Kermie's Girl (ushy-gushy fanfic)

Whew. I finally caught up with this. My main comment: I'm enjoying the story, and look forward to reading more when the author has the time to post.

I enjoyed seeing Piggy chop the guy on the phone. I find people who talk loudly on their phones annoying--and as a public transportation rider I hear a LOT of that--and talking on the phone in the bathroom is just disgusting. "There's one phone I'm never gonna ask to borrow."

Seymour is really starting to creep me out. Reading about him outside the theater door, I remembered the time police came to my door one night because they'd picked up someone peeping-tomming outside my bedroom window. I want to tell Seymour to get some flippin' help, 'cause that's just messed up.

Fleet Scribbler is starting to become a slightly sympathetic character. I feel that this is wrong. If I can't hate the little twerp, what constants are there in the universe?!

Chapter 114: An Embarrassment of Riches

Scribbler ranted. He raved. He pleaded. He begged. He insisted. He demanded. Finally, he sighed, staring down at the little phone.
“You’re boss sure sounds mad,” said Harve. He was an unrepentant little eavesdropper, but Scribbler was used to it by now.
“That’s not my boss. I’m still trying to get through the emergency contact secretary. Apparently, she doesn’t think I have an emergency, but—boy!—when my boss finds out she didn’t put me through to the home number, it will be an emergency—trust me.”
“So why’re you calling the emergency number? I thought you had a direct line to the boss.”
“I did. I do. The voicemail is full. So I’m stuck going through channels to get my okay to go forward.”
“Whatcha need permission for?” Harve had asked. “You got this, right? You know what to write. From what you say, you know this little piggy like the back of your hand.”
“Used to,” Scribbler murmured, not sure Harve heard him.
“You don’t need nobody’s permission to put down what you know, do you?”
Scribbler stared at the phone in his hand. He hated being on hold, and it suddenly occurred to him that his entire life had felt like it was on hold until…until this. Until she came to Broadway and anything was possible, everything was possible again. The jaded journalist looked from the phone, which was blaring annoying musack and then to Harve’s earnest expression. With a flourish, punched the power button and ended the call. To heck with permission. He didn’t need anybody’s permission to write what he knew, and he knew a lot. He sat down, pulled out his battered laptop and set it up on the rickety little nightstand that he’d moved out into the middle of the floor to use as an erstwhile desk. He began to type, trying to adjust for the rocking motion of the table as his fingers flew over the keyboard. After a moment, the table stopped rocking, and he looked down in surprise to see Harve shoving a small stack of cardboard scraps under the short leg, stabilizing the writing surface. He gave Scribbler a thumb’s up and grinned.
“Thanks, Harve,” said Scribbler, genuinely touched.
“Attaboy!” said Harve. “The pen—er, the laptop, is mightier than the phone!”
For the first time in a really long time, Scribbler grinned.

