would be so embarrassing to be killed by a little wiener,” the Clown announced, carefully moving some of the figurines an inch to the left to emphasize his point.
“My dream death tomorrow is for someone to cut off my head and then be disappointed to find out it’s already been cut off. And then I’ll just stab myself in the chest to show ’em who’s boss,” Lemme chimed in, adjusting some of the blocks of wood that were supposed to represent one side or the other in the battle.
Beerion had heard enough of this. “If we’re gonna die, let’s do it the right way! I’ve always said it, but I’ll say it again: I hope to die at the age of eighty with a nice bottle of wine and a girl around my cock. You know what? Scratch that. Make it two girls and just one cup of wine. But yeah, since I’m probably dying tomorrow, it will be hard to find two girls who are free, so I’ll just settle for two cock rings and a warm beer to do the trick.” He thought for a moment. “Actually, I’m just going to go masturbate and drink a glass of water.”
Everyone reveled in this particular fantasy except Lord Varysectomy. He had always held a different vision regarding his ultimate demise. He dreamed that he would retire to his quarters for the night, open up the secret trap door in his floor, and pull out the large chest he stored there. He would open the chest and out would stumble a man who had not seen the light of day in years, decades perhaps, if he lived long enough. This was the man who had cut off Varysectomy’s genitals when he was but two years old. He would grab the man by the chin and force him to meet his eye.
“When I was a boy,” Varysectomy would say, “you took my genitals away from me. And now, I’m going to punch you.” He would then punch him. After that, Varysectomy would pass away from cancer many years later. That’s how he wanted to die.
Suddenly, Bland entered the Room of the Table of Strategy and interrupted the conversation. “How can you all think like this? We aren’t going to die! We will fight and beat the White Wieners! The fate of the kingdom depends on it at least,” Bland said, disappointed.
“I have seen a zombo. And I have heard of their numbers. I am sorry, but how can you believe we have a chance?” asked Brian of Fa
rt.
“Because there’s no ‘I’ in ‘team.’ Because hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard. Because it’s not about waiting for the storm to pass—it’s about learning to dance in the rain. Also, I have a plan.”
“Bland, I’m just gonna remind you that there is a ‘me’ in ‘team,’ and there’s also a ‘meat.’ Not sure if that’s helpful but just saying,” Ham chimed in.
Bland began to wonder if Ham was really as smart as he believed him to be. He shook his head and returned to the matter at hand. “As I was saying, I have a plan to lure the Nighty Night King in and well… it’s me. I’m the lure. I’m the Pink-Eyed Raven. He’ll want to get his hands on me more than anything. And in case that doesn’t work, I’m going to use my biggest strength: my sexuality. Look at my arms. Have you ever seen anyone with more perfect muscle tone? No, you haven’t. I just scanned your entire memory bank and can say with certainty that I am the sexiest boy you have ever seen. I’m going to wear my best trench coat with nothing under and spray on a little Chanel #4.”
“Oh, Bland!” Pantsa pleaded. “We can’t leave you alone out there as bait. You’ll be unsafe!”
“I’ll protect him,” Peeon exclaimed as he stood up and saluted. “I too promise to wear a trench coat and go commando in dutiful honor of the living! I swear to stare sexily into that evil king’s eyes and lick my lips in the face of death.”
“Well, then it’s settled!” cried Beerion, wanting to move things along. “There’s no need to stress about it now! There is only one thing that we all must do, however—SHOTS! A drink to our sexy Bland! And a drink to the good land of Fart from which our dear Brian hails!”
“To Fart!” they all shouted and chugged their drinks. To onlookers, it would seem that these northern leaders were in for a wild night before the most important battle of their lives—and those onlookers would be right. One moment they were playing a casual game of “Chug the Bottle,” and the next they were taking body shots off of the Clown. Beerion swung from chandelier to chandelier to brick wall, laughing all the way.
Lord Varysectomy was so drunk he swore his testicles had grown back. Beerion was so drunk he swore he had grown 300 percent taller. As it happened, Beerion had only climbed into Varysectomy’s pocket in order to gain a higher vantage point, dangling like a pair of testicles. Perhaps the most intoxicated person was Lemme. He drank like a mom on her fiftieth birthday turning “thirty-two again.” He spent a good part of the night in a headstand to show off the benefits of having a golden head and nearly convinced Brian to cut hers off in solidarity.
At around 2:00 a.m., Beerion climbed up on the table and made an announcement to the group.
“It’s time to get serious, everyone. We have an imminent battle where we must show the dead that life wins out. You only live once!” Jon ducked his head and hoped nobody was looking at him. “One more drink for good luck!” Beerion shouted as he threw back another. Standing only as tall as your everyday spoon and weighing no more than a few, erm, spoons, Beerion was a remarkable drinker. Yet this moment was his last memory of the night. He awoke to the sound of Jon’s trembling voice.
“The Nighty Night King is coming! And the White Wieners have already arrived! They’re not as cute as I was hoping! They actually look very scary! You guysssss?!”
The crowd in the Great Hall started to get up slowly. What happened last night? everyone collectively wondered. Pantsa was lying in a pool of vomit. Brian was sitting in a pool of vomit. The Clown stood with vomit surrounding his feet in a pool shape. This battle would be the ultimate hungover walk of shame.
