Before Gonzo was Great

I've been writing a series to try to give Gonzo a backstory. Given how many contradictions we've seen, it's impossible to tie everything together into one continuity, and I'm certainly not trying to lay out a definitive history. I'd break my brain if I tried. This is simply my version of what might have been in a series of vignettes, starting with...

*****

Eggs

by Kim McFarland

*****

It was a dark and cloudy night. In the middle of a scrubby prairie rested a spherical spaceship, like an Easter egg in a grayish nest. Its gaudy lights filtered through the nearby grasses and cast needles of color into the darkness.

Small shapes moved within the pool of light surrounding the landing craft. The inhabitants of the ship were investigating this newly-discovered planet. Because it was already occupied, as evidenced by broadcast emissions and the city lights visible from low orbit, the aliens had elected to visit a sparsely-inhabited section of the world at a time when the natives were unlikely to be about. They gathered air and soil samples and took images of the surrounding land. Up above, crews from the mother ship were inserting a relay satellite into a stable orbit. This was an interesting world, one they would want to watch–but from a distance, to avoid upsetting its inhabitants.

One alien was herding two dozen smaller ones. Children, who had never felt soil beneath their feet or breathed air that had not been purified by a spaceship's filters. She had a difficult task in keeping these nestlings from scattering. They were curious and fearless, as all children were; they would be taught caution when they were old enough to understand the need. At least they would stay close to the ship, in the light, where they could see.

Two children jumped back, startled, when a creature burst into the air with a great noise from the ground at their feet. It flapped great flat limbs as it flew into the darkness. A girl with aqua-colored fur exclaimed, "It came from nowhere!"

The other, a boy with purplish fur, was looking down where it had been. Grass stems and leaves were bent outward. On the ground below was a small platform made of plant material, with several small, pale ovoids resting within. He said, "It has eggs."

"Oh!" she said. Both stepped away.

Their minder said, "That was a bird. She was hiding with her eggs. You frightened her."

"I wasn't going to hurt her. I didn't even see her," the girl protested.

"She didn't know that. She is only an animal. Come away from there so she can return before her eggs get cold."

The children followed her obediently. Eggs were important, they knew. Everyone hatched from eggs. It would be cruel to harm these eggs by preventing their mother from tending them.

"Why was she afraid?" a dark blue-furred boy asked.

The minder replied, "On worlds like this animals must find their own food. Some animals eat smaller animals. That's how it is on planets."

Some of the children made faces of revulsion. The minder hid a smile. Though most of their race lived on spaceships, they had originally come from a planet similar to this, and they wanted to remember that heritage, even though they had left their home world so long ago they no longer knew where it was. So they brought their children down to the planets they visited, to let them see the sky and get dirt between their toes.

Something struck her nose lightly. She glanced up, and blinked when a drop of water hit her eye. The others, both adults and children, looked up. The adults, who had known that a storm was likely, began setting up a device to collect rain samples. The children, after their initial surprise, began to play in the rain. They did not mind getting wet, especially not with the novelty of water falling from the sky. Fur and clothing would dry, after all, and mud would wash off.

The children were all having the times of their lives. They had been told about worlds, but actually seeing one was more amazing than they could have imagined. There were things here like nothing they had ever seen on their ship. Alien animals and plants. Wind and rain! Where did it all come from? The land went on forever, without a bulkhead in sight! One, the dark blue boy, wandered to the edge of the pool of light. But there was no real edge, he found; the light was gradually filtered through the grass until it became scattered and blurred. The grass was waving hard now, and the wind was making noise like a large machine. It sounded angry, he thought. But wind couldn't be angry; it was just air moving. He squinted into the direction the wind was coming from, trying to see what was causing it. What he saw was a slender tendril of cloud, barely lighter than the surrounding darkness, descending toward the ground, waving as gently as grass in a light breeze. Intermittent flashes of light within the clouds above lit it up. He crouched down to avoid the wind and watched, his eyes adapting to the dark so he could see the storm better.

*

The ship suddenly began emitting a loud tone. Everyone looked up, startled, at the alarm. The technicians hastily finished their tasks and returned to the ship. They had planned to stay longer, but the storm had suddenly and unexpectedly turned violent. Now a column of spinning wind was roaming the land, and it was intense enough to endanger the landing craft. The minder, recognizing the threat, began shouting to the children, calling them back.

