Part Thirty-Nine
Two monsters looked up warily, then slid aside for the troll to walk unhindered along a rough-hewn corridor. Strange glowing things crawled on the ceiling. Enormous bugs skittered underfoot. Wait – was that another corridor, off to the left?
The Newsman paused the playback, rewound it, and carefully advanced it frame-by-frame on his PowerBook, but the shadow off to Sweetums’ left was no clearer. Frustrated, he let the film run again, making a dotted “x” for a possible exit on the graph paper map he’d been attempting for the last two hours, his right hand hovering over the touchpad while he drew with the left. So far, he’d been able to map the route Sweetums had taken for only about a hundred yards, judging from the length of the troll’s wide stride. Newsie removed his glasses, stretched his arms up and rubbed his eyes. It doesn’t matter how tired you are; this thing needs to be mapped if you have any hope of getting in and out of there alive! Scowling, he reached for his pumpkin mug for another sip of cooling coffee. His phone ringing startled him, and pencil and coffee mug nearly went flying.
“Hello!” He tried to project more strength into his voice than he currently felt.
“Um...Aloysius? It’s Mary.”
It took his brain a moment to change gears. “Oh! Er...of course! How are you?” Then he realized what the reason for the call must be, and felt like an idiot for sounding so forcedly upbeat.
Confirming this, Mary said, “Um...I’m...I’m okay. I just wanted to tell you that the...the memorial service will be this coming Tuesday. The first. Uh...I hope Our Lady of Muppaphones isn’t too far away for you?”
There’s a church dedicated to Muppaphones? “Er...I’m sure that’s fine. Is this a place Aunt Ethel regularly...um...worshiped at?”
“I guess so. It was specified in her will, according to Fred. The service starts at nine, and afterward there’ll be a private meeting of the beneficiaries. You’re included in that.”
Newsie doubted his aunt had much to give away; the years she’d spent institutionalized must have decimated her estate. He’d go, however, as it was what Ethel would have wished. “Is...will Fred be there?”
“Yes.” His distant relation paused, then added, “Please don’t let that be a reason for you not to come. Even Fred won’t be a jerk in front of the rest of the family. I know Ethel thought highly of you.”
Newsie fought down the warmth in his eyes. Calmly as possible, he responded, “Thank you.”
“And I’d love for you to meet the kids. All of them, including Fred’s. You are family, and it’s about time we all acted like it.”
“I...er...thank you,” Newsie said, surprised. “How old are they now?” He dimly recalled hearing of babies born years back, just before Ethel was committed to Shadows on the Dial.
“My Cindy is twelve, and Joey is nine...Fred and Marcie’s daughter Yvette is fourteen...” Mary proceeded to relate a few tidbits about each child. Newsie’s reporter instincts kicked in, and he grabbed his notepad and took it all down, hoping to appear less of a strange fool at the memorial around people he’d never met. Touched, he asked, “Is there...can I bring anything for the children? How have they handled Ethel’s loss?”
Mary chuckled softly. “Oh, they hardly knew her at all...to them it’s going to be just some big formal family thing they have to suffer through. Just be yourself, be patient with them, and go slow. I’d like...I’d like it if maybe you could come by around the holidays?”
Surprised again, Newsie swallowed back a lump in his throat. “Er...I’d...that would be very nice! Um...is it all right if I bring my girlfriend?”
“You have a –“ Mary choked off her response, composed herself, and said instead, “Well, absolutely! We’d love to meet her! You’re bringing her to the memorial, then, right?”
“Uhm...if...if she can take that day off, I suppose so, yes...” He hadn’t even considered that. Would Gina come with him? She’d told him she hated funerals, ever since her own parents were lost at sea when she was six; the only one she’d attended after that was her Grandmama Angie’s. Now he’d have to ask her...and she was already miffed with him about the boarded-over windows...
“Good. I’m...I’m sorry it seems like it takes a death in the family to bring us together. But I hope we can start fresh, okay?” Mary asked. “And I’m...I’m really glad you’ve found someone, Aloysius.”
He could plainly hear the unspoken sentiment: Who’d have thought he’d EVER find someone? However, as Mary was clearly trying to be welcoming, he simply nodded, found his voice again, and said, “Me too. Uh...directions to the church?”
After hanging up, Newsie stared at his notepad a long while, half his brain trying to memorize what was on it simply out of long habit, the other half feeling very alone. Ethel had always encouraged the extended clan of Joe’s children by his first wife to feel welcome in her kitchen, her home, no matter that not a one of them had fuzzy skin. Newsie’s mother had viewed it...differently. A long-buried snippet surfaced in his memory suddenly: his mother hanging up the phone with a disgusted sniff.
