Verwandte Artikel zu Game Of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot
Inhaltsangabe
A PARODY OF THE BELOVED FANTASY DOORSTOP… ER, SAGA
In the land of the Eight (or was it Six?) Kingdoms—where the seasons last as long as a series of bestselling Tolkien-esque novels—trouble is brewing. The mud is growing muddier, the onions are rotting, the Wall to the North (or is it the South?) is melting, and Lord Barker of Summerseve is getting worried. His wife is addicted to Godsweede, his King is too fat to fit into his armor, and the foreshadowing is out of control. All in all, not the position you want to be in when Summer is coming.
From this world of outdoor fornication with horse-people (and indoor fornication with blood relatives) comes an epic story of novella proportions. Amid plots and counterplots, power-hungry warriors and overworked ravens, poor reception and no wireless, the future of the Barkers, their BFFs, and their enemies dangles in the balance, as each strives to survive long enough to appear in at least two of the sequels.
"His teeth might be wooden, but his prose is not."
---J.R.R. Madison
George R. R. Washington cannot tell a lie: A Game of Groans was not prepared, authorized, licensed, approved, or endorsed by any person or entity involved in creating or producing any of the Song of Ice and Fire books or the Games of Throne television program. Please direct any inquiries to our legal counsel, Clarence R. R. Darrow.
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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor
GEORGE R. R. WASHINGTON may be related to our country's founding father. And he might live in Chicago with his lovely wife, Natalie. Or he might not. He won't return our calls.
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A Game of Groans
A Sonnet of Slush and SootBy George R.R. WashingtonSt. Martin's Griffin
Copyright © 2012 George R.R. WashingtonAll right reserved.
ISBN: 9781250011268
ALLBRAN
Allbran Barker broke wind.
Fortunately for Allbran’s sake, the wind from the sky dissipated the wind from his hindquarters to the point that he was the only person who heard the foulness. Unfortunately for Allbran’s sake, the wind was such that he was forced to inhale the foulness, a foulness that somebody with a sharp sense of smell would accurately surmise was born of a combination of onions, wild boar, raw oats, and more onions.
The seven-year-old scrunched up his nose with self-loathing, and his father, Lord Headcase Barker, noticed. Lord Barker inquired, “What’s with the face, Allbran?” Gesturing to the scene in front of him, he asked, “Is this too much for you?”
Allbran said, “Oh, of course not, Father. I look forward to this!” The this Allbran and Lord Barker spoke of was the weekly Deserter Demolition.
Some believed Deserter Demolition to be barbaric, but even Allbran understood it was a necessity. Due to its horrible climate—brutal cold one day, deadly heat the next, even hotter than that the next—Summerseve, the town in which House Barker was housed, was a less-than-ideal place to live. Angered by the broken promises about universal air-conditioning service, the townspeople began an exodus from the region—most of those who left relocated to Caelifornea, while a small contingency escaped to Paeresfrance—and Summerseve nearly went bankrupt. In order to salvage the region, Lord Barker instituted a strict no-deserters policy, the penalty being beheading. That did not stop people from trying to leave Summerseve on a daily basis. Some made it out. Most did not.
In order to cut costs, Headcase—Head to his friends—scheduled all his beheadings for Monday afternoons, and to Allbran, those Mondays tasted as good as a plate of lemon cakes. Lemon cakes with a healthy coating of deserter blood, granted, but lemon cakes nonetheless. The beheadings were enjoyable in and of themselves, but part of the fun was the opportunity to spend time with his father, his older brother, Bobb, and his not-quite-as-old-as-Bobb-but-still-older-than-Allbran jerkoff brother, Juan Nieve. For one day a week, the Barker boys were on an equal plane, and Allbran wanted to keep it that way, thus his concern about the windbreaking.
Head smiled at his son and uttered, “I look forward to these days too, son. It’s a pleasure to have you boys here by my side.” Looking at Juan, he said, “Even you, jerkoff.”
“Gracias, Padre,”1 Juan said.
“I apologize to you boys that we only have one deserter. It was a slow week. I feel horrible. I have let you down. Down I have let you. If somebody were to ask me, ‘In which direction have I let you,’ the answer would be ‘down.’”
Allbran—who was uncomfortable with his father’s predilection for self-flagellation—farted, then coughed to cover up the air tulip. “That’s alright, Father. One beheading is better than no beheadings.”