They were reluctant to obey her summons. They did not understand the danger; they had never experienced any kind of uncontrolled weather until today, and had never heard of tornadoes. They dawdled, wanting to watch the spectacular, strobe-lit display as long as they could.

One of the techs within the ship shouted, "It's coming too close! We have to lift now!"

The minder and two other techs darted down the gangplank and into the harsh wind. They carried or dragged those who were having trouble fighting the wind. When they had filled the airlock with all the sodden, muddy-footed children they find, the minder looked out once more. No others were visible within the ship’s light. She closed the outer door, then tapped a communication panel and said, "Take off!"

As the roar of the ship's drive started, the minder told her charges, "We don't have time to get to the chairs. Lie on the floor!" She did so, and the children followed suit. They knew that tone of voice; now was not a time to hesitate or ask questions. Something very bad was happening. Soon they felt a pressure as the ship lifted into the air.

*

The boy tore his eyes away from the twisting cloud when the light from the ship winked out. The howl of the wind outshouted the sound of the landing craft's engine as it rose up and disappeared into the swirling, turbulent clouds. They had left him behind!

For the first time in his young life he tasted real fear. They had left him on this planet! Were they fleeing the cloud thing? Was it dangerous? He decided quickly to hide like a bird, to keep safe until they came back. He crouched down in the grass, his heart hammering, and kept very still.

It worked for a while. The wind howled and flung debris at him, and rain and hail pelted him, but he stayed down. Then the wind picked him up and flung him into the rainy night.

*

It was a wet, bleak morning. The tornado had torn a worm-trail of destruction across the land. Fortunately it had not hit any of the few scattered farmhouses, but the crops were in poor shape.

Cattle and horses were let out of their barns to graze on the wet grass. Chickens peered out of their coops, then came out for their food. Their usual allotment had not appeared on schedule, so they spread out to forage.

One hen squawked in surprise and alarm. All heads turned to look at her. When she did not flee, the other clustered closer to see what she had found. They saw a strange storm-blown beast. At first they thought it was a bird, as it had what looked like a beak and blue feathers. But it had no wings, and it was wearing torn clothing. There were red stains on the ground around it and in its matted fur. Yet, surprisingly, they could see that it was breathing. One of the hens listened to its chest and heard a clear, steady heartbeat.

She clucked quietly to herself. It was small, maybe half the size of a chicken. Its beak, though curved, was not sharp, and it had no claws or fangs. It was not a predator, thus no danger to chickens. After a long, thoughtful pause she clucked to the others, then seized part of its clothing in her beak. Several others grasped other parts of its clothing, and they half-dragged, half-carried it into their coop.

Once inside, then set it on a pile of straw. It left smears of blood, but it was not bleeding now. It might live. Two of the hens settled down, one on each side of it, puffing out their feathers to warm it.

*****

Gonzo (obviously) is copyright © The Muppets Studio, LLC and is used without permission but with much respect and affection. This story is copyright © Kim McFarland (negaduck9@aol.com). Permission is given by the author to copy it for personal use only.

Thanks, glad you liked it. I have another ep finished, and another nearly done. There are more scenes in my head after that...

Cluck Kent? I hadn't thought about that, but I see what you mean. I haven't seen much Star Trek, so I don't know about their field trips.

I have an illustration for this story. I've looked for rules regarding posting pictures, since I don't see inline images here, and I haven't found any. Are there any rules of the road I'm missing?

So, either 100x100 thumbnail or link, no regular-sized inline images? OK, thanks.

Here's an image of the kids:
http://negaduck9.deviantart.com/art/Of-Gonzos-and-Grouses-165782453?q=1&qo=1

Here's part 2 of this series. Hope you enjoy...

*****

Boxcar Gonzo


by Kim McFarland

*****

The alarm buzzed softly. The boy opened his eyes to darkness and squinted at the clock. 3:00 AM. He pressed the button on the top of the clock to shut the alarm off.

Tired as he was, he got out of bed without hesitation. He was already in his clothes. He had been thinking about this for weeks, and several days ago he had decided that tonight would be the night.

He unzipped his backpack and took out his schoolbooks. He would have had to turn them in soon anyway, he knew. He had been in more schools than grades, he had been moved around so much.

He opened drawers and took out clothing. Jeans, shirts, an extra pair of shoes - all the sturdiest stuff he had, except for what he was already wearing. These he put into large ziploc bags, then pressed them flat before sealing them. That made it easier to store them in his backpack, and would keep them dry.