Newsie had asked, “What’s wrong, Mother?”
The estimable Florabeth Crimp, née Blyer, had thrown a scowl that could freeze a fourth-of-July sparkler in the direction of New Jersey. “Your aunt has invited us to a picnic!”
Cautiously, Newsie asked, “Er...is she serving that lemony potato salad you hate?”
His mother whirled, fixing that awful glare on him; he flinched. “No, you ninny! She’s invited them!”
“Giant ants?” Bewildered, Newsie cringed again when Florabeth took a step toward him.
“My son, the class fool... No! Them! Those...those...feltless people!” She glared in the general direction of her sister’s home across the Hudson, and Newsie was fairly certain a few fireworks did turn to icicles out that way.
Shaking off the image, he picked up his coffee mug, cradling it in both hands and turning to look out the narrow strip of window which Gina had uncovered last night (after a long struggle with a crowbar and a power drill). The windows faced east, not that it mattered; his aunt and uncle’s old house had been razed a decade ago for some parking-lot expansion project, so even if he were peering west with binoculars all he’d see would be cars. And maybe an SUV or three. Annoyed with his wandering brain, Newsie took another sip of coffee, grimacing to find it cold. He strode to the kitchen, popped the mug into the microwave, and at the exact moment his finger touched the button, a loud pounding sounded on the apartment door.
When he’d caught his breath and regained his equilibrium, the panicked Muppet forced himself to approach the door. He flinched when the noise ricocheted through the living room again. Newsie took a hesitant step toward the door. Should he even chance a look into the hallway? What if that’s what the monsters were waiting for? What if they were small enough to squeeze through the tiny shuttered window that weird lockmonster had cut in the door? He stopped, key in hand, frightened at that thought.
Then an indignant voice squeaked, “Come on already, Goldie! You asked me to come over, remember? Open up!”
Abashed, he quickly unlocked the door and swung it open. Rhonda tromped in, a long sweater-dress and wool scarf covering her barely-fuzzy body and a glower wrinkling her elegant snout. “Fer cryin’ out loud! What are you doing, survivalist prep? Got a bomb shelter full of Spam in here now?” she exclaimed, looking at the padlocked porthole and then the still-largely-boarded-over windows.
“Uh...the lockmonster did that. We’re, um, trying to modify it...” Gina had actually thrown down her tools in utter disgust last night after fighting with the haphazardly nailed boards for over an hour. When she’d left for work this morning, grim warnings about extreme un-makeovers and his vacation savings account had been spoken.
Rhonda quirked a whisker at Newsie. “A lock monster? You had an actual monster in this apartment?”
Newsie couldn’t meet those hard little eyes. “Er...um...they were all out of Smiths.”
She kept staring at him. “Anybody tell you lately how completely weird you are?”
“Did you get the detector?” he asked, ignoring her jibe.
Shaking her head, the rat yelled behind her, “Hey, Ratbert, bring the thing in!”
Grunting, a skinny rat entered, step by straining step, dragging a length of twine attached to a squeaking skateboard. A large brown paper bag sat atop it; Rhonda gestured at the coffee table where Newsie’s laptop and notes were spread. “Just set it over there.” She deliberately pretended to ignore the incredulous look the rat gave her, turning back to Newsie. “Yeah, I got it. Had to hunt all over here and Brooklyn, but yeah, I found you one that didn’t cost ya your first-born litter.”
Newsie relieved the rat trying to heft the bag from the skateboard, lifting it himself and staggering a step. “Uh...it’s...kind of heavy!”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Ratbert grumbled. He looked expectantly at Rhonda, holding out a calloused paw. “A-hem.”
“He’s got it,” Rhonda said, jerking a thumb at Newsie. She trotted to the window and hopped onto the sill for a closer look at the ridiculous construction. “Wow. What’re you expecting the bad guys to send, a wrecking ball?”
Shooting a glare at Rhonda, Newsie fetched his wallet and tipped the scruffy delivery rat. Ratbert eyed the bill, sniffed it, then crunched it into a tiny ball and popped it into a cheek. “Mmn. Old ink. Tastes much better than da new currency. Have a nice day, folks.” Newsie stared after the retreating rat and his squeaky skateboard.
