A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot (23 page)

Tritone asked his sister, “Are you okay? You’re sweating.”

Wiping her forehead, Cerevix claimed, “It’s not sweat. It’s, um, it’s lemonade.”

Before he could follow up on his sister’s ridiculous answer, he locked eyes with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, a dark-skinned brunette with pouty lips. He leaned toward Jagweed and whispered, “Can I have her?”

Jagweed said, “No, we have somebody else picked out.” He pointed across the room to a woman leaning in a doorway: “Her.”

“Her?” Tritone asked, giving the tall blond girl a onceover. “I don’t know, Jag, she looks a lot like Cerevix. That’s just weird.”

“Word is she’s the best one,” Cerevix noted, “and only the best will do for our baby brother!”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess,” he said, and then strolled into the room, his twin siblings close behind. “Hey, guys, a little privacy?”

Jagweed explained, “Listen, Tri, we’ve both had sex before, and you might need some advice.”

“And Jag has moves,” Cerevix claimed. “You should totally listen to him.”

Shrugging, Jagweed said, “Aw, you’re being nice, sis.”

Tritone sighed, “Okay, fine, you can watch, but keep it quiet.”

“Not a word,” Jagweed agreed.

When all four were in the room, the prostitute blew out the candle and told Tritone, “Take off your clothes, and we’ll start.” While he was getting naked, he heard somebody else remove their garb, but it barely registered, as he was so trembling with anticipation. The girl took his hand, led him to the bed, and brought him to places he had never been either before or since, places like Nome, Alaska, and Fort Lauderdale.

After Tritone recovered, he asked to go again, but the woman whispered they only paid for one pop, and it was time for them to go. He threw on his clothes, and the three Sinisters walked out of the cathouse arm-in-arm-in-arm, one happy family.

Nine months later, Cerevix Sinister Barfonme gave birth to her only son, Goofrey Barfonme.

*

Tritone’s eyes popped open, and a hopeful mantra drifted through his head:
It was just a dream … I didn’t sleep with my sister … I’m not my nephew’s father … It was just a dream … I didn’t sleep with my sister … I’m not my nephew’s father …

“Did you say something?”

Tritone spun around, and there was Burntsienna, giving him a strange look. He claimed, “Just clearing my throat, Shecky. Let’s get out of here. This patch of woods is so ugly that … that … that…” And for the second time in the book, Tritone was so disconcerted that he could not finish the joke.

Lolyta Targetpractice was not enjoying her pregnancy, not one bit. Sure, her skin glowed, and sure, it was nice to have Magistrate Illinois tell her that her child is going to be “The Duck Who Quacks Like No Other,” and sure, it was nice to be thirteen and pregnant, just like the vast majority of her fellow Easterrabbitarian thirteen-year-olds, but the vomiting, the constant urination, and the nonstop cravings for oats and carrots drove her to distraction.

Ivan Drago seemed to like the lump in her midsection, as born out by the fact that he took her to the center of town to have sex three times a day instead of the typical two. Those who watched Loly and Ivan Drago do their thing had taken to chanting throughout the act; their cries of
KERBANG-ER! KERBANG-ER!
could be heard from the rivers to the mountains. Thanks to the ducklike pregnancy and the incessant outdoor lovemaking, Loly had become the most beloved KERBANGER in Dork’s long history. But not everybody was enamored with the ruler.

“You have become
so
conceited,” Vladymyr ranted. “You think you’re Miss Thing, but the fact is, you’re a hot mess. And can we talk about that top you’ve got on? Two words, darling:
Puh-leez
. All I see is tits and gut, tits and gut, tits and gut. Cover that stuff up, girlfriend.”

By now, Loly was immune to her brother’s clothing suggestions, so she addressed the one thing that had been bothering her for days: “Vladymyr, are you wearing makeup?”

He touched his face, pursed his lips, and purred, “So what if I am? I’m fabulous, and this just brings out my fabulousness.”

By now, Loly was immune to her brother’s incessant need to call himself
fabulous,
so she addressed the one thing that had been bothering her for months: “Vladymyr, are you gay?”

Vladymyr Targetpractice looked to the floor, shuffled his feet, and croaked, “So what if I am?”

“Frankly, brother dear, if you are, I think it would be better for everybody if you admitted it.”

“Why?” he asked, still staring at the floor.

“Because you don’t need to spend your life hiding. Your family will always love you, no matter what.” She stepped down from the throne, put her hand on his cheek, and whispered, “I’ll always love you.”