He left behind the nicer, newer clothes. He never lacked for new clothes. Every family bought him things they thought he would like to wear. It always started out like that. They really did mean to be kind, he knew. But somehow...

He chopped the thought off and stuck several pairs of socks in the sides of his backpack. That filled up most of the extra space. There was only a little bit at the top, and the small outside pockets. There were other things he would have liked to take, but they were too large or heavy and would slow him down. So, he only put a harmonica in the outside pocket. Atop the plastic sacks holding his clothes he placed a small stuffed bird. He paused briefly, then closed the zipper, shutting it safely away.

He put on a denim jacket, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and walked quietly out of his room and down the short hall. Nobody else in the house was awake. He took the ring of keys from the hook beside the door, let himself out, locked the door again, then pushed the keys back in through the mail slot.

*

It was late spring. Insects buzzed to each other in the warm night. Maybe small animals moved in the grass beside the road; if they did, he didn't notice them. He had too much on his mind.

He didn’t like to think about how many families he had lived with in the last six years. He had been found, an unidentified child, at a farm. Nobody had claimed him, nobody had been able to find out who he was or where he had come from. Even he himself did not know; he had been healing from a concussion and broken bones when he had come to within a henhouse, and he had no memories of his own past. The chickens had found him after a storm and taken him in. They had been kind creatures, with no expectations of him except that he survive, and did not care what he was. They had warmed him and fed him, treating him with the same care they showed their own chicks, just because.

But then he had been found, and anyone could see that the small, blue-furred, hook-nosed creature was not a chicken. He had been designated a Monster. He was sure he wasn’t, because he looked like none of the other Monsters he had seen, but he had no better idea what to call himself. He had wanted to go back to the farm after he healed, but the farm’s owners didn't want a foundling, and the chickens weren't in charge. Instead, he had been placed with a foster family of "his own kind"—Monsters—to take care of him until his real family was found.

That had been six years ago. He now knew that had no real family. Nobody had claimed him, either as their born or adopted child, and nobody would. He was too strange to fit in anywhere for long. He didn't think like other people. He was scrawny and weird-looking. He no longer tried to warm to people who, he had come to understand, would eventually send him away. And so, without unkind words he would be taken back, then placed in another home. Over and over.

He saw it coming this time. Just recently they had become a little too self-conscious around him, holding something back. They would not tell him they were sending him back; that would be cruel. Much better to spare him the anticipation, they had thought, and of course save themselves guilt. He could not face the prospect of being shuffled around yet again, and had decided this time to take control of his life.

His feet took him to a set of train tracks. He followed them up to the train yard. As he had expected, there was a train on the tracks now. It had dozens of freight cars, mainly coal-filled hopper cars, tankers, and boxcars already loaded up. He found an unlocked boxcar and climbed in. He was small, and could hide in places that a human could not fit into. Plus, his dark fur and clothes would merge with the shadows inside.

He climbed up on a platform of wooden crates that reached nearly to the ceiling. From there he could not see the open doors, which meant that nobody would see him from the outside. Good enough. He set his backpack in the corner and leaned back against it. Soon, despite the hard crate and musty smell, he fell asleep.

He awakened with a start when the sliding metal doors banged shut. The locks clicked. Soon a slow rumbling began. The train was on its way. He unzipped the top of his backpack and took out the stuffed doll. It was a little yellow chick, one of the few possessions he had kept with him wherever he went. It reminded him of the only time he remembered being loved. He hugged it close as the train picked up speed. He had no idea where it was bound. That was fine. As long as it took him away from the temporary homes, his life would be better.

*****

Gonzo is copyright © The Muppets Studio, LLC and is used without permission but with much respect and affection. This story is copyright © Kim McFarland (negaduck9@aol.com). Permission is given by the author to copy it for personal use only.

What an awesome story! I can't wait for more

'Nother chapter...

*****

The Busker
by Kim McFarland

It was a dark and stormy night. It had rained all day, which was not unusual in spring. Business had been good for The Cafe, a restaurant in a town so small that it could get away with a title that unimaginative. A passenger train had stopped to take on more fuel, and those passengers who did not feel like eating in the dining car had come into town for dinner.