Head’s smile widened, and he said, “Ah, Allbran, you are growing into a fine young man.” He pulled the bloodstained axe from his tool belt and said, “When I die—and I will die, probably soon, because characters like me, we always die—this will all be yours. Well, not yours, but your older brother’s, who might lend it to you once in a while. And now, to the business at hand.” He lifted the axe above his head and called, “It is decreed by me, Headcase Barker, the Seventy-Eighth of His Name, King of the Swordfish and the Hemorrhoids, Lord of the Eight, no, Nine, no, wait, Six Kingdoms, and Protector of the Protractor, that this nameless deserter’s head be removed by mine hand with one whack, and one whack only.” He asked the deserter, “Have you any final words?”
The deserter mumbled, “I do have a name, you know.”
“Of course you do,” Head agreed, then—as Bobb yelled, “I loves me some violence!”—brought the axe down upon the back of the deserter’s neck.
Halfway through Head’s downswing, Allbran’s hindquarters emitted a sound so thunderous that he who supplied it could not deny it. It so disconcerted Head that his typically straight and sure axe chop was a tad wobbly, wobbly to the point that the axe did not slice all the way through the deserter’s neck. Head attempted to remove his weapon from the deserter, but it was so embedded in the man’s spine that the handle popped free of the blade, and the blade stayed put, half in his neck, and half out.
While the three full-blooded Barker men and the one jerkoff watched blood gush from the deserter and onto their respective shirts, Bobb pulled out his sword and asked, “Would you like me to finish him off, Father?”
Juan unsheathed his sword and declared, “Dios mio, Padre,2 give me the chance to prove myself. My swordwork has become muy3 impeccable.”
Head chuckled, “My son, my jerkoff, I appreciate the sentiment, but the law is clear: One whack, and one whack only. I know, I know, in the story outline, it was suggested that we should be as violent as possible, but once in a while, subtlety is called for, and what’s more subtle than one whack?” He turned to the deserter and said, “You are free to go. But I would advise you to stay in Summerseve. I think if you give it a chance, you’ll find it to be a wonderful place to live.”
The deserter stood up, bowed, gingerly touched his gushing wound, and said, “Yes, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord.”
Head nodded. “My pleasure.” He tapped the blade embedded in the deserter’s neck and said, “Hey, if you get a chance, could you return this thing to my castle?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Fantastic. Give it to my assistant, Maester Blaester, and he’ll get it to me.”
“Yes, my Lord,” the deserter repeated, then staggered off.
As he watched the wounded man walk away, Allbran complained, “Father, I’m covered in deserter blood.”
“We all are,” Head pointed out. “Let’s get ourselves cleaned up. I think a trip to the pond is in order.”
With each muddy step, Allbran’s piffles became more and more pronounced; his companions, being polite sorts, did not comment on the increasingly loud, increasingly odiferous emissions. He sped up his pace, in hopes that he could get out of earshot (and noseshot), but the faster he moved, the louder his cheese cut. By the time he jumped into the pond some ten minutes later, his insides felt as if somebody had scooped out his guts and replaced them with onion juice.
At the pond, the other Barker men stripped down to their undergarments—Head’s, Bobb’s, and Allbran’s were made from chainmail, the preferred undergarment of the royals, while Juan’s consisted of a piece of string and two feathers—and dived in. Bran watched his family rinse themselves in the soupy water, hoping against hope that he would soon outgrow his stomach issues. He let out a sad sigh, and a sadder fart.
While the others dried themselves off and put back on their bloodstained clothes,...
Allbran Barker broke wind.
Fortunately for Allbran’s sake, the wind from the sky dissipated the wind from his hindquarters to the point that he was the only person who heard the foulness. Unfortunately for Allbran’s sake, the wind was such that he was forced to inhale the foulness, a foulness that somebody with a sharp sense of smell would accurately surmise was born of a combination of onions, wild boar, raw oats, and more onions.
The seven-year-old scrunched up his nose with self-loathing, and his father, Lord Headcase Barker, noticed. Lord Barker inquired, “What’s with the face, Allbran?” Gesturing to the scene in front of him, he asked, “Is this too much for you?”
Allbran said, “Oh, of course not, Father. I look forward to this!” The this Allbran and Lord Barker spoke of was the weekly Deserter Demolition.
Some believed Deserter Demolition to be barbaric, but even Allbran understood it was a necessity. Due to its horrible climate—brutal cold one day, deadly heat the next, even hotter than that the next—Summerseve, the town in which House Barker was housed, was a less-than-ideal place to live. Angered by the broken promises about universal air-conditioning service, the townspeople began an exodus from the region—most of those who left relocated to Caelifornea, while a small contingency escaped to Paeresfrance—and Summerseve nearly went bankrupt. In order to salvage the region, Lord Barker instituted a strict no-deserters policy, the penalty being beheading. That did not stop people from trying to leave Summerseve on a daily basis. Some made it out. Most did not.
