SG: Sporkman #1

[Greg Fishbone]

Sporkman #1: A New Beginning
By Greg R. Fishbone


     The young man's dreams were troubled, and his muscle spasms sent
the warm body next to him rolling to the far side of the bed. She
opened her eyes, groggy and confused, in time to hear her sleeping
companion mutter something like a muffled command into his pillow.
     There would be no getting back to sleep now, Jeanette LeBlanc
decided. Not while the pale light from pre-dawn was already bringing
out the wisteria on her bedchamber's wallpaper and lighting up the
drapes like a pair of dancing ghosts.  She might have opened the
window to air out the room or to show her visitor a view of the Eiffel
Tower by night, but it was so hard for her addled brain to remember.
Too many drinks, she told herself.  Too many birthday drinks, she
clarified, but it was hard to remember exactly whose birthday it had
been.
     "No, Teeny, put the ice cream truck down," muttered the young man
in his sleep, and details from the night before filtered back into
Jeanette's throbbing head.  After her late shift, a hunch-feeling had
led her to a dive bar where she'd found the American surrounded by
empty bottles of nasty American beers.  He'd looked over when she
claimed the stool next to him, not in a leering-drunk sort of way, but
kindly and apologetic.  "Sorry, Miss.  I'd buy you a beer if I had a
Euro left, but I just spent my last one."
     "That's all right," was all she'd been able to say.
Hunch-feelings jangled every nerve in her body, stronger than she'd
ever felt before.  The man beside her would have to be a veteran
superguy to be giving off so much Mask Principle residue, but he was
still so young!  Was he immortal and much older than he looked, or had
he started wearing a mask when he was still a child?
     The young man spoke as if he'd heard her question with
telepathy--which was entirely possible, for all she knew.  "Happy
birthday to me.  Twenty-two of the longest years in history."  He
finished his toast by downing the rest of his glass.
     "It is your birthday tonight?" Jeanette had asked.  "Then it is I
who should be buying the drinks.  Barkeep, your best champagne!"
She'd slapped down a stack of bills that made the bartender's eyes
pop, and kept the alcohol flowing until final call.
     And now, here they were together in her bed.  Jeanette frowned.
It wasn't at all like her to take a strange man home with her, even on
his birthday.  Had anything happened between them?  She didn't even
know!
     She watched him sleep for a while, trying to figure out how he
could look so young and so old at the same time.  Was it the careless
stubble on his cheeks or the pale scar across his forehead?  Even in
his sleep, he looked tense and troubled, like he had seen the worst
horrors of war, but no active soldier in Iraq or Afghanistan would be
allowed to grow out his hair so long.  This was a soldier of another
war, she decided, and it looked like he'd been on the losing side.
     One way to find out, she decided, eying the man's dirty green
rucksack on the other side of a trail of clothing that led to her bed.
 Conveniently, she was able to pick up her underwear on the way over
to it.
     "M. DUNNE" was printed in black marker on the strap.  Hadn't he
called himself Mark?  Or maybe it had been Mickey.  How embarrassing
that she didn't even know!  The bag had a mesh pocket on the side, in
which she could see a passport.  She spared a glance back to the bed
to make sure the man was still dozing, then slowly reached for the
zipper.
     Before she could free more than three zipper teeth, an arm
wrapped around her shoulder and something sharp pressed into her neck.
     "Back off, Nancy!" the man hissed.
     "Nancy?" asked Jeanette. "I'm not--"
     "I said, 'Back off!'"
     His grip loosened, and Jeanette took the opportunity to push
away.  Her heart raced as she thought about how close she'd come to
having her throat slashed open by his--  She blinked at the gleaming
utensil in the young man's hand.  It wasn't a knife at all. More like
a spoon, but with sharpened points like a fork.
     "I'm sorry," said Jeanette. "I was just curious, and I didn't
think you'd mind."
     "Well of course it's your fault, Nancy," said the man.  "It's
always your fault.  Everything is gone to crap because of you."
     Jeanette was confused until she realized that the man's eyes were
closed and he spoke to empty air.  "He's still asleep," she whispered
to herself.  "He's still asleep and dreaming."
     "I'm not going to argue, Nancy.  It's over.  We're not teammates,
we're not lovers, we're not even friends anymore.  I've hated you ever
since we were nine years old, and now I wish we'd never met!"
     "Easy, easy, it's all right," said Jeanette in her most soothing voice.
     The man slashed out blindly with his spoon-fork, grazing
Jeanette's upper arm.  She held a hand over the cut to staunch the
blood, and marveled at the sharpness of the weapon, which sliced as
cleanly as most surgical scalpels she'd known.  She couldn't leave the
armed-and-sleepwalking man alone for the time it would take her to
reach the first-aid kit in the bathroom, so instead she tore part of
the sheet into a tourniquet for herself and tried to stay out of his
way.
     The man was reliving a battle, she soon realized.  A real
superguy martial-artsfest, by the look of it.  Graceful flips and
rolls punctuated by slashes and thrusts from his odd weapon.  He could
have been a ballet dancer, she thought, watching him move so lightly
on his feet.  He could have been a runner, fast as he moved, or a
professional athlete--if they allowed superguys to compete on the same
field as ordinary mortals.  He could even have been a demolitions
expert, judging by how much damage his spoon-fork was doing her her
walls and furniture.  She suddenly hoped that something really had
happened between her and this mystery man, and that something else
would happen between them in the very near future.
     The man's dance changed suddenly as the phantom dream-warrior got
the best of him and beat him back.  His slashes became more desperate
until the spoon-fork clattered from his hand.  Finally the man lay on
the ground, drenched in sweat, pushing back against his invisible
enemy.  "Nancy, no!"
     His hand went to the scar on his forehead, and then his eyes snapped open.
     Jeanette stood and adjusted her tourniquet.  She should have felt
self-conscious, dressed only in her underwear, but that didn't matter
when the man before her was still completely naked.  "Good morning,"
she said to him.  "What would you like for breakfast?"

WHO IS THIS TROUBLED YOUNG MAN?
WHAT WILL HE WANT FOR BREAKFAST?
WILL IT BE SCRAMBLED EGGS AND BACON?

These questions and more will be answered if there's ever another
episode of The Sporkarific Sporkman, only on Superguy!  (Author note:
This is all Mason's fault, dammit!)

-- 
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