The downside was the cleanup afterwards. There were more dishes to wash than Erma, who always closed the restaurant by herself, wanted to think about. She would be here much later than she liked. Since there were no customers at the moment she first tidied the dining area, then went to the back to get a headstart on the dishes, keeping an ear out for the entrance bell.

Some time later she noticed that it was past closing time. She looked out front. Nobody there. She was surprised. She had one regular late night customer, an odd little creature who came by for whatever was the special of the day, and paid in change. He had turned up some months ago, and worked as a busker—a street performer—in the square, playing a child-size guitar and singing. He was cute in an ugly-puppy fashion, and though his speaking voice could best be described as raspy, his singing wasn't bad. She often put a few coins in his guitar case when she passed by.

He must have stayed out of the weather today, she thought. Anyone with any sense would. With the amount of work she still had to do before leaving for the night—dishes and other cleanup—she might be here until it rained itself out. She tied the top of a full garbage bag and lifted it out of the can.

When she stepped out into the alleyway behind the cafe she saw a sudden movement by the dumpster. Something was there, and it wasn't a cat. Quickly she stepped back inside. She put down the garbage, unlocked a box on the wall, and took out a handgun. She knew how to handle the vagrants that occasionally came out of the train yard.

She opened the door again and, holding the gun at the ready, said loudly enough to be heard over the rain, "Stop what you're doing and come out where I can see you."

The figure that stepped out from behind the dumpster was smaller than she had expected. It was only the size of a child, and covered by a tentlike raincoat. It raised its hands and said, "Don't shoot me! I'll go away."

The voice was unmistakable. She lowered the gun and said, "Gonzo? What are you doing out here?"

"I couldn't play guitar in the rain, so..." his voice trailed off.

"Come inside, for crying out loud," she told him.

She led him into the kitchen. Water streamed off his raincoat onto the floor. She said, "Hang that up here," gesturing to some coathooks on the wall. Then she realized that they would be out of his reach, but he was using a broom handle in the hood to raise it onto the hook. Underneath, his clothes were dry, though his blue-furred hands and beaklike nose were wet. She locked the gun back in its box. “You weren't really going through the garbage, were you?"

"I thought you had left for the night," he said quietly.

It was hard to see his face from up above. She crouched down. He was afraid, she realized. Afraid of her? Okay, she had pulled a gun on him, but that was before she had recognized him. She said, "Calm down. I'm not going to call the police or anything over garbage, for heaven's sake. Look, if you're that hungry, I have some leftovers."

"I don't have anything to pay with," he told her, ashamed.

"Who buys leftovers? Go dry off," she told him.

He did. She thought as she put together a sandwich, how could anyone be so badly off they needed to search through garbage for food? It's not like he was a homeless beggar. He had become a regular around here; people knew who he was. It was hard not to, as he was the only Monster in town.

She brought the sandwich and some tea into the dining area. He had seated himself. His hands were still damp. Three-fingered hands. How could he do anything with only three fingers, let alone play a guitar? But he didn't seem to find it a handicap. She said, "Take your time. I'll be in the back washing up."

"Thank you," he said.

She turned back and flashed a smile. "Don't mention it."

*****

She had made a dent in the load of dishes when he brought the plate back to her. "Thanks," he told her. "Can I help out?"

She couldn't see how he could help with the dishes; he'd need a stepladder to reach the sink. Plus, she didn't think it would be a good task for a furry person. He might shed. She said, "You could sweep up the floor."

"Sure," he replied.

He went to the task. She almost laughed when she saw him wrestling with a broom whose handle was twice as long as he was tall, but he did manage it. She asked, "Where did you come from?"

"Kansas," he answered.

"You don't have a Midwestern accent. Is that where your family's from?"

Long pause. "I don't know. How about you?"

"Born and raised here. I never had much urge to move around."

He nodded and swept some debris into a dustpan, then moved on to another section of the kitchen.

*****

When she had finally finished dealing with the dishes, and he had mopped the floor, she told him, "It's still raining out. I can give you a lift home."

"That's all right," he said. "I live nearby, and it's kind of hard to reach by road."

"Well, okay," she told him. "See you tomorrow, I guess."

"Yeah," he said with a small smile as he pulled on his raincoat.

“And, Gonzo—if you’re ever that hard up, don’t go into the dumpster. Dumpster diving is for bums. Just tell me and I’ll find some odd jobs for you back here.”

“All right," he answered quietly.