Piggy made a point of ignoring everything—anything—that might smack of news on her way to the theater the next morning. Mr. Finkel was taking the morning off, but he had sent ‘round a friend of his, a guy by the name of Sparky, to take her right to the door. Sparky had made a compliment of opening the door for her, and Piggy smiled to herself in the back of the cab, amused by the seriousness with which he was taking this charge.
Mr. and Mrs. Finkel had come to the play last night and she had gone out to meet her charioteer’s lady, a short, slightly frumpy but very proper little lady in what was very obviously her best going-to-Sabbath dress and sensible shoes. Mr. Finkel had been stiff and slicked-back in what was evidently his best suit.
“Sylvia, this is Miss Piggy, Mrs. Kermit the Frog,” Moisha Finkel said, exhibiting lovely manners for a New York taxi driver. “Miss Piggy, this is my wife, Sylvia Finkel.” Piggy held out her satin-gloved hand and waited until Mrs. Finkel had recovered enough to take it.
“Moi is so glad you could come,” Piggy had murmured, smiling a sweet smile. “Did you like the show?” She preened a little, brushing her hair back from her face.
“Did I? Well I never saw anything like that,” Sylvia said, clutching her purse and staring. “You were really something else on stage tonight, but…but wow, Miss Piggy, you look like a real movie star now!”
Piggy giggled, spoiling the diva air just a bit. She knew what Sylvia meant, for she had changed out of her bobby-sox and saddle-oxfords and slightly trashy Pink Lady clothes and into something that could be worn to the Academy Awards. In fact, this dress had been worn to the Academy Awards a couple of years ago, and Piggy liked to haul it out to make an entrance in once in a while. With her blond hair spilling around her shoulders instead of hidden beneath Rizzo’s sassy wig, Piggy looked every inch the movie star.
“I like this one, too,” Piggy had murmured. “My wardrobe is better than Rizzo’s.”
“But not as much fun,” Sylvia blurted, and they both laughed. “When Moisha told me we were going to a show, well, I never,” Sylvia said, still holding Piggy’s hand. “When he asked me to guess who he picked up in his cab I never even imagined!”
“Well, vous should imagine, once in a while!” Piggy teased. She turned and gave her cabbie the evil eye. “You are taking her somewhere lovely to eat?”
“Oh, yes ma’am,” said Finkel, proud and proprietary. He turned and gazed down at his wife’s head, beaming at Piggy. “I’m gonna take my bride out somewhere special. First class all the way.”
“Wonderful,” Piggy insisted.
“And Sparky’ll be round for you in the morning,” he’d said earnestly. “He’s a good kid. He’ll keep you safe.” He put his big arm around his little wife and walked her toward the door. The sight of it made Piggy tear up just a little, thinking of Kermit. She knew what it was like to feel that firm, proprietary hand on the small of her back, guiding her safely through a crowd.
Piggy had seen them off as far as the lobby, though of course it had been impossible to show herself outside the theater. Even showing herself again in the atrium had caused a hue and cry at the door that had made security call nervously for reinforcements. Piggy had shot them an apologetic look and slipped out of sight again to go back to her dressing room and face the long night ahead. Little could she have known how different her night would be from the one she had planned, or the one she had anticipated spending alone.
Sparky pulled up to the door. He opened the door for her with such energy that Piggy was half-afraid he might try to carry her inside, then stopped and saluted. Piggy made a valiant effort to hide her amusement, but she leaned forward and straightened his collar gently.
“Thank you, Sparky,” Piggy said. She reached for her packages but he shook his head firmly.
“It’d be even bets who’d tan my hide worse—Moisha for letting you lift a finger, or my mother for making a lady carry her own packages.”
Over Piggy’s protests, or at least despite them, Sparky carried the bundle of papers to the front door. To be fair, it was a big bundle—okay, a huge one—and Sparky opened the door for Piggy with difficulty. At the door, security gave Sparky the gimlet eye while he gave them one in return.
“This is Sparky,” Piggy said to the big, burly­­ redhead in the tailored security uniform. She smiled sweetly at her substitute cabbie. “Could Moi have your ID for a moment, mon ami?”
Sparky nodded, taking the chain over his neck and laying it in her tiger-striped gloves. They matched her velvet heels today, and complimented her little black day dress to perfection. Piggy handed the chain and tag to the guard with a flourish.
“Put…” She paused, reading the little ID tag. “…Myron on the list, please,” Piggy said, and though her voice was sweet and she said “please” there was no hint at all that it was a suggestion and not a command. She had found it necessary to be a bit…determined with security in order to have some freedom of choice.
The redheaded guard grunted, but made the mistake of meeting those electrifying cobalt blue eyes. “Um, yes ma’am, um, Ma’am,” he stammered, six-foot-two and two-fifteen worth of bashful schoolboy.
Piggy waited while he copied the information, then returned the chain and tag to its owner and wrestled her papers away from him.
“Thank you, Sparky,” Piggy said.
Sparky saluted again. “Moisha, um, Mr. Finkel will be around for you this afternoon. Same time unless you call him, okay?”
“Okay.” He edged out the door and the guard shut the door firmly behind him. “Thank you Harry,” Piggy said, breezing past him with her arms full of newsprint.
Harry watched her trot down the hall, thinking later that he should have offered to carry her things, but at the moment he could only think of one thing: She had actually remembered his name.