“You shoulda given him one’a those Sacajawea dollars. It’s funnier when they try to eat coins,” Rhonda commented, hopping down from the sill. Newsie shut and bolted the door again, and then dragged the heavy paper sack to the sofa. “So, it’s an older model; found it in a used electronics store. Should work okay, though.”
Newsie hefted the instrument with some difficulty, uncertainly checking out the dot-matrix readout screen, the collapsible antenna, the many dials and switches. “Rhonda – this thing is almost furniture! How am I supposed to lug it around?”
“You could always get a skateboard.”
“It’s completely impractical! I just need something that will find the MMN signal!” Newsie protested.
“What’s this, chopped liver? It does that, genius! Look, for nineteen-ninety-five, whaddaya want? I am a bargain shopper, not a miracle worker!” Rhonda sniffed, unknotting her scarf. “Got any more coffee? And hey, if there’s any of those little pumpkin tart things left, I’ll take two.”
Giving up, Newsie started the kettle for a fresh carafe. When he returned to the living room, Rhonda was studying his hand-drawn map. She accepted the miniature mug Newsie handed her. “Great, and keep ‘em coming. It’s chilly out there today. Hasn’t warmed up a bit since last night; it’s like the sun overslept or something.” She tapped the graph paper. “You’re planning on trying a commando stealth raid, I take it?”
“We still don’t know what they’re up to!” Newsie growled, maneuvering himself onto the sofa carefully while balancing his coffee mug. Even with a lot of Gina’s furniture being somewhat low-slung, sometimes he wished he were a foot taller. Or two. “If we can get a better sense of direction down there, we’ll have a better shot at –“
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, sunshine! What’s this we stuff, kemosabe? I am not going anywhere near giant toothy bugs again in this or Deadly’s lifetime!” Rhonda shook her head vehemently. “Newsie! Use your brain, I know you must have something controlling your higher nervous functions, frog knows you’re nervous enough... We can’t just go barging in there! Have you even watched this footage? There are monsters everywhere in those tunnels!”
“Maybe there are places we can hide!” he argued. “Yes I’ve watched the footage, over and over! Look – ten yards in, there’s a corner; if we could hide right there until their patrol passes by, maybe –“
Rhonda stared at him in disbelief. “Are you even listening to yourself? This isn’t an action movie, and I promise you if you get caught, Steven Segal is not gonna come save you!”
“He might,” Newsie grumbled. “He spent a week tracking Piggy down for her autograph once.”
“And that means he’ll risk his highly-paid neck for a short yellow guy who doesn’t look anything like a glamorous pig no matter how much makeup you wear? Puh-leeeze!” Stalling the indignant Newsman’s protest, confusion, and further protest, Rhonda took his hand in her paws. “Look, Goldie, it’s too risky! Have you got hold of the Mayor yet?”
“He won’t return my calls,” Newsie said. “Don’t you think I’ve tried that angle? Rhonda, the authorities aren’t taking it seriously! No one is taking us seriously! I...I read some of the comments on the report today, on that stupid pop video site where you posted it, and half of them think it’s a joke! I could tell everyone I talk to that monsters are about to rise from the sewers and engulf the city and they would all assume it’s some sort of crank nonsense!” Mary’s phone call came to mind; Newsie slumped, shaking his head. “My...my step-cousin...I should have warned her...should have said something about the danger; what the heck, her brother already thinks I’m crazy...”
Rhonda sighed, and sipped her coffee slowly. Newsie gazed glumly at the laptop screen, frozen at a moment of film showing a nearly-pitch-dark corridor with craggy walls and stout goblins staring up at the troll in their midst, unwittingly captured for the camera. “Mm. I like the ginger in this blend,” Rhonda said.
“How can you be thinking of coffee flavors at a time like this?” Newsie groaned.
“Because there ain’t much I can do about the rest of it, News Crusader. Look...there’s just no way you, or even you and I, could get in and out of there without being spotted...and frog knows what else. We haven’t got the muscles or the firepower, Newsie!”
“No...” Newsie jumped when another banging sounded at the front door. “Ack!”
“Chill, Goldie. I doubt very much those guys would bother to knock,” Rhonda grumbled. She hopped from the coffee table and went to the door. “News meeting in progress! Who is it?”
“It’s da land shark; who’d’ya t’ink it is?” An annoyed voice snapped back.
Rhonda rolled her eyes. “Natch. We have food; of course he showed up.” She tugged at the Muppet-level deadbolt. “Wanna open this or what? Then again, if you want to let him starve in the hallway, I have no objection...”