She turned out the lights and unlocked the front door. Gonzo’s green raincoat disappeared into the darkness within a moment. She wondered where he lived. In a small town like this, there weren't many places for an out-of-towner to stay.

*****

Gonzo ran down an unpaved driveway, staying on the granite gravel as much as possible to avoid the mud. He reached an area bordered by a chain link fence. He undid a wire fasten in one place and the fence parted, allowing him through. Once inside, he tied the fence back in place so his entrance wouldn't be noticed.

Inside was a graveyard for cars. Old vehicles, and some that were not so old, were held here for salvage or destruction. He made his way through the metal maze to the back, where the larger vehicles were.

One was a cement mixer long past any hope of salvation. Its front end had been crushed in a head-on collision with something very large and, from the look of it, immobile. The exterior was a patchwork of faded paint and rust. Cement had hardened inside the barrel, filling it a quarter of the way up. Gonzo went around to its back, pulled a ladder out from underneath the bumper, and climbed up. He pulled back the shower curtain that covered the opening, climbed in, and pulled it back into place.

He pulled off his muddy shoes and wet socks and dropped them into a plastic bag just inside the curtain, and stuffed the raincoat into another. The interior of the mixer was soft, the cement and metal lined with blankets and towels that Gonzo had bought at a secondhand shop when he had a few extra dollars. For light he had a flashlight, but he used it very sparingly, as it wore out batteries. It was a cozy nest, if small, and when it warmed up from his body heat it was comfortable. His guitar case hung from hooks he had attached to one “wall.”

He had lived in this town since early winter. It had been hard at first, not knowing anyone, trying to make enough money honestly to keep alive without risking being identified. There were times when he had thought about giving up. But something inside him refused. He would survive. He would find a way to live. He would weather whatever happened to him. Right now that meant hiding until he was eighteen, when he would be out of the reach of the foster care system. Fortunately it seemed that nobody could judge the age of a whatever-he-was on sight, but there were records on him, and he lived in dread of being found out. But nobody ran background checks on buskers.

By touch he found his stuffed chicken, the one possession he still had from his last 'home.' He lay on his side, holding it like a teddy bear, and pulled another blanket over himself. When he was just a few years older, he thought, he would start his life for real. He wasn't sure what that life would be. He would like to work on a farm that had chickens. But he also liked playing his guitar and singing for people. And, who knew, maybe there were other things he'd like to do if he tried them. He had years to decide.

*****
Gonzo is copyright © The Muppets Studio, LLC and is used without permission but with much respect and affection. This story is copyright © Kim McFarland (negaduck9@aol.com). Permission is given by the author to copy it for personal use only.

Very nice chapter!

The Count, thanks, I'm glad you liked this chapter. I haven't read the fanfic you mention, but it sounds as if that author and I are dipping from the same wells. I got the guitar-playing busker thing from It's A Very Merry Muppet Christmas (Sheesh, could they have made that title a little longer?) and the cement mixer from The Muppets Take Manhattan. (And the chicken doll... oh, you know. Heh.) This is the last of my backlog. I have at least two more chapters to go before the story comes to rest, and I'm working on how to present the major event in the next one. (And wishing that Muppets Tonight was on DVD so I could research a certain plot point.)

Lil0Vampy, thanks!

I've been meaning to take a peek at this for a while now, and I'm SO glad I finally did! So far I've only read the first installment and a very little bit of the second, but I LOVE what I've read. I'll keep reading, of course, but I wanted to post right away to say that this is great. I can see the scenes really well in my head, feel the rain, hear the wind... I love your descriptions of the planet and the tornado through the eyes of young aliens. You did a great job of slipping in subtle little things about their culture, like the fact that they don't know where their home planet is anymore and that utter, unquestioning respect for eggs. Very nice.

I'm really looking forward to reading the rest of this. Keep it up!

TogetherAgain, thanks! I'm glad that some of the elements I put in are coming through. Not to toot my own horn (OK, I'm tootin') the bits of alien culture are going to feed into a story arc I have planned to take up after this one is done.

I like to read fiction that plays to the sense. Sounds, touch, smells, etc make a scene much more real for me. And since, like most people, I write what I like to read, I try to paint as vivid a picture I can without getting bogged down in details.

Doop dee doo, here's another bit o' story. But before that let me take a moment to plug my book, A Refugee in Oz, which was just published by Lulu.com. It's available in paperback and downloadable PDF formats, and full of words and illustrations that hopefully add up to an entertaining story. When I get my shipment in I'll also be selling them directly to anyone who wants me to scribble on 'em.

