Lame of Thrones — Preview
The following excerpt is a preview of The Harvard Lampoon’s Lame of Thrones: The Final Book in a Song of Hot and Cold. You can find the entire parody online at Amazon and wherever you buy your books.
The next morning, Jon and Handsy waited for each other to make the first move for what felt like two hours but was actually two hours and ten minutes.
“So do I just . . . tell everyone to charge or something?” Jon asked.
“I think so?” responded Ser Boats. “I’ve never really done this before.”
But before Jon could decide what to do, Handsy, from the other side of the field, released Rickety Snark, who ran across the field toward Jon’s men.
“This is too easy,” said Jon happily. “They’re just gonna let me kill this little kid.”
“No, Jon, that’s your brother Richard—” cried a Snark soldier.
“AHHHH!” Jon bellowed and charged toward the boy on horseback.
Handsy, meanwhile, aimed his bow and arrow at the young child. The first arrow missed him by two feet, and the second missed by just six inches. But then Boytoy shot his third and last arrow, which whizzed high up in the air and then arced and fell, landing directly in a patch of grass sixty yards to the left of Rickety. Jon arrived moments later, followed by his men, and slashed Rickety with his sword.
“Jon, it’s me, Ricket—” Slash.
“Jon, I’m your broth—” Slash.
“Jon, please stop—” Woosh. Jon missed.
“That’s your brother Ronald!” came a voice from one
of his men.
“Wait, what?” Jon asked.
“It’s me, your brother! Rickety!”
“Ah shoot, wait, give me a minute.” Jon stood with his
forehead in his palm. “I’m sorry, I just can’t think of a Rickety. Unless? Wait? Do I have a brother named Rickerd? Maybe? Rickerd?”
“Yes, sure, fine, that’s me!” Rickety gave up. “And I’m desperately injured!”
“Oh brother, I am so sorry,” he said to Rickety.
“It’s okay, Jon. I won’t die if I receive proper medical attention.”
“My goodness, I will miss the boy so much when he is dead,” Jon lamented to the tears of those surrounding him.
“He was a good soul. He will indeed be so dearly missed,” Ser Boats whimpered.
“Everyone, I’ll be okay. I’m losing some blood, but if I receive medical attention soon, I’ll be okay! Or actually, Smellisandre, can’t you use the Fire Man’s help to revive people?” Rickety pleaded.
“Oh, um, sometimes. But I don’t know if I really want to bother Him with another favor, you know?” Smellisandre said, looking at her nails.
“You know what? I think I’ll actually be okay,” Rickety said, starting to stand up. “These wounds are mostly superficial—”
“I have to put the poor boy out of his misery,” Jon said with tears in his eyes.
“Wait, no, no, no—” Slash. Jon slit Rickety’s throat, as his men nodded in solemn approval. “Now let’s win this battle—for my late brother, Reuben! He was as good a man as any. CHARGE!”
Jon and his men charged toward Handsy’s cavalry. Oh, whoa, thought Jon. I guess shouting “charge” really works. Ser Boats led a flank that held back, because they hadn’t all tied their shoes yet. Handsy remained on his side of the battlefield with his archers, commanding them to shoot whenever he got bored or aroused.
Whoremund found Handsy’s second in command, Smalljon Bumbler, and each performed the standard pre-one-on-one battle routine of asking how each other’s family was doing. Then, after requesting that the other send his mother his best, they began the rough stuff, insulting each other’s mothers with the vilest jokes possible. Once they were both sufficiently offended, it was fighting time. Whoremund bit Bumbler’s ear.
“Oh, sorry, I meant to bite your neck,” Whoremund said.
“Oh no, don’t worry. You can try again,” Bumbler said and waited patiently, while Whoremund cocked his head backward and lunged for his neck.
“AHHHH!” Bumbler writhed in pain. “You piece of shit! That’s my other ear!”
Meanwhile, other Snark soldiers weren’t faring so well. Half of Jon’s soldiers had already been shot by arrows, and the other half had accidentally shot way too many of those arrows at their own men.
There was a mountain of dead soldiers piling up in the northeast corner of the battlefield. It looked sort of like an inactive volcano, if an inactive volcano had a mountain of dead men on it. At the foot of the mountain, dozens of Snark men were badly injured and on the brink of death, when all of a sudden, almost as if by a literary device known as deus ex machina, a group of horses stampeded over them, killing most.