He met her eyes, and she noticed that a single tear had cut a path in his makeup. Clearing his throat, Vladymyr admitted, “I’m gay.” And then he smiled, and repeated, “I’m gay!” And then one more time:
“I’m totally, totally gay!”

With a spring in his step that Loly had never before seen, Vladymyr ran from the castle and skipped across town crying, “I’m gay, Dork, I’m gay!” With each skip, more and more Dorkis followed him, and they took up the chant:
KERBANG-ER’s brother is here! KERBANG-ER’s brother is queer! Get used to it!
Loly and Vladymyr were so caught up in the moment they did not consider the fact that the Dorki population was forming a complete English sentence, with nary an
ooga
or a
booga
to be seen.

Once the Targetpractices, accompanied by Magistrate Illinois, made it to the center of town, Ivan Drago picked up Vladymyr and tossed him in the air in such a manner that he landed on the man/horse’s back. “Ooga booga! Let’s celebrate KERBANGER’S brother’s coming out of the closet! Ooga booga! A grand feast for all at Javytz! Ooga booga!”

As they galloped over to the Javytz Conventyn Centyr on the Eastern outskirts of Dork, Vladymyr asked Ivan Drago, “Hey, Big Sexy, when did you guys learn to talk for real?”

Coughing, Ivan Drago asked, “What do you mean? Oonga boonga, boonga oonga?”

Chuckling knowingly, Vladymyr uttered, “Your secret is safe with me.”

It seemed like the entire population of Dork was waiting for the Targetpractices at the Centyr, waiting with a sense of anticipation that was palpable. There was singing, and dancing, and neighing, and ooga booging; all in all, it was the most festive, flamboyant celebration that this book had ever seen. On the far end of the room, there was a large, raised stage on which sat a boiling cauldron. Ivan Drago pointed at the pot and roared, “Boogie googie foogie
gold
!”

Illinois explained to Loly and Vladymyr, “They’re making a golden statue of Vladymyr. Apparently he’s the first human to declare his homosexuality in the history of Dork, and the horsepeople—a good number of whom are either gay or bi—are quite impressed.” She paused, then added, “FYI, they’re probably going to want Vladymyr to have sex in the middle of the city, in full view of everybody.”

Vladymyr leered, “Honey, I’m counting down the seconds.”

Ivan Drago tapped Vladymyr on the shoulder and gestured to the stage. “Wowie wowie woo woo woo.”

Illinois translated, “He wants you to go stand by the pot, so the master Dorki sculptor can replicate you.”

With a grin that could melt an onion, Vladymyr lisped, “Ssssssssuper,” and navigated his way to the other side of the room. He jumped up onto the stage and jogged to the cauldron, then tripped on his shoelace and fell in.

Over the crowd’s deafening silence, the master sculptor reached into the pot and gently pulled out the KERBANGER’s brother, who was completely encased in bright, gleaming gold. Everything about the statue was undeniably breathtaking—the detail was astounding, naturally—but its most notable feature was the beatific, contented smile frozen on the face of Vladymyr Targetpractice.

As Loly stared at her brother’s lifeless yet life-affirming grin, she thought,
I should probably go check in on my eggs. I haven’t mentioned them in a bunch of chapters, and they might be ready to hatch
.

Lord Headcase Barker asked Tinyjohnson, “Why doesn’t anybody just admit it?”

“I told you,” the possible eunuch answered, “because there’s nothing to admit.”

“For Gods’ sake, just call a spade a spade already!” Head demanded.

“I shall do no such thing. You can yell at me all you want to, but my answer shall not change.”

“Tinyjohnson, look at this thing,” Head ordered, then rose from the throne. “It’s a toilet, pure and simple. There’s a ring, and a hole, and I’m pretty sure I can see a tampon in there.”

“That is not a tampon, m’Lord. That’s, um, that’s a magical ruby.”

“A magical ruby, eh? Seems to me that it’s silly for a ruby to sit at the bottom of a”—here he did finger quotes—“‘throne,’ so maybe you should reach in and grab it. As acting King, I give you permission to sell it and keep the profits.”

Tinyjohnson cleared his throat, then claimed, “I am perfectly solvent, m’Lord. No need for me to take something that doesn’t belong to me.”

Head removed his ridiculous temporary crown—it was made from a thick type of paper, and imprinted with the words
Burgyr Kyng
—tossed it across the room, then said, “Let’s get this thing started. What is it called again?”

