Christopher Moore - Fool

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Fool: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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"This is a bawdy tale. Herein you will find gratuitous shagging, murder, spanking, maiming, treason, and heretofore unexplored heights of vulgarity and profanity, as well as nontraditional grammar, split infinitives, and the odd wank… If that's the sort of thing you think you might enjoy, then you have happened upon the perfect story!"
Verily speaks Christopher Moore, much beloved scrivener and peerless literary jester, who hath writteneth much that is of grand wit and belly-busting mirth, including such laurelled bestsellers of the
as
, and
(no offense). Now he takes on no less than the legendary Bard himself (with the utmost humility and respect) in a twisted and insanely funny tale of a moronic monarch and his deceitful daughters — a rousing story of plots, subplots, counterplots, betrayals, war, revenge, bared bosoms, unbridled lust… and a ghost (there's always a bloody ghost), as seen through the eyes of a man wearing a codpiece and bells on his head.
Fool
A man of infinite jest, Pocket has been Lear's cherished fool for years, from the time the king's grown daughters — selfish, scheming Goneril, sadistic (but erotic-fantasy-grade-hot) Regan, and sweet, loyal Cordelia — were mere girls. So naturally Pocket is at his brainless, elderly liege's side when Lear — at the insidious urging of Edmund, the bastard (in every way imaginable) son of the Earl of Gloucester — demands that his kids swear their undying love and devotion before a collection of assembled guests. Of course Goneril and Regan are only too happy to brownnose Dad. But Cordelia believes that her father's request is kind of… well… stupid, and her blunt honesty ends up costing her her rightful share of the kingdom and earns her a banishment to boot.
Well, now the bangers and mash have really hit the fan. The whole damn country's about to go to hell in a handbasket because of a stubborn old fart's wounded pride. And the only person who can possibly make things right… is Pocket, a small and slight clown with a biting sense of humor. He's already managed to sidestep catastrophe (and the vengeful blades of many an offended nobleman) on numerous occasions, using his razor-sharp mind, rapier wit… and the equally well-honed daggers he keeps conveniently hidden behind his back. Now he's going to have to do some very fancy maneuvering — cast some spells, incite a few assassinations, start a war or two (the usual stuff) — to get Cordelia back into Daddy Lear's good graces, to derail the fiendish power plays of Cordelia's twisted sisters, to rescue his gigantic, gigantically dim, and always randy friend and apprentice fool, Drool, from repeated beatings… and to shag every lusciously shaggable wench who's amenable to shagging along the way.
Pocket may be a fool… but he's definitely not an idiot.

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“Mine!”

“Now and forever, milady.”

“You may kiss my hand, fool.”

The yeoman released me and I bent to take her hand. She pulled it away, and turned, her gown fanning out around her as she walked away. “Sorry, having you on.”

I smiled into the floor. “You bitch.”

“I’ll miss you, Pocket,” she said over her shoulder, and she hurried down the corridor.

“Take me with you. Take us both with you. France, you could use a brilliant fool and a great lumbering bag of flatulence like Drool, couldn’t you?”

The prince shook his head, entirely too much pity in his eyes for my tastes. “You are Lear’s fool, with Lear you shall stay.”

“That’s not what your wife just said.”

“She will learn,” said the prince. He turned on his heel and followed Cordelia down the corridor. I started after them but the captain yanked me back by the arm.

“Let her go, lad.”

Next out of the hall came the sisters and their husbands. Before I could say anything the captain had clamped his hand over my mouth and was lifting me off my feet as I kicked. Cornwall made as to draw his dagger, but Regan pulled him away. “You’ve just won a kingdom, my duke, killing vermin is a servant’s task. Leave the bitter fool stew in his own bile.”

She wanted me. It was clear.

Goneril would not look me in the eye, but hurried past, and her husband, Albany, just shook his head as he walked by. A hundred brilliant witticisms died suffocating on the captain’s heavy glove. Thus muted, I pumped my codpiece at the duke and tried to force a fart, but my bum trumpet could find no note.

As if the gods had sent down a dim and gaseous avatar to help me, Drool came next through the door, walking rather more straight than was his habit. Then I saw that someone had looped a rope around his neck, the noose fixed to a spear whose point was almost piercing Drool’s throat. Edmund stepped into the corridor holding the other end of the spear, two men at arms flanking him.

“The captain havin’ a laugh with you, then, Pocket?” said Drool, innocent of his peril.

The captain dropped me to my feet then, but held my shoulder to keep me from going at Edmund, whose father and brother passed behind him.

“You were right, Pocket,” said Edmund, poking Drool a bit with the spear for emphasis. “Killing you would be enough to cement my unfavorable position forever, but a hostage—there’s a mute I can use. I so enjoyed your performance in there that I prevailed upon the king to provide me with a fool of my own, and look at his gift. He’ll be coming to Gloucester with us to assure that you don’t forget your promise.”