The phone rang at the The Frog house at an unprecedented hour.
No one I know would call me at this hour—except Piggy or Scooter, Kermit thought, rolling over and grabbing for the phone. It took a couple of tries but he finally managed to corner it and wrench it from its holder.
“Piggy? Scooter?” he blurted, still too bleary to think well.
“Naw, it’s me,” said Marty, no hint of apology in his voice. “I know you’re not up yet, but she is and I thought I’d give you a call and tell you the papers were fine, just fine.”
Kermit felt adrenaline surge into his bloodstream. “The…the reviews were good?”
“Good. Great. Fantastic. Astounding. Tony-worthy,” Marty said off-handedly. “No surprises there.”
“Where are the surprises?” Kermit asked, reading between the lines. He felt his whole body clench while he waited for Marty to answer.
“Not too many of them, either,” Marty said. He proceeded to educate Kermit, chapter and verse, on the tabloid twaddle that had inevitably followed Piggy to Broadway and was now trying to capitalize on her debut. Kermit listened, making mental notes that he hoped wouldn’t evaporate when Marty hung up.
“Don’t worry,” Marty interrupted his thoughts with the annoying appearance of clairvoyance that he had. “I’ll send you an email with the highlights of our conversation.”
Kermit wanted to be churlish but he was too tired—and too grateful. “Thanks, Marty. So…you think the worst thing is from The Stripe?”
“Yeah—there’s was the meanest. Nothing bad about the show, but some real hateful stuff about her—about what a Jezebel she is, leaving her poor faithful frog at home. And then they had to go and say something about her hair, which is really gonna tick her off.”
“Her hair, or Rizzo’s hair?” Kermit asked, parsing to be sure he was not caught off guard.
“Her hair,” Marty said, and Kermit let out a low whistle.
“Brave or stupid,” Kermit said. “They’ve got offices in New York, don’t they?”
“They do for the moment,” Marty growled, and they left it.
Ten minutes with Piggy’s agent and Kermit was ready to hear the news from Piggy without being blind-sided or shocked by anything, so his entire reaction could be for her, ready to soothe and comfort her without having to deal with his own surprise and disappointment.
“And you don’t come off looking too bad,” Marty said. “A little control freaky and a little ‘unwilling to share her magnificence with the world,’” he deadpanned, quoting one of the more flamboyant blogs. “But no matter how they try to paint it, you sent her to Broadway to fulfill her dream and you’re roughing it at home without her. Hard to make you out to be a big monster with that.”
“Hard, but not impossible,” Kermit said lightly, but there was an edge of bitterness to his voice.
“No,” Marty answered honestly. “But we’re gonna do our best to keep you guys as fireproof as possible.” There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. Kermit actually felt Marty debating the wisdom of what he was about to say.
“Go ahead,” Kermit sighed. “Tell me.”
“Look—I talked to Scooter. I know what happened wasn’t your fault, but this can’t happen again. Only a couple of the papers hinted at you not being there for opening, but Broadway debut the public understands—post-production, not so much. We gotta get you up there!”
“I know, I know,” Kermit moaned, guilt dogging him like Floyd on payday.
“Next time you plan to go, you gotta make sure you get there, okay?”
Kermit’s answer was terse. “I know.” He felt defensive and angry and hurt and…lonely and put upon. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t get to go! He hadn’t even over-promised! That had been Scooter! Immediately, Kermit felt guilty again. Scooter had only been trying to do something nice, something wonderful, and here he was being ungrateful and snarky and indignant. He felt a sharp pain in his gut and wondered if frogs could get ulcers.
“Kermit….” Marty said, sensing the coldness on the other end of the line, but Kermit dredged up his company manners with an effort.
“Okay. No problem. And we’re going to touch base later in the week about the Oscars, right?”
“Right,” Marty said. He wished there was something more to say, but there really wasn’t. He was doing his job, just like Kermit was doing his. “I’ll catch up with you about mid-week for sure.”
“Thanks, Marty,” said Kermit, and managed a smile, a real smile. “Thanks for letting me know. Piggy did good, huh?”
“Your girl did fantastic,” Marty said. “She took the big town by storm.”
They said their good-byes and hung up.
Later today, Piggy would call, and he would get to congratulate her, and praise her and tell her how amazing she was, and how proud he was of her. That was a good thing to look forward to, but what Kermit was really thinking about, what was making his day bright in spite of everything, was thinking about what Marty had said. His girl. His girl did fantastic. It made everything better just to know it.

