The Chronicles of Theon Pastajoy: The Ballad of the Ultimate Cringe

Theon Pastajoy’s life in Dreadfort had turned into an endless cycle of pain and the anticipation of a new serving of shame. After he paraded through the courtyard in pink lace and a turban with a stuffed bird, it seemed there was no lower to fall. But Ramsay Bolton always knew how to find a new bottom where others saw only solid ground. Theon’s problem wasn’t just his broken psyche, but his physiology. The diet of dry, uncooked pasta he was forced to eat from a dog bowl was beginning to bear fruit. Theon’s stomach had become a battlefield. The dry dough absorbed every drop of moisture in his body, turning inside him into something resembling cement. He felt as if he had swallowed a bag of gravel. His belly was bloated, hard as a drum, and every movement echoed with a dull, bursting pain. Ramsay, who watched his «pet» with scientific interest, noticed these changes. — You look paler than usual, Pastajoy — He remarked one morning, lazily picking his teeth after breakfast. — And your belly… Did you get pregnant from that pink dress? Or has the white horseflesh finally decided to take root in you? — Theon only gave a pitiful whimper, clutching himself. His insides were churning as if a pack of rabid rats had been locked in there. — I see you’re struggling — Ramsay said sympathetically (which was the scariest part). — You need… a flush. In the North, we have an old remedy for those who are «clogged.» We call it the «Dreadfort Cocktail» — Ramsay gestured to a servant, who brought a heavy pitcher. A sharp, sour smell emanated from it, making eyes water. It was a mixture of rancid ale, castor oil, wild beet juice, and some tinctures the maester kept for particularly stubborn cases of horse constipation. — Drink — Ramsay commanded. — The whole pitcher. If you don’t drink it to the bottom, I’ll order your mouth sewn shut, and then that pasta stays in you forever — Theon, shaking with terror, began to drink. The liquid was slimy, bitter, and caused instant spasms. He swallowed, choking and crying, until the bottom of the pitcher came into view. — Excellent — Ramsay smiled. — Now, for the medicine to work, we need physical exercise. Go to the Great Hall. My father is receiving several bannermen today, and I want you to stand in the guard of honor… right behind my chair — The Great Hall of Dreadfort was full of grim men in furs. Roose Bolton sat at the head of the table, discussing maps and grain supplies. Ramsay settled at his right hand. And behind Ramsay’s back, pale as a ghost and still as a statue, stood Theon. About an hour passed. Ramsay’s «cocktail» entered into a chemical reaction with the kilograms of dry pasta inside Theon. Processes began in his gut that would have interested the alchemists of King’s Landing. Gases expanded with monstrous force, seeking an exit. Theon clenched his jaws so hard his teeth felt like they were crumbling, and his intestines worked at the limit of human capability, holding back a pressure comparable to water in a dam. Ramsay, feeling Theon’s tremors against the back of his chair, could barely suppress a smirk. He knew the finale was near. — Pastajoy — Ramsay suddenly said loudly, interrupting his father’s speech. — You’ve gone quiet. Come here, show our guests how devotedly you serve. Bend down and fix my boot. The very one you rubbed with roses yesterday — Theon looked at Ramsay with eyes full of mortal agony. To bend down? To bend down now meant breaking the airtight seal of the entire system. — I… master… — He croaked. — Bend down! — Ramsay barked, and his voice hit Theon’s nerves like a whip. Theon began to slowly lower himself. Every shift in his center of gravity caused seismic tremors inside him. When his back bent at a forty-five-degree angle, something inside him snapped with a deafening crunch. The tectonic plates of the pasta-cement shifted. And then, the dam burst. It wasn’t just a sound. It was an acoustic shockwave that made the candle flames on the table flicker. A stream of such force and volume erupted from Theon that it seemed the laws of physics had ceased to exist. A liquid, churning mass, driven by the jet force of accumulated gases, tore its way out, overcoming the resistance of his clothes. Unfortunately for everyone present, an ancient Bolton house tapestry with the image of the Flayed Man hung right behind Theon. The brown jet that erupted from «Pastajoy» hit exactly in the center of the tapestry, instantly repainting it in new colors not provided for by heraldry. But the process didn’t stop there. This wasn’t a one-time pop; it was a continuous eruption. The recoil threw Theon forward, and he, unable to stop, began to spin in place, trying to grab onto something. — Gods! — One of the lords shouted, jumping from his seat as splashes reached his wine goblet. It was like a geyser. A dirty, foul-smelling geyser hitting with impossible pressure. The stream ricocheted off the stone floor, showered the heavy oak tables, and the lords’ boots. Theon, making sounds somewhere between sobs and the wails of a wounded beast, rotated like a broken garden sprinkler in hell. Roose Bolton, a man who had seen thousands of deaths and tortures, slowly set down his knife, his face frozen in an expression of deepest disgust. But Ramsay… Ramsay was delighted. He jumped to his feet, pointing a finger at the writhing, erupting Theon. — Look! — Ramsay screamed, dissolving into hysterical laughter. — Look at him! It’s a miracle of nature! It’s the Fountain of Dreadfort! LMAO! — Theon finally exhausted his «ammo» and collapsed face-down in the puddle of his own shame. The hall plunged into silence, broken only by Theon’s heavy breathing and the dripping from the tapestry. The smell was so powerful that one of the young squires by the exit fainted. Ramsay wiped away tears of laughter that rolled in heaps down his cheeks. He walked over to the lying Theon, careful not to step into the blast zone. — Pastajoy, that was almost too elegant for you — Ramsay said, gasping with mirth. — You aren’t a man. You aren’t even Reek. You are a natural disaster. You are the Diarrhea Geyser! ROFL! — The lords at the table, seeing Ramsay laughing, began to awkwardly snicker, though many wanted to just burn their clothes and leave for another castle. — Listen, everyone! — Ramsay shouted across the hall. — From now on, if anyone calls him Theon or Reek, they deal with me. His name is The Diarrhea Geyser! And he will walk around the castle with a bell, so people know: THE GEYSER IS COMING, and they need to hide their food and clean cloaks! LMAO! — Roose Bolton stood up without a word. He cast a look at his son that read «you’re a sick puppy» and walked out of the hall. But Ramsay didn’t care. He walked over to Theon and gave him a light kick in the side. — Get up, Geyser. Go to the stable. There’s a manure pit you’ll be sleeping in tonight. And don’t forget: tomorrow morning, it’s pasta again. We need to recharge your pressure for the next delegation’s arrival. Theon, now having finally lost the remnants of human dignity, crawled toward the exit. A wide, dirty trail followed him across the clean stone floor. The bell, which Ramsay had ripped off someone’s jester cap and tossed to him, was clenched in his fist. From that day on, a new legend appeared in Dreadfort. Mothers frightened their children: «If you behave badly, the Diarrhea Geyser will come and flood your cradle.» Theon, whenever his stomach began to growl again from the dry pasta, flinched with his whole body. He knew Ramsay Bolton would never forget this show, and that the title «Diarrhea Geyser» was a brand that smelled worse than any death. He was Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands. But now he was just the Geyser, a man whose only achievement was that he managed to ruin a tapestry at the cost of his own intestines while his tormentor LMAO-ed