SG: Sporkman #9 - A New Disaster

[Greg Fishbone]

     Rudy Giuliani gripped the podium at the SNUCCI Republican Debate.
It was hard to keep track of every debate in the presidential
campaign, but Rudy was pretty sure he would have opted out of this one
if his handlers had told him that SNUCCI didn't actually stand for
Supreme National University of Christopher Columbus Impersonators. Or
Sarcastic Nuns United to Crush Chinese Imperialism. Or even the
Society of Neighborly Unicorns Crazy about Chocolate Ice-cream.

     Instead, the banner above his head read,  "Today's debate
sponsored by the Seriously Nasty Undead Cthuloid Cultists,
Incorporated." The live audience consisted of blasphemous, gibbering
acolytes of the Cthulu cult, and the debate was moderated by the
re-animated corpse of talk show host Bill O'Reilly.

     "Senator McCain," said the undead shambling corpse. "What is your
position on bringing Cthulu back into our altiverse to destroy the
unbelievers and rule over an eternal wasteland of undead horrors?"

     Rudy watched rival ponder the question. "Hmm. I think I'd be against that."

     "Would you? Are you sure?"

     "Pretty sure, Bill. Altiversal destruction is antithetical to
everything I stand for."

     "Wrong answer, Mr. McCain!" At O'Reilly's signal, a horde of
zombies rushed the stage to tear the screaming senator apart.

     Rudy had mixed feelings as he watched his fellow candidate's
demise. On the one hand it would create a fresh pool of undecided
voters. But on the other hand the splatter was getting blood and brain
bits all over his suit jacket, which could make for an embarrassing
series of photos on the web.

     "Governor Spoonman," said O'Reilly, indicating the candidate on
Rudy's other side.

     The Great and Mighty Spoonman, dressed in a plaid suit and white
domino mask, swallowed hard. "Yes?"

     "As a superhero turned business mogul turned politician, what
unique attributes do you possess that you feel might make you a more
appetizing morsel for Mighty Cthulu?"

     Spoonman patted his flabby midsection. "I come pre-tenderized."

     "Good answer, Governor. And now it's time for us to enter the No
Skin Zone!" O'Reilly took out a large carving knife and proceeded to
cut and flay his own mottled skin away from the rotting muscle
underneath. His zomboid followers quickly did the same. "Are you
ready, Mr. Giuliani?"

     Rudy tried hard not to vomit at the sight of so many human-shaped
animated meat-puppets dripping putrid bits of flesh onto the stage.
"Ready...."

     Skinless Bill O'Reilly may have smirked back at him, but it was
hard to tell with the talk icon's cheeks torn away to reveal his
entire jaw of rotten teeth. "Mr. Giuliani, how would your national
security policy protect Cthulu from terrorists?"

     "Ah, well, in the wake of Nine-Eleven--"

     The acolytes and cultists sat forward, suddenly riveted and at attention.

     "--naturally we can't allow the terrorists to dictate what we do,
or even what Cthulu does..."

     The acolytes and cultists started to grow restless again, gibbering softly.

     "...because things are different in a post-Nine-Eleven world." As
if responding to a magic spell, the audience again snapped to
attention and murmured appreciatively.

     "Good answer." Skinless Bill nodded. "And what's your view on
universal healthcare for Cthulu?"

     "Um... Nine-Eleven?" said Rudy, tentatively.

     The crowd cheered, "Woo! Woo! Woo!"

     "And tax cuts for Cthulu?"

     "Nine-Eleven," said Rudy, with growing confidence.

     "Woo-woo! Woo-woo-woo!" The audience did the wave.

     "And finally, the war in Iraq," said Skinless Bill. "Would you
prefer to have our soldiers brought home so that Cthulu could devour
them here, or have Cthulu travel to the Middle East and devour them
there?"

     "Nine-Eleven," Rudy answered, without hesitation.

     The crowd surged forward onto the stage. Their features melted
and changed as they advanced. Their eyes bulged, large and yellow,
while the rest of their bodies became smaller, furrier, and more
ring-tailed. "Woo-woo! Woo-woo! Frink! Frink! Frink! P'tang!"

     Rudy startled himself awake. Thankfully, the debate had only been
a dream! His fellow Republican presidential candidates were gone,
Skinless Bill O'Reilly was gone, and all he had to worry about was
being trapped in an airship ventilation shaft. And having his arms
tied behind his back. And also wondering why his lips tasted vaguely
of chloroform.

     The sound of approaching footsteps startled Rudy. He struggled in
his bonds to turn his head. The sight of a familiar figure horrified
him. "Good afternoon, Mr. Mayor," said the undead zombie version of
Bill O'Reilly. "I hope you've had a pleasant nap." A pack of rabid
lemurs scampered all around the zombie's heels.


*****************************************
**  The Sporkarific Sporkman
**  Episode #9: A New Disaster
**  By Greg R. Fishbone
**
** Lemurs on a Dirigible #4 of 6
*****************************************


     "So it wasn't all a dream!" Rudy exclaimed. "You really are a
member of SNUCCI!"

     O'Reilly laughed. "We're not the same SNUCCI you remember from so
many years ago. We're a kinder, gentler offshoot: UNCLE, the Undead
Not-So-Bad Cultists Limited Enterprise. We're working to make a nicer,
more peaceful, tastier world for the Great Devourer's imminent
return."

     "You'll never get away with this!" Rudy vowed.

     "Famous last words," O'Reilly noted, raising an impressed zomboid
eyebrow. "And I should know because they're listed in my new book,
'Famous Last Words' by Bill O'Reilly, on Page 81 in the chapter on
last word cliches."