For the first time since she’d been coming into the theater every morning, Piggy was greeted by friends. Darcy came running up and hugged her as soon as she cleared the hallway, squealing with delight and upsetting half of her newspapers, which tumbled to the floor.
“Did you see? Did you see them?” Darcy cried.
Piggy shook her head. “No. Moi brought everything with her.” She did not try to explain that the muppets had always faced reviews and congratulations together the morning after. She did not think she could explain why it was important to her to do it here, with friends, instead of alone in her apartment, but she knew that’s what she needed to do. If the news was bad, they would face it together. If the news was good, they would celebrate as a family. Piggy was doubtful that the tenuous holds of friendship that she had been forging here would survive some of the things she had survived with Kermie and her friends, but this is the way she had always done it, and this was the way she was going to do it now.
With Darcy’s help, she gathered up her papers and carried them toward the dressing room, but before she could get there, Rory came running up and picked her up, twirling her in a circle. The man had amazing biceps, Piggy had to concede.
“They loved you! They loved us! They loved everything about it!”
“Everything?” Piggy asked. “They liked everything.”
“Well,” said Darcy, “um, there was one nasty little shrew who didn’t like your hair.”
“It’s a wig,” Piggy said, nonplussed. “And I can’t be blond because Sandy is blond,” she explained, “so I have to wear a wig.”
“Oh, no, honey,” said Kristen, coming up with a cup of coffee in her hands. “They weren’t talking about the wig. She was dissing your real do.” She reached out and stroked Piggy’s satiny-soft hair. “They must be crazy—this stuff is like silk.”
“They dissed my hair,” Piggy growled, and the heat emanating from her made her friends back up a step.
“Whoa—just some gripey old biddy at The Stripe,” sniffed Jan. “What does she know?”
“And even she liked your wardrobe—said you certainly had the chops to pull it off,” Harrison said. Harrison played Danny, and although they had played off each other well, they had played off each other warily. Piggy wasn’t sure she liked him, and was even less sure he liked her.
“My chops?” Piggy said, hands crossed across her heaving bosom. “Is that supposed to be some sort of pig joke?”
But Harrison merely stepped back, gave her a scorching once-over and grinned cheekily. “I don’t know,” he said blithely, “but your chops look just fine to me.”
In spite of herself, Piggy blushed and giggled, and the rest of the crowd laughed with her. “So…they like me? They really liked me?” she asked, her blue eyes wide with wonder.
Rory rolled his eyes. “On stop fishing,” he demanded. “What’s not to like?” He bent and gathered up an armful of newspapers. “Let’s get these papers down to the kitchenette and we’ll show you who said what.”
Carried on a tide of enthusiasm and excitement, Piggy was swept along with the others as they sat and pored over the reviews, each and everyone one of them. It was not the communal activity that it usually was with the muppets, with everyone looking to Kermit for guidance. This was more of a free-for-all, with people calling out things and reading lines they liked aloud with no thought of who was already talking.
Things did get a little more subdued when Mr. Lowery stopped by and poked his head in. While Lowery was well-liked, he was still the boss, and still the man with the power of life or death for their characterization. He looked at them all gathered around the table, newspaper spread everywhere, coffee and a contraband strudel in plain sight. He took in the sense of camaraderie thoughtfully, then smiled his wry smile.
“Nice work, everybody. Piggy—a sterling debut.”
Piggy pouted prettily. “I was going for the gold,” she teased, and felt as much as saw several of the others quick, surprised intake of breath. You usually didn’t josh around with Lowery—at least, not much. But Lawrence merely smiled benevolently. “Go for the Tony gold,” he quipped. “I hear it’s up for grabs this year.”
Piggy laughed as he walked away, then stared at her friends’ surprised and startled expressions.
“That was—he doesn’t usually kid around much,” said Trudy thoughtfully. “He must be in a really good mood.”
“I’d be in a good mood if these were my reviews,” said Rory.
“They are your reviews,” Piggy insisted. “ I may be the new face on the block, but vous are the block party.”
“Did someone say party?” said Cordell, slipping in the door conspicuously late.
“Get your fanny over here and see what they say about it in the newspapers,” said Kristen coolly. Cordell grinned and made a kissy face at her, then patted his rump.
“In your dreams,” Kristen called indignantly, then burst out laughing, and everybody laughed with them. Piggy sat in the middle of it, thinking how different this was than what she was used to, and how different things might have been if she hadn’t done well, or she hadn’t finally turned her co-workers into friends. She thought about Kermit, and how wonderful it would be to call him later and tell him that she had done her very best to make him proud of her, that she had done her very best to shine on Broadway. The day was starting well, and she still had something to look forward to.