And now, back to The Saga of Gonzo The Not Yet Great...

*****

Turnaround

by Kim McFarland

*****

It was a dark and peaceful night. Crickets and cicadas sang in the underbrush of a city park. Streetlamps shone on the trees at the edge, throwing speckles of light into the night scenery. It was late enough that few people were present.

One park bench was occupied. A child-size sleeping bag inhabited by a small creature covered half the seat. Between the sleeper and the back of the bench was a guitar case. A backpack frame rested underneath.

The two police officers assigned to the park looked at the sleeper. He had been here for weeks now, playing guitar during the day and sleeping here at night. They had turned a blind eye because they were sure he was harmless. Certainly he wasn't one of those suspected of using the park as a site for various illegal activities. But tonight they were tasked with clearing out the park, so regretfully they did their duty.

**

The next morning Gonzo was exhausted because he had not slept after the in-processing. He had always known it was a possibility that he could be arrested, but he had believed that as long as he kept his nose down and stayed out of trouble people would leave him alone. So much for that, he thought miserably. Now he would have a criminal record because he had no place to live. He might not even get his guitar and sleeping bag—his survival equipment!—back. The only thing that could have made this worse would be if he had done anything to deserve being arrested.

A uniformed man came to the door of the holding cell. He unlocked it and said to Gonzo, "Come with me." Gonzo obeyed silently.

The man led Gonzo to a small room. A desk with two chairs, one behind it and one in front. A surveillance camera mounted in the corner behind the desk. A Monster woman was seated at the desk. She has short, neatly brushed tan fur and shoulder-length, dark brown hair, and wore a knit blouse. She put down the manila folder she had been reading and, smiling pleasantly, said, "Hello, my name is Catherine Monster. Please, sit down." He did. She said, "According to this report, you have been living in the park for approximately a month. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Why do you live there?"

He answered after a hesitation, "It's the safest place I know."

She nodded, looking at his file. "And it's close to work. You play guitar there too, I understand."

"Yeah."

"Is that how you want to live?"

Biting back indignation, he said, "Nobody wants to sleep on a park bench. But what else can I do? You can’t get a home if you can’t pay for it, and nobody will hire a homeless thing."

She nodded gravely. Flipping through his file, she said, "We have found records of a Gonzo Frackle who fits your description. He disappeared from a foster home in Kansas five years ago. Is that you?"

He saw no reason to conceal that part of his past any longer. "Yeah. I'm no longer a minor, so I don’t have to go back," he pointed out.

She turned a page back. "You were placed with many families, but there were no complaints against you. Simple incompatibility. And before that-?" she looked questioningly at him.

He felt as if he were being peeled like an onion. "I don't know. I was found at a farm after a storm. I couldn't remember anything that happened before then. I still don't."

She closed the folder. "We have found little else out about you. What happened between the time you left your last foster family and now?"

He shrugged. "I’ve been living here and there. Moving around. I make enough for food by playing guitar in parks and places."

"Would you object to a more thorough background check?"

That question puzzled him. What for? But he could gain nothing by objecting, and he didn’t think there was anything more to find anyway. "No, go ahead."

She made a few quick notes. He was alert and appeared to be in good health, if scruffy. He was intelligent enough, and it did not look like his attitude would be a problem. She folded her hands on the desk and said, "The police here have said that they have been overlooking you because you pose no danger and are not a nuisance. They would not have arrested you last night, in fact, if they had not been assigned to do a complete sweep of the park. If we find no record of significant criminal activity, then there is no need to cite you for vagrancy or anything else. But if we simply return your things and let you walk away, you'll be sleeping outside again tonight, won't you?"

He nodded silently. He was getting tired of this conversation. She seemed to be toying with him, asking questions with obvious answers. He wanted to ask if she thought he was proud of being homeless, having no family and no home to call his own, shivering all winter and baking all summer. Of people glancing at him and then quickly away—don't make eye contact!—or, worse, gazing at him in pity. But he was in no position to talk back now. He could only let her do whatever she was going to do to him and then go on with his life.

She told him, "You are far from the only person this has happened to, Mr. Frackle. All too many people slip through the cracks. That's why I'm here. Given a chance, many Monsters who have fallen on hard times can become contributing members of society. I think you are one. It will require effort on your part, starting with completing your education, which I see ended at eighth grade. Are you willing to make that effort?"

