Jon

Jon was shitting out of his window when Ham burst into his room. “Jon—I know how to defeat the White Wieners!” panted Ham between bites of the turkeys he had in each hand.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll take three.” Jon said what he assumed Ham wanted to hear, but his mind was just totally elsewhere.

“I stumbled upon a bunch of old maps at Citadel State when I was looking for porn, and I found this!” Ham finished his two turkeys and ate one more before holding up an old, greasy piece of parchment. Jon squinted at the parchment: it was extremely faded and stained with a white substance, but he could make out what appeared to be two islands shaped like breasts. He and Ham laughed and high-fived. Ham continued, “And later on I found an old map of Drunknstoned, which showed what seemed to be a huge deposit of gunnes hidden under the main castle.”

Jon gave Ham an inquisitive look. “What in the seven hells are ‘gunnes’?”

“You know, ‘gunnes’? Like what I used to kill a White Wiener that one time? Remember? I killed one, and then everyone started calling me ‘Trickshot,’ and I had all those women throwing themselves at me but I couldn’t do anything about it because I couldn’t break my vows, and then they just kinda had sex with each other in front of me, and I tried to close my eyes but they held them open and made me watch? And then I held my breath so I’d pass out but every time I passed out they used smelling salts to get me to wake right back up and I had to watch them have sex? I told you it was the defining moment of my life and that I’d never be the same again? ‘Gunnes’?”

Jon didn’t remember the incident in question, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit this to his friend. Especially not with that boyish grin on his face. “Nope, don’t think that happened,” he said after finally building up the courage.

Ham took out a piece of paper and started scribbling on it. “A ‘gunne’ is a weapon designed by the Thirsty Men—it shoots little pieces of metal that can pierce the White Wieners’ icy hearts and destroy them.” Ham scribbled for a few more seconds and then showed the drawing to Jon:

“See? They look really cool. And they’re the only way we can hope to stand a chance against the White Wieners and their army.”

Jon was intrigued. He pinched his stream of shit and got up from the window ledge, then wiped himself and grabbed his clothes. “Ham, if what you say is true,” Jon held up a piece of paper, “then I shouldn’t have just wiped myself with this invitation from Dennys Grandslam to come to Drunknstoned.”

Ham had returned his full attention to nibbling on his turkeys. “Yes, yes. Sounds like a good idea.”

“I have to accept her invitation and investigate this cache of gunnes. It may very well be a trap—but it’s the only chance that my people have.”

“Very well, enjoy your trip.”

“No Ham—I have to do this alone.” Without another word, Jon burst into a lengthy musical number and strutted down to the harbor.

The spires of Drunknstoned rose up through the mist. “OH THANK THE GODS—LAND!” wheezed Jon. He stopped trying to drown himself and clutched tighter to the piece of driftwood he was floating on. He had refused the offers of the North’s best sailors to accompany him on his voyage, as he didn’t want to risk their lives if it turned out to be a suicide mission. Unable to steer, navigate, and operate the sails at the same time, he sank the North’s most expensive boat a few seconds into the trip.

Jon needed to make himself presentable for Dennys and her court. He tore off his scraggly beard in chunks and wiped down his raggedy clothing with the bones of the few seagulls he’d managed to eat by luring them in with his testicles. He relaxed his eyelids to a normal level, as they had been fully open and dried out for weeks. He then sat up, adjusted his hair for a while, and passed out. His dreams were of the North.

When Jon woke up, he was at the end of a long table, facing a beautiful woman with silver hair. “Ah, you’re finally awake,” said the woman. “I am Dennys Grandslam, Queen of the Sandals and the Thirsty Men, Rightful Heir to the Pointy Chair. And what is your name?”

“AAAHHHHHHHH WAAHAHWOHAHAH WHO?! WHOOOOOOOOOO?!” screamed Jon, his hair still impeccable.

Dennys’s interest was piqued by this stranger. “Well, if the stories are true, then there could only be one man in Westopolis with hair as nice as yours. You must be Jon Dough, bastard of Iron Neck Snark.”

Jon threw himself at the nearest chamber pot and ate its contents greedily. His mouth sufficiently moistened, he returned to his seat and said, “Indeed I am, Miss Grandslam, sir. The length of my hair is matched only by the length of my honor.” He’d read that in a book once. Unsure of what to do next, he ran to the other side of the table and kissed Dennys’s hand.

Dennys blushed, clumsily wiping off the excrement that Jon’s lips left on her hand. “Ooh, I see you’ve read Grandmaester Pigfucker too? A scholar and a guy with long hair?” For a moment they locked eyes, each one caught in the other’s gaze, the weight of their sexual tension matched only by the weight of their hands on their genitals as they were actively masturbating without blinking. Dennys suddenly remembered that she’d summoned Jon here for a reason other than pleasure. “Jon Dough, I invited you here today in order for you to swear fealty to me. As the last living Grandslam, I am the rightful heir to the throne, and—oggghhhhhhh”—Dennys took a second to orgasm as she hadn’t stopped masturbating—“and I cannot allow for you to rule the North as its own separate kingdom. Unless you want your people to face the fury of my dragons, I advise you to bend the knee.”