Sometimes, in cartoons, a character will get so mad that steam will come out of their ears. Scribbler’s boss could probably have been called “animated” that morning while reading his copy, but Scribbler could talk almost as fast as he could type.
“I had to do it!” he insisted, shouting to be heard. “I had to. There’s not a bad review in the lot, and if we had panned it—or her—we’d have looked like idiots. I’ve explained this and explained this a million—“
“—think you’re going to go up there on my dime and write…love letters to that pig’s talent, you’ve got another think coming.”
“I do have another think coming,” Scribbler snapped, “which is a definite improvement over the one think that you’ve been thinking for the past four months. I’ve told you over and over and over again—the way to get her away from him is obvious. If that frog has always put work first, Piggy hasn’t put it far behind. There was a time when she wanted fame more than she wanted him, and that could happen again.”
“I want him miserable! And I want him miserable now!”
“If she’s here and he’s there, you’ve probably got your wish,” he countered, taken aback by the venom spewing from the other end of the line.
“You’re not getting it,” growled his boss. “I don’t want him unhappy. I want him crushed, devastated, defeated! I want him writhing in a little frog puddle of unhappiness on the floor!”
Scribbler thought, not for the first time, that those who couldn’t write often tried to edit, and he was glad he wasn’t editing the purple prose that he was hearing. Yeesh!
“Trust me, if she leaves him, he’ll be a, um,…” He could not bring himself to say, “frog puddle of unhappiness.” “…one lonely, miserable frog. When she leaves, she’ll take everything he’s living for right out the door with him.”
If there hadn’t been smoke on the other end of the line, Scribbler’s boss might have heard the confessional tone in his voice and made him writhe later, but hatred for the frog seemed to be deafening as well as blinding.
“Just do whatever it takes, you miserable excuse for a journalist!” And the phone banged down in Scribbler’s ear.
“There now,” said Harve. “Aren’t you glad you didn’t ask permission?”
Scribbler had to laugh, but it was grim and mirthless. “I’m glad I don’t have to ask for anything right now,” he admitted. He set the little phone down on the table, wondering if it might burst into flame like a letter in a Harry Potter movie. “But I am glad I wrote what I wanted.”
Harve looked at him, his beady eyes bright. “You think she liked it?”
And Scribbler smiled a slow, satisfied smile.
“I’m sure she liked it,” he said firmly. “Trust me—I know what she likes to hear.”