George R. R. Martin
Holy hell, talk about shameful hangovers. It’s been—my God, has it really been—no that cannot possibly be right… Chauncibell! Is this newspaper correct? Is it the twenty-sixth already? Jesus, George, you’ve gotta stop ordering double bellinis. Chauncibell, start whipping up a single. Maybe make two…
Yes, “Cabo-time” is a real phenomenon. Real as the sun on my face or the constant recurring image of a gnome dueling with a fairy in my head. It’s been thirteen days since I have had even one single moment away from officiating over the Cabo-wide limbo contest to read any of this book I’ve been scratching out. Now, granted, I’ve yet to proofread anything, but I feel fairly certain that all my concerns from the prologue about misremembering locations’ names or major plot points or even the names of the characters were unfounded. Character? Characters, right? I must have written in more than one person in this book, yeah? Doo doo doo, flip, flip, flip, let’s see here, yes, okay, good, characters. I think that I am veritably on a roll here, spinning out perhaps some of my best work yet. Maybe not my best work. That first book was pretty damn good. But that was before all the money, all the fame. That was a younger, wiser me. Bright-eyed and creative as a… oh boy, what the hell is a good simile for something creative? Creative as a… Creative like a… Fuck it. Oh, you’re too good to me, Chauncibell! You brought the peanuts I like too.
Based on Chauncibell’s feedback, it seems I’m halfway to another best seller. And that means I’m halfway to receiving my best paycheck yet, which in turn means I can afford eight more beautiful months in Cabo. Yes, Chauncibell. Eight months. Well, frankly I have no conception of what that could possibly be. Your son wants you to be there for his gradua-what? Well, then you can fly him out here to celebrate with both of us. No you can’t “at least have that day off.”
So, without too much delay, let’s get back to our story. Chauncibell informs me that we left off right before the battle of the living versus the dead. This is a chapter I have written a thousand times in my head. I have been ruminating over the specifics of the battle for years now. This is perhaps the most confident I have ever been before diving in and putting thoughts to the page, inklings to ink. This next chapter is going to be epic, a piece of pure literary gold, and best of all a breeze to write. And if I could just enter the correct password for my HBO login, I would be able to refresh my memory of how this battle is supposed to unfold. Okay, gotta guess my password. How about “DennysRRMartin”? Nope. “GeorgeOfTheRings”? Nope. “LordOfTheRings1”? “GeorgeAndLeBronnForever”? “Alcohol”? None of those, damn. “DeltaChiDelta4Lyfe”? “AceRRMartin”? “ScorpionRRMartin”? “CoolRRMartin”? “GeorgeRRMartin69”? Okay, hold on—this next one has to be it: “GeorgeRRMartin69Blowjob.” No?? Okay this next one is definitely it: “GeorgeRRMartin69BlowjobHandjob.” Negative. Okay this next one is 100 percent it: “GeorgeRRMartin69BlowjobHandjobSecks.” Whoops, I meant “GeorgeRRMartin69BlowjobHandjobSex.” What?! Still no?
No matter! I would never dare use the show to inform my writing of this book, anyway. No, I would never. Never. Unless, “GeorgeRRMartin69BlowjobHandjobSex1” is correct? Nope. So, then, let’s see. I can still do this the old-fashioned way—just gotta get my creative juices flowing. What time do we think it is there in Wintersmells? And what would it feel like there in the air? Let’s really set the scene. No, Chauncibell, I am not stalling because I don’t have any idea how to start the battle. Stop reading over my shoulder. Yes, you are paid by the task. No, bellinis do not count as a task. Making those is a favor you do for me in exchange for my company. Anyway, I am going to say that it is probably night in Wintersmells. And the air is crisp. Voluptuously crisp. But not too voluptuously crisp.
Malarya
The night air outside Wintersmells was voluptuously crisp. Too voluptuously crisp. On all sides the castle was surrounded by what seemed like an infinite wall of zombos and White Wieners. Of course it only seemed infinite. An infinite number of anything is impossible. And I would not want to tarnish the plausibility of this series on a simple numerical hyperbole. Death had come knocking on the door of the living, and the living couldn’t pretend like they weren’t home because they’d accidentally said, “Who is it?” instead of looking through the peephole—metaphorically, that is. Though the personification of death is a most enjoyable thing, again, I’m just looking out for the plausibility he
re. The fate of humanity rested on the shoulders of the motley crew of outsiders, outcasts, weirdos, magicians, stars of this series, and janitors who laid in wait inside the walls of Wintersmells.
It’s killin’ time, thought Malarya as she said “It’s killin’ time” out loud.
The army of the living assembled outside the gates, laying eyes on the ungodly horde of zombos in the distance. Twenty minutes later, once everyone had finished changing into new pants, they assembled once again. Malarya stood in the front, riding her gunne like a horse and dancing around.
“Who’s ready to die?” shouted Malarya, causing several different young Snark soldiers to throw up and start crying. “This gunne is my dick, and I’m going to fuck these zombos in the mouth!” Malarya looked into the distance and noticed something so somber that it caused her to put down her gunne penis and stop dancing: it was her brother Bland, dressed in a leather bikini top, cutoff jean shorts with the pockets hanging out and the word “fancy” printed on the butt, and high-heel stilettos. His face was covered in red mascara and lipstick. All of it to attract the Nighty Night King. Peeon pushed Bland in his wheelchair toward the weirdwood tree where he would wait as the sexy boy bait. In that moment, Malarya realized that Bland, cowering in a chair, dressed as a dime-store hooker, was the bravest person she knew.
The battle was imminent. Yip Yip Yip! called out the Clothkhaki phalanx, not realizing that their war cry wouldn’t work this time because zombos are incapable of being disturbed by annoying sounds. Regardless, they were ready to give their lives for humanity. The Clothkhaki had made peace with their gods. Though, as they rode forward, some began to wonder if they had almost certainly been praying to the wrong gods the whole time, seeing as all the other characters consistently received magical help from their gods—being brought back to life, setting things on fire, healing, and the like… They would think about this later, they thought.
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