Newsie unlocked the door; before he could turn the knob, Rizzo shoved the door open and barged in. “’Bout time! Ya know, you should really tell da building supe dat da halls in dis place are cold enough to keep meat in!” His eyes brightened when he saw Rhonda. “Ahhh...just what I needed!”
“Are you seriously trying to get fresh with me, you one-track little twerp?” Rhonda said, then relaxed into a glare as Rizzo grabbed her coffee mug and slurped noisily. “Hmf. Figures...”
“Uh...isn’t it better that he only wanted the coffee?” Newsie asked.
“A lady likes being given at least the opportunity to blow someone off,” Rhonda responded. Rizzo finished off the tiny cup and looked bewildered at them both.
“Huh? You guys talkin’ about me?”
“Forget it,” Newsie muttered. “What are you doing here?”
The rat planted his paws on his wide hips. “Oh, yeah, real nice reception for da bearer of good news! I am all agush wit’ warm happy fuzzies here.”
“Rizzo...” Rhonda growled.
The rat produced a long envelope from inside his letter jacket with a dramatic flourish. “Payday, guys! Scooter asked me to deliver a few a’dese around. Leastways, dat’s what I’m tryin’ ta do...dat last guy didn’t answer his door, and I couldn’t find any of dose big gangly purple guys anywhere...”
“Purple guys? The Mutations?” Newsie asked, perking.
“Yeah, dat’s dem.”
“Who didn’t answer his door?” Rhonda asked. Rizzo dug out a fat stack of envelopes, riffling through them.
“Uhhh...Big Mama? Huh. I nevah knew dat was actually a girl...”
Newsie turned a grim look to Rhonda; she twitched worried whiskers. “Scooter asked you to deliver paychecks to the monsters?” Newsie asked.
“Yeah, so? I get paid for da errand in cheese ravioli no matter if dey answer my knock or not!” Elated, Rizzo grinned. “Ravioli wit’ pecorino Romano, and ricotta, and aged Parmesan all smothered in a rich marinara...nothin’ like good fillin’ American food on a cold day!”
“Ravioli is Italian, you idiot,” Rhonda snapped.
“Not made by da Trembling Rodent Café in da Bronx, it ain’t.”
“Have you tried to deliver to any other monsters yet?” Newsie demanded.
Rizzo sighed, unwillingly digging through the whole pile. “Nigel...penguin...Lew...penguin...Gladys...penguin...geez, I wish dese were listed by residence, not alphabetically; I t’ink alla da penguins live at da ice rink under da Garden, don’t dey?”
“Let me see those!” Newsie grabbed the stack and flipped through each plain white envelope. “This one – Carl. Did you try him yet?”
Rizzo squinted at the address. “Uh...yeah. Already been to Queens. Nobody home.”
“They’re all down there,” Newsie said, looking unhappily at Rhonda. “All of them! And who knows how many others...”
Rhonda shook her head. “As if one nasty slobbering thing under the city wasn’t enough, they gotta do the whole strength in numbers thing. Well, we kinda guessed that already, Goldie; just look how many of ‘em wandered into the frame on our footage from that one visit!”
“Strength in numbers...” Newsie looked at the names on the envelopes; most of them weren’t monsters, just ordinary Muppets: Whatnots and pigs and dogs and chickens and things...
“Are you gonna offer me a refill, or can I go now?” Rizzo asked grumpily. “I wanna finish all dese in time for da dinner rush or dere won’t be any fat stuffed pasta left for dis hard-workin’ rat!”
Newsie handed back the pile of envelopes, and Rizzo somehow crammed them into his jacket again. “One for da road?” he asked hopefully. Rhonda slammed the door in his face.
“Oh, and look, he already opened your check for you,” Rhonda muttered, handing the Newsman’s envelope over. “How thoughtful of him to see how much you make.”
“Same as everyone else,” Newsie said absently, wandering back to the coffee table, not even glancing at the check. “Except for Piggy, anyway.”
“Yeah, but I doubt she’s content with double salary. Two times nothing is still –“
“Strength in numbers,” Newsie said again. Rhonda frowned, and struggled to lift the carafe on the table.
“You skip a groove like Zoot, or what? Yes, I get it; all the monsters are evil bad conspiratorial sewer Nazis. Point made. You wanna get me a clean cup? I am not touching where rancid-butter-breath has sipped.”
“Rhonda,” Newsie said excitedly, taking the carafe out of her insufficient grip and using it to gesture, “They have numbers – but so do we!”
She frowned quizzically at him. “What is this, the Union Army getting into a war of attrition? You want it should come to that?”