“—and my favorite was, “Miss Piggy a Natural for Grease!” said Kermit. “They really liked your portrayal of Rizzo, Honey.”
“They really like selling papers,” Piggy retorted, but she had liked that one, too. In fact, it had been her favorite review of all the papers, save one, but she couldn’t exactly talk about that one to Kermit. Although they had talked earlier in the day to share their enthusiasm for the positive reviews, there was too much going on where Piggy was for her to have a long conversation, and Kermit sounded distracted anyway. They had agreed to talk after the show, and Piggy had practically sprinted out of the theater, hair and snout swathed in scarves in an attempt to hide her identity, and dived into the back seat of Mr. Finkel’s taxi.
“Another fantastic show?” he’d asked. “I assume you’re trying to outrun the adoring mob?”
Piggy had laughed a little breathlessly. “Just some of them,” she said, then narrowed her eyes solemnly. “Tell me about dinner last night,” she insisted, and was regaled all the way home by tales of Bleecker Street and dancing the polka till dawn.
Now, showered, moisturized and snuggled into the folds of her pink plush dressing gown with the roses on it, Piggy leaned back into the cushioned softness of her bed and talked to Kermit as long as she wanted.
“So,your cast-mates are nice,” Kermit said. They had run out of anything new to say about the reviews, which were phenomenal, and they had almost run out of mushy things to say that didn’t make them both feel miserable and lonely. Kermit felt so disconnected from her. He was here, surrounded by everything familiar, but nothing felt the same. She was there, where everything must be new and strange. He couldn’t decide if he felt sorrier for her or for himself.
“Everybody has been nice to me,” Piggy gushed. Today.
“And I heard a lot about your costumes in the reviews,” Kermit said dryly. “You having fun with them?”
Piggy smiled. How well he knew her! “Lots of fun,” she admitted, “although I still think I ought to get to wear the pink wig instead of Frenchy.”
“Hmm,” Kermit said. “Pink hair and pink satin. Sounds like a Victoria’s secret ad.“
“Hush,” Piggy admonished him. Kermit swore he could feel her blushing through the phone. She let out a soft sigh. “If you want to check out my cool new duds, you’ll have to come up and see me sometime.” That last said with a Mae West accent.
Kermit smiled and lay back on their bed with his eyes closed. “I will, Sweetheart—just as soon as I can. I promise.”
“Kermie?” Her voice was very small and drowsy.
“Yes, Piggy?”
“Tell me about your day.”
“My day hasn’t been very interesting.” It had been murderous getting the film finished for the second time and off to the editor, but it had not been interesting.
“Moi is interested.”
“Piggy—“
“Tell me what you had for breakfast.”
“Piggy, you don’t—“
“Tell me what you had for lunch.”
“Piggy, you don’t really want to know what—“
“Tell me what Gonzo was wearing today.”
Kermit started to laugh. He closed his eyes again, beginning to relax. Gonzo had come by the studio that morning to check to see if there was anything he could do and his outfit had been eye-popping. “Um, some green and orange plaid pants with cuffs, turquoise suspenders with ladybugs on them—“
“Ladybugs?” Piggy interrupted.
“Ladybugs, I swear,” Kermit said back. “Made me hungry all day. And he had this shirt with all different buttons on it and….”
If he was still and quiet, Kermit could almost imagine that Piggy was here, lying beside him in the big bed while they giggled over one of Gonzo’s fashion escapades. For the first time in a long time, Kermit felt the tension begin to leak out of his frame.
“You’re kidding,” Piggy interjected, giggling a little. She lay back on the enormous bed and put one hand over her eyes, blocking out the light. If she was still and quiet, she could almost imagine that Kermit was here, lying beside her.
The long hand on the clock moved slowly, but it had covered significant ground by the time Piggy closed the little silver phone and turned her face into the pillow. She fought her way toward sleep, wanting to keep the drowsy sense of closeness they had shared. On an opposite coast, Kermit fluffed his pillow determinedly and closed his eyes.
The day had given them an embarrassment of riches—good reviews, film in the can and a contented good-night wrapped in each other’s loving words.

Me too! I've missed you guys! And this is my first KG story post in 2012!

*Sigh* It's supposed to say, "Oh stop fishing!" (Fishing for compliments, which Piggy is wont to do even when being praised and petted. Ah, divas...you have to love them. No--really. It's in their contracts.)
I may be the queen of ush-gush, but I was runner-up to queen of typos! (I am really quite good at editing other people's writing, having worked as an editor before, but I flop miserably at proofing my own stuff. I keep seeing what I thought I typed....)

Made me laugh out loud, that did. Poor thing. Although I went to regional band with a guy named William W. Williams. You can guess what the "W" stood for.

Piggy's boss, who is brilliant and somewhat difficult to engage socially is Lawrence "Larry" Lowry. That was establish in Chapter 101: Making an Entrance. His friends call him "Larry" and those who work for him call him "Mr. Lowry." Piggy calls him "Lawrence" and he likes it. (See aforementioned comment about divas.) I did slip up and call him Mr. Lawrence in Chapter 112: Amateur Night, Part II, and I misspelled his last name as LowEry in the previous post. (I'm not a total loon, I swear--I had used the last name Lowery in a short story, and apparently added it to my computer's "dictionary." When I was breezing through the spellcheck program it apparently asked me did I want to replace with Lowery and I said yes. (See aforementioned comment about seeing what I thought I typed.)

I have a very clear picture in my head of Scribbler's boss in full melt-down mode, and there is always smoke nearby.... Hmmm. Wonder if that is foreshadowing or just coincidence....

This was the scene that I wanted to share the most, the scene of them reaching across the continent, talking about nothing and saying everything to each other about how much they love and need each other.