Finally, the men in Ser Boats’s flank had tied their shoes, and they moved into the center of the battlefield, except for a handful who tripped over their shoddily tied laces.
Then, the rest of Handsy’s foot soldiers arrived, surrounding the Snark men in a circle and pointing spears toward the center.
“What a phenomenal strategic move,” Jon remarked. “I think what we’re going to do is try to break the line at this choke point and then attack horizontally from there.”
“Um, okay. I don’t know why you’re telling me this, but thank you,” one of Handsy’s commanders said. Jon tried to break the line at a specific choke point and attack horizontally from there, but it didn’t work.
The Boytoys moved in further, forcing the Snarks to make a human pyramid to avoid the spears. As the circle began closing in, Jon’s men stacked themselves five men high, then ten men high, then twenty, cheering and shaking their battle pom-poms the whole time. Finally, there was only room for one man to stand in the middle, which meant the pyramid could go on no longer, and the inevitable had come. Someone would have to stand in the middle, carrying all four hundred remaining soldiers on his shoulders in what was no longer a human pyramid but actually more of a human ladder.
As Jon climbed to the top of the four-hundred-person human ladder, panic set in. He knew his men could only balance like this for so long before the Boytoys formed their own human ladder that was even taller. Defeat was imminent. But then, from his position atop the human ladder, about twenty-five hundred feet in the air, Jon saw something over the horizon: an army of men marching toward them wearing backward helmets and retro throw- back armor, chugging ale, banging drums, and chanting, “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s goooooooo!” The Brodies of House Theta, a raucous group of young men led by the mischievous Littledingle, had come to Jon’s rescue. It was the most beautiful thing Jon had ever seen.
“We’re saved,” he said, shedding a tear.
“Scatter!” shouted the Boytoy commanders as soon as they saw the Brodie army. The Boytoys began to desert the field, fleeing in all directions, terrified for their lives.
The men from Theta House rode onto the battlefield howling their house words, “Don’t Be a Bitch,” and knocked Handsy’s army off their horses while also drunkenly falling off their own horses. They pelted glasses full of ale at the Boytoy men’s heads with perfect accuracy. They shoved hot sauce down their throats until they barfed. They duct-taped them to the bottom of their own horses naked. Within minutes, Handsy’s army was decimated.
“Thank goodness, we’ll all be okay,” a man now pretending to be on the Snark side said.
“Where are we blowing up tonight, lads?” the Theta House pledge master shouted.
“Where are we blowing up tonight, lads?” the Snark explosions expert said.
“…” a man whose vocal chords had been ripped out said excitedly.
With the help of Theta House, the battle was won, and Wintersmells would forevermore be both under the Snarks’ control and, like, super chill too. Jon chased Handsy to the castle of Wintersmells, but Handsy closed the castle gate just as Jon arrived. The door was far too heavy for Jon to open by himself. But then he remembered he had Wub Wub, a burly giant with door-breaking strength, who was an expert lock picker.
Wub Wub got the door open in thirty seconds flat. Jon’s men piled in, and Jon found Handsy in the corner inside the castle walls.
“I’ve reconsidered, Jon. I think a fish-cutting contest for control of Wintersmells sounds like a great idea,” Handsy said. “You know, that might not be fair actually, since you did just win this battle honorably and fairly—”
Smack. Jon struck Handsy.
“Enough of the games, Handsy! This one’s for Rickety!” Smack.
“And this one’s for my brother who just died, Reginald!” Smack.
“And this one’s ’cause I like punching!” Smack.
“And this one’s for my friend Ser Jacob, who also really likes punching!” Smack.
Handsy lay on the ground, bloody, bruised, and beaten. A couple of Jon’s footmen discarded the Boytoy House banner and hung up the Snark banner, while the Knights of Theta House hung up a banner with a picture of a smoking-hot naked lady on it. All was well in Wintersmells, except for the mountain of dead bodies outside. That took a pretty massive cleanup effort.
“Hello?” a weak voice could be heard coming from one of the many piles of dead bodies. “It’s me, Rickety Snark! I’m still alive!” whispered Rickety Snark, who had miraculously survived.
“Check it out!” said one of the footmen. “This dead body is pretending to be a fake Snark.”
“Eh? Throw it with the rest of them.” And so Rickety got tossed in a pile of corpses, still alive as ever.
Find out what happens next in Lame of Thrones, available for pre-order now.
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