In order to cut costs, Headcase—Head to his friends—scheduled all his beheadings for Monday afternoons, and to Allbran, those Mondays tasted as good as a plate of lemon cakes. Lemon cakes with a healthy coating of deserter blood, granted, but lemon cakes nonetheless. The beheadings were enjoyable in and of themselves, but part of the fun was the opportunity to spend time with his father, his older brother, Bobb, and his not-quite-as-old-as-Bobb-but-still-older-than-Allbran jerkoff brother, Juan Nieve. For one day a week, the Barker boys were on an equal plane, and Allbran wanted to keep it that way, thus his concern about the windbreaking.
Head smiled at his son and uttered, “I look forward to these days too, son. It’s a pleasure to have you boys here by my side.” Looking at Juan, he said, “Even you, jerkoff.”
“Gracias, Padre,”1 Juan said.
“I apologize to you boys that we only have one deserter. It was a slow week. I feel horrible. I have let you down. Down I have let you. If somebody were to ask me, ‘In which direction have I let you,’ the answer would be ‘down.’”
Allbran—who was uncomfortable with his father’s predilection for self-flagellation—farted, then coughed to cover up the air tulip. “That’s alright, Father. One beheading is better than no beheadings.”
Head’s smile widened, and he said, “Ah, Allbran, you are growing into a fine young man.” He pulled the bloodstained axe from his tool belt and said, “When I die—and I will die, probably soon, because characters like me, we always die—this will all be yours. Well, not yours, but your older brother’s, who might lend it to you once in a while. And now, to the business at hand.” He lifted the axe above his head and called, “It is decreed by me, Headcase Barker, the Seventy-Eighth of His Name, King of the Swordfish and the Hemorrhoids, Lord of the Eight, no, Nine, no, wait, Six Kingdoms, and Protector of the Protractor, that this nameless deserter’s head be removed by mine hand with one whack, and one whack only.” He asked the deserter, “Have you any final words?”
The deserter mumbled, “I do have a name, you know.”
“Of course you do,” Head agreed, then—as Bobb yelled, “I loves me some violence!”—brought the axe down upon the back of the deserter’s neck.
Halfway through Head’s downswing, Allbran’s hindquarters emitted a sound so thunderous that he who supplied it could not deny it. It so disconcerted Head that his typically straight and sure axe chop was a tad wobbly, wobbly to the point that the axe did not slice all the way through the deserter’s neck. Head attempted to remove his weapon from the deserter, but it was so embedded in the man’s spine that the handle popped free of the blade, and the blade stayed put, half in his neck, and half out.
While the three full-blooded Barker men and the one jerkoff watched blood gush from the deserter and onto their respective shirts, Bobb pulled out his sword and asked, “Would you like me to finish him off, Father?”
Juan unsheathed his sword and declared, “Dios mio, Padre,2 give me the chance to prove myself. My swordwork has become muy3 impeccable.”
Head chuckled, “My son, my jerkoff, I appreciate the sentiment, but the law is clear: One whack, and one whack only. I know, I know, in the story outline, it was suggested that we should be as violent as possible, but once in a while, subtlety is called for, and what’s more subtle than one whack?” He turned to the deserter and said, “You are free to go. But I would advise you to stay in Summerseve. I think if you give it a chance, you’ll find it to be a wonderful place to live.”
The deserter stood up, bowed, gingerly touched his gushing wound, and said, “Yes, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord.”
Head nodded. “My pleasure.” He tapped the blade embedded in the deserter’s neck and said, “Hey, if you get a chance, could you return this thing to my castle?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Fantastic. Give it to my assistant, Maester Blaester, and he’ll get it to me.”
“Yes, my Lord,” the deserter repeated, then staggered off.
As he watched the wounded man walk away, Allbran complained, “Father, I’m covered in deserter blood.”
“We all are,” Head pointed out. “Let’s get ourselves cleaned up. I think a trip to the pond is in order.”
With each muddy step, Allbran’s piffles became more and more pronounced; his companions, being polite sorts, did not comment on the increasingly loud, increasingly odiferous emissions. He sped up his pace, in hopes that he could get out of earshot (and noseshot), but the faster he moved, the louder his cheese cut. By the time he jumped into the pond some ten minutes later, his insides felt as if somebody had scooped out his guts and replaced them with onion juice.
At the pond, the other Barker men stripped down to their undergarments—Head’s, Bobb’s, and Allbran’s were made from chainmail, the preferred undergarment of the royals, while Juan’s consisted of a piece of string and two feathers—and dived in. Bran watched his family rinse themselves in the soupy water, hoping against hope that he would soon outgrow his stomach issues. He let out a sad sigh, and a sadder fart.
While the others dried themselves off and put back on their bloodstained clothes,...
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