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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“Not that kind of funny, Pocket. Funny like when you taught me about the little man in the boat.”

It had been a verbal lesson only, shortly after she’d insisted I teach her about manly bits. But it had kept her amused, on and off, for a fortnight. “Oh, of course,” said I. “Funny.”

“I need to be spanked,” said Goneril.

“A constant, I’d agree, lady, but again we’re declaring the sky blue, aren’t we?”

“I want to be spanked.”

“Oh,” said I, eloquent and quick-witted rascal that I am. “That’s different.”

“By you,” said the Princess.

“Fuckstockings,” I thus declared my doom.

Well, by the time Oswald came into the room that first time, both the princess and I were as red-bottomed as Barbary monkeys, quite naked (except for my hat, which Goneril had donned) and administering rhythmically to each other’s front sides. Oswald was somewhat less than discreet about it all.

“Alarm! Alarm! My lady is ravaged by a fool! Alarm!” said Oswald, fleeing from the room, to raise the alarm through the castle.

I caught up to Oswald as he entered the great hall, where Lear was sitting on his throne, Regan sitting at his feet to one side, doing needlepoint, Cordelia at the other, playing with a doll.

“The fool has violated the princess!” Oswald announced.

“Pocket!” said Cordelia, dropping her doll and running to my side, sporting a great, goofy grin. She was perhaps eight then.

Oswald stepped in front of me. “I found the fool rutting the princess Goneril like a rapacious goat, sire.”

“’Tis not true, nuncle,” said I. “I was called to the lady’s solar this morning only to jest her out of a morning funk, which can be smelt upon her breath if you have doubts.”

At that point Goneril came running into the room, trying to arrange her skirts as she moved. She stopped beside me and curtsied before her father. She was breathless, barefoot, and one breast peeked Cyclopean out the bodice of her gown. I snatched my coxcomb off her head with a jingle and concealed it behind my back.

“There, fresh as a flower,” said I.

“Hello, sister,” said Cordelia.

“Morning, lamb,” said Goneril, blindfolding the pink-eyed Cyclops with a quick tuck.

Lear scratched his beard and glared at his eldest daughter.

“What ho, daughter,” said he. “Hast thou shagged a fool?”

“Methinks any wench who shags a man hath shagged a fool, Father.”

“That was a distinct no,” said I.

“What is shagged?” asked Cordelia.

“I saw it,” said Oswald.

“Shag a man and shag a fool, one is the same as another,” said Goneril. “But this morning I have your Fool shagged, righteous and rowdy. I bonked him until he cried out for gods and horses to pull me off.”

What was this? Was she hoping for more punishment?

“That is so,” said Oswald. “I heard the call.”

“Shagged, shagged, shagged!” said Goneril. “Oh, what is this I feel? Tiny bastard fools stirring in my womb. I can hear their tiny bells.”

“You lying tart,” said I. “A fool is no more born with bells than a princess with fangs, both must be earned.”

Lear said, “If that were true, Pocket, I’d have a halberd run up your bum.”

“You can’t kill Pocket,” said Cordelia. “I’ll need him to cheer me when I’m visited by the red curse, and a horrible melancholy comes over me,” said Cordelia.

“What are you on about, child?” said I.

“All women get it,” said Cordelia. “They must be punished for Eve’s treachery in the garden of evil. Nurse says it makes you ever so miserable.”

I patted the child’s head. “For fuck’s sake, sire, you’ve got to get the girls some teachers who aren’t nuns.”

“I should be punished!” said Goneril.

“I’ve had my curse for simply months,” said Regan, not even bothering to look up from her needlepoint. “I find that if I go to the dungeon and have some prisoners tortured I feel better.”

“No, I want my Pocket,” said Cordelia, starting to whine now.

“You can’t have him,” said Goneril. “He’s to be punished, too. After what he’s done.”

Oswald bowed for no particular reason. “May I suggest his head on a pike on the London Bridge, sire, to discourage any more debauchery?”

“Silence!” said Lear, standing. He came down the steps, walked past Oswald, who fell to his knees, and stood before me. He put his hand on Cordelia’s head.

The old king locked his hawk’s gaze upon me. “She didn’t speak for three years before you came,” he said.

“Aye, sire,” said I, looking down.

He turned to Goneril. “Go to your quarters. Have your nurse tend to your illusions. She will see that there is no issue from it.”

“But, Father, the fool and I—”

“Nonsense, you’re a maid,” said Lear. “We have agreed to deliver you thus to the Duke of Albany and so it is true.”

“Sire, the lady has been violated,” said Oswald, desperate now.

“Guards! Take Oswald to the bailey and flog him twenty lashes for lying.”

“But, sire!” Oswald squirmed as two guards seized his arms.

“Twenty lashes to show my mercy! Another word of this, ever, and your head will decorate London Bridge.”

We watched, stunned, as the guards dragged Oswald away, the unctuous footman weeping and red-faced from trying to hold his tongue.

“May I go watch?” Goneril asked.

“Go,” Lear said. “Then to your nurse.”

Regan was on her feet now and had skipped to her father’s side. She looked at him hopefully, up on her toes, clapping her hands lightly in anticipation.

“Yes, go,” said the king. “But you may only watch.”

Regan streamed out of the hall after her older sister, her raven hair flying behind her like a dark comet.

“You’re my fool, Pocket,” said Cordelia, taking my hand. “Come, help me. I’m teaching Dolly to speak French.” The little princess led me away. The old king watched us go without another word, one white eyebrow raised and his hawk eye burning under it like a distant frozen star.

ELEVEN

A SWEET AND BITTER FOOL

Goneril dumped me on the floor as if she’d suddenly found a bag of drowned kittens in her lap. She snapped open the letter and began reading without even bothering to tuck her bosoms back into her gown.

“Milady,” said Oswald again. He’d learned from that first whipping. He acted as if he didn’t even see me. “Your father is in the great hall, asking after his fool.”

Goneril looked up, irritated. “Well, then, take him. Take him, take him, take him.” She waved us away like flies.

“Very well, milady.” Oswald turned on his heel and marched away. “Come, fool.”

I stood and rubbed my bum as I followed Oswald out of the solar. Yes, my backside was bruised, but there was pain in my heart as well. What a bitter bitch to cast me out while my bum still burned with the blows of her passion. The bells on my coxcomb drooped in despair.

Kent fell in beside me in the hall. “So, is she smitten with you?”

“With Edmund of Gloucester,” said I.

“Edmund? She’s smitten with the bastard?”

“Aye, the fickle whore,” said I.

Kent looked startled and folded back the brim of his hat to better see me. “But you bewitched her to do so, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose I did,” said I. So, she was only immune to my charms by means of dark and powerful magic. Ha! I felt better. “She reads the letter I forged in his hand even now.”

“Your fool,” Oswald announced as we entered the hall.

The old king was there, with Captain Curan and a dozen other knights who looked like they’d just returned from the hunt—for me, no doubt.

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