     O'Reilly snapped his fingers and the lemurs advanced on Rudy from
all sides. "Nine-Eleven!" Rudy shouted, but this time his words had no
effect. The lemurs gnawed his legs and tore the flesh from his arms,
and all he could do was shout louder and more urgently: "Nine-Eleven!
Nine-Eleven! Nine-Eleveeeeeeenaaaugh!!!"

* * *

     "Did anyone else hear that scream?" asked Ryan Seacrest, as the
VIP passengers gathered around the ventilation shaft where Rudy
Giuliani's trail ended.

     "I did," volunteered Lindsay Lohan. "It was all like,
'Twelve-Thirteeeeeeeeenaugh!!!'"

     "No," said Dick Cheney, "it was more like, 'Eight
Twenty-Seveeeeeeenagh!!!'"

     "I'm not saying I heard a scream," said O. J. Simpson, "but if I
did hear it, it would have sounded like, 'No, O. J., please! Don't
escalate your spousal abuse into homicide! Don't kill me and that
waiter from the restaurant who came by to return the glasses I lost!
And whatever you do, don't use that big hunting knife while wearing
gloves that don't quite fit your hands! Aieeeeee!!!' If I heard it,
that is. Hypothetically."

     An uncomfortable silence followed, except for something that
sounded like sloppy chewing from the ventilation shaft. Samuel L.
Jackson piped up, "That motherfarker better not have snuck away for a
snack. Nobody walks out on one of my live performances!"

     "Why are you changing into Jedi robes?" asked Jeanette.

     Samuel paused with one arm poking into a set of brown hooded
robes he'd pulled out of his travel case. " Jedi robes? Just who do
you think I am, motherfarkin' Mace Windu? These are just ordinary
ventilation shaft climbing robes, like anyone can get at motherfarkin'
Brookstone's."

     "And the lightsaber?" asked Mickey.

     "What, this?" Samuel removed the item from the belt of his robe
and pressed a button on its hilt. A four foot blade of purple light
emerged from one end with an electronic wooshing sound. It roared
softly and cast a purple glow as he waved it around. "Just an ordinary
motherfarkin' flashlight."

     "But...no," said Hilary Clinton. "It looks just like the lightsaber from--"

     "It's just a motherfarkin' flashlight," Samuel stated in a level voice.

     "It's just a motherfarkin' flashlight," Hilary agreed in a dull monotone.

     "There's nothing to see here," said Samuel.

     "There's nothing to see here," everyone mumbled in unison.

     "Y'all should return to your motherfarkin' seats."

     "We should return to our motherfarkin' seats," the VIP passengers
agreed, and soon only Mickey and Jeanette remained.

     "Actors' mind trick," Samuel explained. "It only works on people
with teeny-tiny brains, but luckily that covers most politicians and
everybody in the entertainment industry. "

     "Are you really going down there?" Mickey nodded toward the
ventilation shaft.

     "I have to," the actor stated.

     "Because it ees zee heroic thing to do?" asked Jeanette.

     "No, because it's in my motherfarkin' contract. I'm responsible
for keeping those motherfarkin' sheep together for the duration of my
show. That's what I get for modifying a Standard Birthday Party
Magician contract instead of getting a lawyer to draft one from
scratch."

     "And you must go with him," said Jeanette, giving Mickey a nudge.

     "Why?" asked Mickey.

     "Just a hunch."

     "I'm getting tired of your hunches, Jeanette. I'm not here to
save anyone's life. On this flight, I'm just an ordinary passenger."

     "Whatever you are, Mickey Dunne, ordinary ees not it."

     Mickey sighed and looked toward the ventilation shaft. "Okay, one
trip down the ventilation shaft and back. But if I do end up saving
this guy's life, I'm not accepting any blame if he goes and gets
himself elected president."

* * *

Meanwhile on the Coach Class Level...

     Number Thirteen jostled with other passengers at the only
lavatory serving the entire deck. He waved his driver's license and
passport in a fruitless attempt to move ahead in line. "I've been
Number Thirteen since I was created, see? You've only had that slip of
paper for, what, thirty minutes at most?"

     The woman with the slip of paper glared at him. "When the sign
says, 'Now Serving Number 013,' it won't be referring to you, no
matter how uncreative your parents were in the naming department.
You've got to take a number and wait along with the rest of us."

     The door folded open and the Queen of England squeezed out,
causing the digital sign to increment from "Now Serving Number 003" to
"Now Serving Number 004."

     The Queen waved her white-gloved hand daintily in front of her
face. "Wheeeee-ooooo! We would not go in there right now if we were
you!"


WILL THE LAVATORY COOL OFF BEFORE NUMBER THIRTEEN'S NUMBER IS CALLED?

WILL THE AUTHOR STOP MAKING FUN OF THE QUEEN FOR LONG ENOUGH TO WRAP
UP THIS STORYLINE?

AND WHERE DID SAMUEL L. JACKSON GET THAT COOL MOTHERFARKIN' FLASHLIGHT?

All will be revealed on the next episode of The Sporkarific Sporkman,
only on SUPERGUY!

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

[1] I was stumped about what organization should be hosting the dream
sequence debate so I put a call out for suggestions. David Menendez
suggested SNUCCI which was brilliant because: a) a cult of undead
worshipers is just what this story needed; and b) it gave me an excuse
to fit Bill O'Reilly into the plot.

[2] It's going to be an interesting election now that Rudy's dead and
Spoonman is running as a Republican.

-- 
Greg R. Fishbone - http://gfishbone.com
* Author: THE PENGUINS OF DOOM - http://septinanash.com
* President: Class of 2k7 - http://classof2k7.com
* ARA: New England SCBWI - http://nescbwi.org