Jon didn’t know what to say. If his father were here, he’d probably do something cool with that iron neck of his, but Jon’s neck was nowhere near as uncuttable. The North is counting on me to lead them, he thought. There’s no way in the seven hells they would accept another leader, much less one as foreign and young and female as this one. Think, Jon, think… Jon looked around the room, unsure of what to do. He spotted a large bell hanging above Dennys’s head. Oh! That’s it! I’ll throw my dagger at the chain suspending that bell, and then it’ll fall on Dennys and trap her, and then I’ll bang on it a few times from the outside and shout something cheeky like “Really dinged ya on that one, huh, Dennys?” and then while she’s busy figuring out what in the seven hells that means and recovering from the bell falling on her head, I’ll run down to the caves beneath the castle, grab all the gunnes, and be on my way!

Jon grinned, pleased with his plan. He looked back at Dennys and saw that he was surrounded by several armed guards, while several more were detaching the bell from the ceiling and carefully lowering it. Drat. Looks like I was saying my thoughts out loud. Again.

“You just said that out loud as well, Jon,” pointed out Dennys.

Drat. Looks like I was saying my thoughts out loud. Again.

Dennys looked at Jon while he stood there silently. “Well, Jon, if you won’t pledge your fealty, then I will have to keep you here as a prisoner. But first—oghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”—Dennys orgasmed again, harder this time—“but first, what in the world are ‘gunnes’?”

Jon finished explaining gunnes, zombos, and White Wieners to Dennys. Even though Dennys didn’t fully understand or believe what Jon was saying, she had to admit that Jon looked really cool in the drawing that Ham made of him.

“So, you see, Dennys, it’s imperative that I get these gunnes back to the North if we are to defend the realm. If we don’t stop the White Wieners, I’m afraid all of Westopolis will be…” Jon forgot what word he was going to say, but Dennys knew it was a bad one and got spooked anyway. “There’s no point in you, me, or Cervix fighting each other right now. We’re just wasting resources on a war that’s small potatoes compared to Great Zomborian War I: The Reckoning.” Jon had come up with that term himself. “I have a plan to establish a temporary peace. I’m going to lead a team beyond the Trench so that we can capture a zombo and present it to Cervix. Once she sees that the undead threat is real, she’ll have to at least momentarily stop the foolish war over this continent—a continent that will soon be…” Damn, what was that word! “Anyway, that’s why I came here to Drunknstoned. Under this castle is a huge cache of gunnes that we need in order to fight the White Wieners.”

“Jon, I must admit that I think you made all of that up on the spot so that I wouldn’t imprison you. But if all it’s going to take for Cervix to make peace long enough for me to build up my army and invade her city is for you to take the gunnes from here, then go ahead. They’re taking up all the space for my man cave anyway.”

As Dennys was turning to lead Jon down to the caves, Yora Mormon burst into the chamber. “Queen Dennys, my sweet!” he yelled. “Take a look at this—I just got it done today!” Yora ripped open his shirt, causing his colostomy bag to explode all over the Queensguard. On his chest was an enormous tattoo of an ugly doglike creature with the word “dennis” scribbled above it. “It’s you! See? And look, I can make it talk!” Yora pushed together the fat on either side of his abdomen and made the dog contort in a weird way while he said, “Oh, hello, Yora, aren’t you a handsome young man, hmmmm?” in a raspy, high-pitched voice.

Dennys had an idea. “Yora! Your tattoo, it’s, uh, it’s uhhh—I hate dogs! I love it! Wow, it’s just great. Meet my friend Jon Dough—he’s here alllllll the way from the North, and now he’s gonna go back and bring back an undead soldier so that Cervix Bangsister will leave us alone for a while. How’d you like to go on a special mission for me and join Jon on his quest?”

Yora got so excited, his teeth went flying across the room. “Queen Dennyth, you can be thertain that I exitht to therve!” Yora popped his dentures back in and continued, “So, Jon Dough, you fancy yourself a young adventurer, eh? Well, I’m quite the strapping swordsman myself! Hyah!” Yora struggled for a few seconds to unsheathe his sword and then pulled it halfway out and sliced his catheter. While his fluids leaked on the floor, he produced a huge mug of beer and proclaimed, “Or perhaps you think you can outdrink me? Why, I put all the squires to shame down by the stables! They don’t call me ‘Yora the Underage Drinker’ just because of my nubile physique!” Yora put the mug to his lips, but his gout made his fingers scrunch up and spill the beer all over himself. He bent over to lap it off the floor and try to save face, but his back gave out on him with a loud crack, and as he collapsed he looked up to see that Dennys and Jon had already descended down into the caves.

Dennys led Jon by the hand down the stairs and through several small chambers. “I like to come down here when I’m drunk,” said Dennys. “I blow out my torch and pretend that I’m a drunk blind person.” Dennys took Jon deeper into the caves than she’d ever gone before; they found themselves in an enormous chamber. Before them was a tall pile of strange metallic objects. They shone brilliantly in the light of Dennys’s torch and made the firelight dance around the cave walls. Right next to these metal things was a huge pile of gunnes.

“Wow, just like how Ham drew them!” exclaimed Jon. He ran up to the pile and picked up several gunnes, striking the same pose from Ham’s drawing. As Jon posed, something on the cave wall caught his eye. He grabbed the torch from Dennys and held it up to the wall—revealing what seemed to be an old cave painting. It showed a man—the most ripped man Jon had ever seen—holding a bunch of gunnes in each hand and using them to shoot at a crowd of pale, humanoid figures. “This must have been drawn by the Thirsty Men,” said Jon, awed by the vasculature and sheer girth of the biceps on the man in the drawing. He turned to Dennys so they could share the moment, but she was busy taking whiskey shots and shuffling around with her eyes closed, waving a white cane.

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.