“No, no, no!” Newsie began pacing, still waving the sloshing carafe from the French coffee press. “What if we all went down there? A surprise raid! Not to attack, just to see what they’re doing! All it would take is a distraction in one section to get their attention, and then you and I could sneak down to that lower level, where Sweetums went to talk to that office monster –“
“The guy with the ledger and the file cabinet?” Rhonda shook her head angrily. “Wait, wait, don’t suck me into your foambrained schemes! What makes you think we wouldn’t all be captured and—and—gobbled up like Thanksgiving leftovers?”
“We could sic Animal on them! Fifteen minutes, maybe? Just enough time to get into that production office and find out what the master plan is –“
“What makes you think they even have one?”
“There has to be! Somehow it’s all connected: the television station, the snack cakes, the abductions, the monsters at the asylum –“
“What, you think you’re gonna waltz in there and find a ledger marked Evil Master Plan or something? Or are you gonna take a hostage and torture him?”
“We have to do something!” Newsie cried. “Stop the monsters, uncover the plot, rescue my cousin – nobody else will, Rhonda! It’s up to us! Maybe we’re only journalists, and credential-stripped ones at that, but d—it rat, isn’t it still our duty to expose this heinous operation for the horror it is and shine the harsh light of day into the city’s underworld?” He stopped, breathless, staring earnestly at Rhonda. She stared back with wide eyes. After a second, Newsie realized coffee was dribbling down his arm from the carafe in his upraised hand.
“Someone here has been watching way too much of his boxed collection of The Wire,” Rhonda muttered. Embarrassed, Newsie lowered his arms. He felt horrible: powerless, frustrated, and more than a little humiliated. Just like the old days... But then the rat stepped forward and crossed her arms, glaring up at him. “You do realize that Floyd’s not gonna be thrilled about the idea of winding Animal up to a full-blown wild hair, right?”
“Floyd already thinks I’m a...” Newsie paused, her meaning penetrating his despair. “A...a wild hair?”
“Well, I figure, the crazier we make him, the better his chances of causing a complete furry meltdown in the tunnels. Better his chances of surviving and getting back out, too.”
“What a fantastic distraction that would be,” Newsie said, slowly starting to smile.
“Where exactly were you planning on slipping in while the drum-fu is taking place, anyway?” Rhonda plumped herself onto the sofa, picked up the pencil and took over the mapping, hitting the playback on the laptop screen. “Can I have that fresh cup now? I plot insanely stupid recon missions better with caffeine.”
Allowing himself a grin, the Newsman went to find a clean mug.
-------------
Snookie expected, from the scents of coriander and cumin wafting down the corridor, to be curried today. He opened the door to the cooking studio with a heavy heart and a sullen tread, head down. “Hi!” Carl shot at him cheerfully. Snookie didn’t look up; he was more than accustomed to the monster’s demeanor whenever eating was involved.
“Um...hi,” said another voice, not nearly as growly as Carl’s. Snookie’s head jerked up in surprise. He hadn’t misheard: there she was, with a silly skull-and-crossbones apron tied over her front and a hairnet containing her long purple locks. She grimaced wryly at him. “You look better with your mouth closed.”
Regaining self-consciousness, Snookie shut his jaw and fumbled for words. “You...what are you...Carl!” Angrily he whirled on the bemused monster. “The deal was no eating her!”
“Who said I’m eating her? I needed a sous chef,” Carl protested. Constanza glared at Snookie, as if the silly apron and hairnet were his fault. Carl grinned, his poufy white toque bobbing between his horns. “The main course today will be yellow curried Muppet with plum chutney! Now wash up; I heard someone from the board a’ health might be joining us, and I want everything shipshape!”
“You’re getting inspected by the board of health?” Snookie asked, baffled. He glanced at Constanza again, who had resumed her task of chopping scallions at a large cutting board. Under other circumstances, he would have found the oddly domestic scene to be charming...
“Who said anything about inspecting? Some mook from the department was dragged down here last night, and I asked for dibs,” Carl chortled. “If he has orange felt, it would complement the curry nicely...go on, scrub up and get in the pot!”
Reluctantly, Snookie removed his shoes and sports coat and rolled up his sleeves. As he began washing his hands at the large sink, he hissed at Constanza, “How long have you been working for Carl?”
“Hey, don’t look all traitor-to-the-cause at me! I’ve been moved from cell to cell for days and then suddenly this horned freak drags me in here and tells me I have to help him cook!” She shuddered. “So far today I’ve made a bouillabaisse, two cream roués, ground fresh spices for the curry, and chopped veggies...and that thing has gulped down two whole tunafish, three rabbits, and a sheep.”