His eyes widened. Who in their right mind would pass up such a chance? "Yes!"

She smiled. "Good. I’ve been doing all the talking. Do you have questions for me?"

He paused, then asked, "Why do you want to help me?"

She replied, "I work with the TM Institute. This organization was created to benefit Monsters who might otherwise not have access to the opportunities they should. It was founded by a Monster who, although he was at a severe disadvantage during his school days because of his species, still made a fortune in investments. You might say this is his way of 'paying it forward'."

"Oh."

She opened the file again. "I must ask you one more question. Is there anything we have not discussed that might complicate matters? Personal or legal difficulties?"

Reluctantly he said, "Um... I'm not sure I'm a Monster."

"According to your file, you are a Frackle."

He shook his head. "That's what they named me when they found me because I didn’t know my own last name. They thought I looked like a Frackle, but I don't. This is a nose, not a beak. If it turns out I'm not a Monster, will that disqualify me?"

He sounded so worried. She replied, "If you're not a Monster, what are you?"

Looking down, he murmured, "I don't know."

With a reassuring smile she told him, "Then I wouldn't worry about it if I was you. We are not looking for a pedigree. Many Monsters can't be neatly categorized, and in fact some people are called Monsters simply because they defy classification. What's more important is what you decide you're going to be." She paused, then continued, "If you want help, I assure you that you will not be turned away because of your species."

"Wow," he said softly. "In that case, I don’t think there’s anything."

"Good." She stood and gestured at the door. "We don't have to continue this conversation here. Why don't we take a walk?" she said lightly.

"All right."

**

To Gonzo's relief, the police released him and gave back his belongings. Even if he had a home tonight, he wouldn't willingly surrender his survival gear. Catherine talked with him, drawing him out. He was friendly enough when he finally relaxed. His ambition was mainly to be self-sufficient, to have a home and a job and not depend on handouts. After that? He had not given that much thought. He’d still like to play guitar for people. His happiest moments, he told her, came when people smiled at him as he played music in the park.

She bought them both hot dogs from a vendor. After they ate them, she asked to hear him play his guitar. He cheerfully obliged, and when he played a song she knew she surprised him by singing along. Then they were both surprised when, although Gonzo had left his guitar case closed, people still left change. Catherine and Gonzo exchanged looks, then continued singing.

****

Gonzo is copyright © The Muppets Studio, LLC and is used without permission but with much respect and affection. This story is copyright © Kim McFarland (negaduck9@aol.com). Permission is given by the author to copy it for personal use only.

Heh, yep, Catherine and the TMI are Avenue Q references. Kate Monster looks pretty much like a whatnot with fur; she's hardly Monsterish at all. I haven't seen Q either, but I have the book and the soundtrack, and love to sing "Schadenfreude" and "Sucks to Be Me." (And "You Can Be As Loud As The **** You Want...," which I like to imagine the Electric Mayhem rockin' out on.)

*laughs* I started using that about 20 years as a way to combat the blank page syndrome. How to start a story? Slap down that line (or some variation) and go from there! Later on come back and edit it out when I have something better to put there. But somehow I never do. I think that in "Time in a Battle" I must have used it five or six times.

Er... I'm not sure what this means.

BTW, I almost called Gonzo a "Meeskite." Thank goodness I remembered the Frackle thing at the last moment.

Pairaducks Lost is one of my favorites too. It was a beast to write because I was trying to work from Dante's Inferno without sounding preachy or didactic, but when I was done I was pretty proud of the result, if I do say so myself. Until my Oz book came out it was the longest story I'd written, at about 28,000 words.

Don't worry, this arc is nearing completion. I've written the next segment and am currently editing it into shape--I typically put anything I write through 3-6 drafts--and then I have one more to bring Gonzo up to date.

I'm trying to decide how big to make the next series ("Muppets from Earth"). I need to sit down and do an outline to organize my thoughts. I've already drawn up some character designs. More on that as they become relevant...

Here is the penultimate installment in our game of "Spot the Obscure References." Enjoy.

*****

Car Wash Blues
by Kim McFarland

*****

It had been a dark and stormy night. Now it was a cool and pleasant, if damp, morning. Those who visited the South Bay Park stayed on the paths, which were paved with flagstone-like rocks.