“A town hall meeting, m’Lord.”

“Right. How does it work?”

“Simple. Any resident of Capaetal Ceity can approach the King—or, in this case, the acting King—and ask for aid or advice for their problems.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad. Send in the first favor-asker!”

A strapping young man without a shirt approached the throne. “Good morning, Lord Barker. I am Anklebracelet Beetbox of Gigglesworth Road. The front yard of my house is covered with mud. I’m hoping you can help.”

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Beetbox, but the front yard of everybody’s house is covered with mud.”

“But I’m more special than everybody.” He pointed at his stomach, then boasted, “I mean, look at this six-pack. These abs deserve the royal treatment.”

Head leaned over to Tinyjohnson and whispered, “How would Bobbert handle something like this?”

Tinyjohnson whispered back, “Depends on his mood. Good mood, ask him politely to leave. Bad mood, hit him with a raven.”

“Do we have any ravens?” Head asked.

“No,” Tinyjohnson claimed.

Head turned to Beetbox and said, “I will politely ask you to leave. Good day, sir.”

Beetbox jeered, “You suck, Barker,” then strolled from the room.

The next favor-asker entered, a pretty, round-faced woman with a remarkably ugly baby. “Good morning, Lord Barker. I am Wilhelmina Concertina of Ringworm Road, and this is my child, Dilbert.”

Head leaned forward and patted Dilbert on the noggin. “My, such a lovely child,” he fibbed.

“Please, m’Lord,” Wilhelmina countered, “let’s be honest here: This is the ugliest baby in Cap Ceity. I’d like to trade it in for something more attractive.”

“Um, I’m afraid that’s impossible. Your child is your child.”

Ignoring Head, Wilhelmina continued, “I tried to shove him back up there, because I thought maybe if he cooked some more, he’d turn out tastier. But either he was too big, or I was too small. Or maybe it was both, I don’t know. Point is, I’m wondering if you have any cute babies hiding somewhere in the castle.”

“We don’t have any cute babies hiding in the castle. I will politely ask you to leave. Good day, ma’am.”

After she was gone, Tinyjohnson said, “You’re a natural, m’Lord. I believe we only have one hundred seventy-three people left.”

Over the next eight hours, Headcase had requests for new houses, new wives, new horses, new clothes, new onions, new sequels, and something called a nuclear-powered Gantry robot. Unable to grant a single request, he was depressed and grouchy, so he turned to Tinyjohnson and asked, “Since I’m the King, can I make a decree?”

“Of course.”

“Great. I decree that whoever brings me the head of Jagweed Sinister receives one million dollars.”

“That might not be a good idea, m’Lord. Sur Jagweed is the Queen’s brother. That’s the kind of rash decision that could get you murdered.”

Off in the distance, Juan Nieve’s direpanda, Fourshadow, could be heard growling.

“Oh. My. Gods. I, like, totally hate you!
Totally!
”

“I hate you more!” Malia Barker told her sister.

“Well, I hated you first, because I’m, like, older!” Sasha Barker simpered.

“And
stupider
.”

“What
ever
. I’m
totally
smarter than you.”

“Oh yeah? What’s five plus three?”

“Fifty-three. Like,
duh
.”

Malia shook her head and grumbled, “Yep, you’re a regular Einstein, Sash.”

“A regular
what
-stein?”

“Forget it.”

Sasha claimed, “If you don’t tell me what a mine-stein is, I’m totally tattling on you.”

“Oh, that’s
real
mature, Miss Older Sister,” Malia sneered.

Sasha opened the bedroom door and yelled, “
Daaaaaaaad!
Malia’s being mean! Again!”

Malia then yelled, “
Daaaaaaaad!
Sasha’s being an idiot! Again!”

Headcase roared, “It’s midnight! Both of you pipe down and go to sleep.”

Sasha called, “She totally started it!”

Head stomped down the hall into the girls’ room. “Started what?”

Turning to Malia, Sasha asked, “Like, what did you start?”

Malia scratched her head, then noted, “I don’t remember.”

“Gods almighty,” Head growled. “You two are driving me nuts, and exchanges like this—and there are too Godsdamn many of them—bring this Godsdamn story to a Godsdamn grinding halt, and the last Godsdamn thing we need in this Godsdamn story is a Godsdamn grinding halt! So pack up your things! You’re going back to Summerseve tomorrow! I’ll let Bobb deal with this garbage.” And then he stomped away.