“Appetizers,” Carl chimed in, overhearing. “I’m gonna pitch my idea for a new cooking show to the boss: Carl’s Kitchen Frightmares! Catchy, huh?” He came over to examine the scallions. “Good...now the carrots! Quarter-inch coins, please!” He handed a bound script to Snookie. “Try to learn your lines by tomorrow so we can shoot the pitch reel, okay?”
Snookie stared at the script, then at the monster. “Lines? You want me to learn lines?”
Carl shrugged. “Hey, you know these things are never actually unrehearsed!” Humming happily, he returned to the cast-iron cauldron he was heating oil in, and began tossing in peppercorns, whole cloves, and sprinkles of a yellow curry powder. The smell permeated the room. Snookie decided he would never ever like Indian food again.
“Is he...is he treating you well, at least?” Snookie whispered, taking as long as possible to scrub up his arms with the antibacterial soap.
Constanza looked over at the cheerful chef, then shrugged. “Hasn’t laid a claw on me, if that’s what you mean, but as a vegan I am deeply offended by what I’ve had to witness so far!”
Snookie frowned. “Then you’re really not going to like the rest of the day.”
“You said a deal. What deal? You had something to do with me being here, I take it?” the young Whatnot growled. She glared at him. “Did you honestly think I’d enjoy having to play Betty Crocker to a six-foot furry carrion-inhaler?”
“Never mind,” Snookie said, noting Carl looking his way.
“I asked for advice, not a role on a bizarre cooking show! I can take care of myself! I’m not some helpless little – hey – hey what are you doing?” Constanza cried as Carl grabbed Snookie and hauled him toward the cauldron.
“Finish the carrots,” Carl said, ignoring her distress. Snookie felt the heat coming off the pot, and winced, trying to brace himself mentally for what was coming. “This has to be timed right, or it’ll burn! Now hurry up!”
“You’re going to...” Constanza said, horrified, realizing what was about to happen when Carl considerately ripped Snookie’s shirt and pants off so they wouldn’t be stained by the curry. He tossed the clothes aside; Snookie felt a blush on his cheeks, then felt ridiculous. Really? You’re about to be curried alive and you’re worried about skinny pecs and baggy shorts? Reality check! He wouldn’t look at Constanza, though he could hear her coming closer to yell at Carl. “Hey! You can’t do that! That’s definitely against the Lazer Convention rules of monstrous combat! Put him down!”
Carl stared at her, then burst out laughing. “She’s so cute!” He turned that disturbingly wide grin to Snookie again. “Hope she’s worth it! In ya go!”
Constanza cringed at the scream which immediately shot up out of the pot. Carl stirred quickly, adding a handful of sea salt. “Dum de dum de dummm...oooh, gotta love fresh ground coriander! Hey sweetheart, where’s those carrots? And get on the baby Yukon Golds! Diced, not chopped, got it?”
The pink-spattered blue Whatnot continued to stand and stare, shocked, another few seconds, until those dinner-plate-sized eyeballs turned in her direction again. “You hard a’hearing? Move it! Don’t make me go all Gordon Ramsey on you!”
Swallowing back a mouthful of sudden sourness, Constanza hastened to bring the chopped carrots and scallions, and set to work chopping baby potatoes into tiny cubes with a cut-press. When Carl patted her shoulder, she flinched. “That’s better. When you’re done that, uncork something white and fruity...I’m thinking maybe that Coastal Frightyards Sauv Blanc in the fridge, okay?” He smiled at her. “Now see? That wasn’t so hard to do, was it? We’ll make a decent sous out of you yet!” He went back to stirring the pot. “Tell you what: if you can have the saffron rice done in time to go with it, I’ll even let you have the first bite, just ta show you I appreciate a hard worker!” Contented, Carl went back to humming a Bollywood love song.
Somehow, Constanza managed not to throw up in the sink.
---------------
Welcome to the Muppet Central Forum!
Back to the Rock Season 2
Sesame Street Season 54
The Muppets Mayhem premieres
Bear arrives on Disney+
Sam and Friends Book
Me prefer puff pastry pieces instead.
bringing out seasoning salt instead of smelling salts.
at 11: 
Does he have a license?
Of course I have a license, the leash laws in this city are really rough.
But why they leash their rough laws?
I wonder if it buys high-heels or sneakers.
You mean it already wears heels?
That's what I call a car-dog. *Raspy laugh.