“You don’t need the spear, bastard. He’ll go if I ask him.”

“Are we going on holiday, Pocket?” asked Drool, blood beginning to trickle down his neck then.

I approached the giant. “No, lad,” said I. “You’re going to go with the bastard here. Do as he says.” I turned to the captain. “Give me your knife.”

The captain eyed Edmund and the men at arms beside him, who had hands on hilts. “I don’t know, Pocket—”

“Give me your bloody knife!” I whirled, pulled the knife from the captain’s belt, and before the men at arms could draw I’d cut the rope around Drool’s neck and pushed Edmund’s spear aside.

“You don’t need the spear, bastard.” I handed the captain his knife and motioned for Drool to bend down so we were eye-to-eye. “I want you to go with Edmund and don’t give him any trouble, you understand?”

“Aye. You ain’t comin’?”

“I’ll be along, I’ll be along. I’ve business at the White Tower first.”

“Shagging to be done?” Drool nodded so enthusiastically you could nearly hear his tiny brain rattling around his gourd. “I’ll be helping, right?”

“No, lad, but you’ll have your own castle. You’ll be the proper fool, won’t you? There’ll be all kinds of hiding and listening, Drool, do you understand what I’m saying, lad?” I winked, hoping against hope that the git would get my meaning.

“Will there be heinous fuckery, Pocket?”

“Aye, I think you can count on it.”

“Smashing!” Drool clapped his hands and danced a little jig then, chanting, “Heinous fuckery most foul, heinous fuckery most foul—”

I looked to Edmund. “You’ve my word, bastard. But you’ve also my word that if any harm comes to the Natural, I’ll see to it that ghosts ride you into your grave.”

A flash of fear showed in Edmund’s eye then, but he fought it down and affected his usual swaggering smirk. “His life is on your word, little man.”

The bastard turned and strutted down the corridor. Drool looked back, a big tear welling in his eye as he realized what was happening. I waved him on.

“I’d have taken the other two if you’d dirked him,” said Curan. The other guard nodded in agreement. “Evil bastard was asking for it.”

“Well, now you fucking tell me,” said I.

Another guard hurried out of the hall then, and seeing it was only the fool with his captain, reported, “Captain, the king’s food taster. He’s dead, sir.”

Three friends had I.

SIX

FRIENDSHIP AND THE ODD BONK

Life is loneliness, broken only by the gods taunting us with friendship and the odd bonk. I admit it, I grieved. Perhaps I am a fool to have expected Cordelia to stay. (Well, yes, I am a fool—don’t be overly clever, eh? It’s annoying.) But for most of my manly years she had been the lash on my back, the bait to my loins, and the balm of my imagination—my torment, my tonic, my fever, my curse. I ache for her.

There is no comfort in the castle. Drool gone, Taster gone, Lear gone mad. At best, Drool was little more company than Jones, and decidedly less portable, but I worry for him, great child that he is, stumbling about in the circle of so many villains and so much sharp metal. I miss his gape-toothed smile, filled as it was with forgiveness, acceptance, and often, cheddar. And Taster, what did I know of him, really? Just a wan lad from Hog Nostril on Thames. Yet when I needed a sympathetic ear, he provided, even if he was oft distracted from my woes by his own selfish dietary concerns.

I lay on my bed in the portislodge staring out the cruciform arrow loops at the grey bones of London, stewing in my misery, yearning for my friends.

For my first friend.

For Thalia.

The anchoress.

On a chill autumn day at Dog Snogging, the third time I was allowed to bring food to the anchoress, we became fast friends. I was still in awe of her, and merely being in her presence made me feel base, unworthy, and profane, but in a good way. I passed the plate of rough brown bread and cheese through the cross in the wall with prayers and a plea for her forgiveness.

“This fare will do, Pocket. It will do. I’ll forgive you for a song.”

“You must be a most pious lady and have great love for the Lord.”

“The Lord is a tosser.”

“I thought the Lord was a shepherd?”

“Well, that, too. But a bloke needs hobbies. Do you know ‘Greensleeves’?”

“I know ‘Dona Nobis Pacem.’”

“Do you know any pirate songs?”

“I could sing ‘Dona Nobis Pacem’ like a pirate.”

“It means give us peace, in Latin, doesn’t it?”

“Aye, mistress.”

“Bit of a stretch then, innit, a pirate singing give us bloody peace?”

“I suppose. I could sing you a psalm, then, mistress.”

“All right, then, Pocket, a psalm it is—one with pirates and loads of bloodshed, if you have it.”

I was nervous, desperate for approval from the anchoress, and afraid that if I displeased her I might be struck down by an avenging angel, as seemed to happen often in scripture. Try as I might, I could not recall any piraty psalms. I cleared my throat and sang the only psalm I knew in English:

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