Passers-by noticed that a park bench that was normally occupied by a guitar-playing creature during the day was empty. It remained so that day and the next.

*

The campus of the South Bay Regional Polytechnic Institute for the Performing and Industrial Arts Night School was several converted buildings that weren’t being put to any better use. It wasn’t terribly impressive, certainly no Harvard, but it was a college, and it welcomed Monsters.

Gonzo had learned that life went easier if he didn’t quibble about being called a Monster. If he had to live with the stigma associated with being a weird, unclassifiable thing, he might as well accept the benefits too. With the help of the TMI, he had gotten off the streets and earned a GED. He was no longer a homeless dropout. He had been able to get a job, and even rent an apartment. Okay, it had rats, but they paid their part of the rent.

However, he knew that the prospects were not great unless you had some sort of degree. TMI had helped Gonzo find a college that was friendly toward Monsters, and his efforts to better himself, so they had said, had impressed this one into offering him a scholarship. Gonzo had accepted, hoping that this was the last handout he would ever need.

Gonzo stopped in front of a building and checked his schedule. He admitted to himself that this was intimidating. After spending seven years hiding, keeping quiet for fear of being discovered and harassed, he had to remind himself that he had as much right to be here as anyone else. He’d paid his tuition and he had his class schedule. He took a moment to nerve himself, then entered.

*

That Friday, after the morning dew had burned off it was pleasant out. The wind blew in off the ocean, keeping summer temperatures down.

A car pulled up to a car wash that, due to the night’s rain, was not very busy. As it drove up a bell rang, and the rubber-apron-clad attendant came out. He was so short that, when he stood by a car, he could not see through the window. The driver, a young Human male, rolled down his window and leaned out. “Hi, Gonzo. Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in the park all week.”

Gonzo replied, “Sorry, I’m busy in the evenings now. I’m taking night classes.”

“Wow, that’s rough,” the driver said sympathetically.

“Nah, I like it,” Gonzo replied with a grin. He’d take night classes over living on a park bench any day.

“Really? What’re you studying?”

“Theater and Plumbing 101. Two classes, that is.”

“Plumbers make good money. The theater’s full of starving artists, though.”

“Been there, done that,” Gonzo remarked with an amiable shrug.

“So, how about a guided tour?”

“Sure thing. Pull on up!”

While the driver pulled onto the conveyor Gonzo started the car wash up. The passenger, a young Human woman, was startled when Gonzo climbed the front bumper, hopped onto the hood of the car, and waved hello. He posed like a giant hood ornament as the water sprayed and the rotating brushes closed in. “What is he doing?” she exclaimed.

“Just watch,” the driver replied.

Somehow Gonzo stood his ground as the side brushes slapped the car. He went flat, like a Marine crawling forward under gunfire, when the overhead roller descended. He held on for a few seconds, then was swept past the windscreen and over the roof.

When the car emerged, clean and wet, from the tunnel, Gonzo strolled out after it, dripping wet. The passenger got out and ran over to him. “Are you all right?” she exclaimed.

“Sure,” Gonzo replied cheerfully as he wrung out his hat. “I’m going to be soaked by the end of the day anyway, might as well have some fun with it. And the hot wax does wonders for my fur.”

The driver told her, “Don’t worry, it’s cool. He does that all the time.”

He did seem none the worse for wear, aside from looking like he’d taken a walk in a hurricane, she thought as she got back into the car. The driver handed Gonzo a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the change. See you this weekend.”

“Thanks. See you around,” Gonzo replied. The car pulled away. He grinned to himself. He loved to see the looks on people’s faces when he went through the car wash. The first time he had gone through it had been an accident. A driver had not seen him in front and had driven in. Gonzo had clung to the bumper the whole time. Then he did it twice more, and decided he liked it. Before long people were asking him to do his stunt, often to show disbelieving friends. Gonzo happily obliged. Going through the car wash was exhilarating, and it was especially memorable if he forgot to keep his mouth closed when the soap sprayed. And people tipped well afterward. Maybe he had something there.

As he went inside to towel off, he thought that it would be even more impressive if he could somehow get “The Ride of the Valkyries” to play as he went through.

****

Gonzo is copyright © The Muppets Studio, LLC and is used without permission but with much respect and affection. This story is copyright © Kim McFarland (negaduck9@aol.com). Permission is given by the author to copy it for personal use only.