Me, too, but I am enjoying the process (so far!) Send me good wishes and caffeine!

Ruahnna

Hooray, a nice long update!!

Loved all the good press that Piggy is getting in the show, and I loved the way she reacted to someone dissing her hair- you go get 'em girl!!

LOVED this! Such good PR advice from Marty and the "dogging him like Floyd on payday" remark was awesome!

Excited to read about the Oscar plans Marty has up his sleeve, and loved the tenderness between Kermit and Piggy at the end- long distance relationships are hard and hopefully Kermit will get to visit her soon.

Wonderful ush-gush job as always, can't wait to read more!

I need time to read this(which I don't have) But I will read this soon, it's good to see ya, Ru! Missed you a bunch, and Happy 2012 too!
*Leaves muffin*

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Sigh...Piggy doing a Mae West is PERFECT. That little detail actually garnered the biggest smile here.

Very glad Piggy has finally bonded with most of her fellow thespians (or I suppose, more to the point, they with her!). And glad her charms have earned her some loyal guards in a couple of NYC taxidrivers (whom you generally don't mess with) and the doorman and probably Rory, he of the generous biceps (good for smacking down unfriendly tabloidists and stalkers).

So...what was Cancerboss DOING that was so urgent he couldn't be reached? Curious...

Is Scribbler's twisted little yellow heart getting blood pumped into it again, as he gazes up into the shiny star that is the pig he loves (if it is love) and the friendship of a no-nonsense rat? (Those guys are handy, aren't they?) Will he ultimately turn his back on Cancerboss, when pig comes to shove? I think he might.

Like that Marty prepped Kermit so he could more effectively focus on his girl's needs. Kudos to both of them!

And as for typos...girl, get some danged SLEEP.
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Sleep, I used to know what that was... *Looks in dictionary*
A condition of body and mind such as that which typically recurs for several hours every night, in which the nervous system is inactive,... Hmm. Sounds good. Anyhoo, good story, finally got round to reading it. I laughed, cried, and just about died. Here's to fabulous writing aunty ru!

*Shows puppy dog eyes* Story? *leaves muffin*

Ruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu! You have to update or else I'm going to cryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! My birthday's on saturdayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy and everyone wants an update!

*pokes Ru with the nag stick* Please?

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She's busy teaching first-graders on some obscure inner-city Street. Send the poor woman a cappuccino!

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I will. I'll even put peppermint in it! Ru, you poor woman!

*Sends a cappuccino with brownies and fudge cake*

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What are you doing?

Bumping this, what else?

Uh...sounds rude.

No. Just a way of keeping a good fic in the public eye until its author can catch up to it.

"Catch up to..." Oh no. Did Ru lose her car?

Uh...not that I know of. She's really busy, though. Wanna sign this "get out of class free" card?

You stole that from the Monopoly board. And... *peers closely* Photoshopped it?

So? Signing or not?

Rhonda: Gimme the pen. Come on, Cyrano. Ru put you inta a chapter already. Sign the card!

*scowl, frump* She dumped grease on me!
------------------------

Er...uh...ahem. *blush* Uh -- we must have the same sources! She wanted to know earlier how to figure out if her pc will play Blurays. Um...I referred her to Dr Van Neuter, whom I presume knows a lot more about stingrays, manta rays, and blu rays than I do.

Rhonda: Tell me you're kidding.

Would you rather I lied and gave her false information? Hmf!

*Kris tosses basket of muffins at absent friend*

Huh. I thought yellow roses were for that.
----------------------

Ru,
Wherever you are, whether it be with students, family, or you are sick; I hope you are well and happy. I guess we will just wait here, with nothing interesting to do and mope. I felt the need to tell you that, I think what you do with the muppets and how you play with them is so perfect and Jim-like. I was online in September looking for good muppet fanfiction(preferably pig and frog romance) And Kermie's Girl Ush-Gush came up. I clicked on it not knowing what to expect and discovered muppet central and its wonderful writers and members! I have read this story, guzzling every piece and word, loving it completely! It was because of you that I joined the forum and became a member. You rewired me back into writing and its beauty. So, thank you.
~Figgie
P.S. Some story would still be nice though!

Hi guys! Thanks for all the muffins! Here's something for you to munch on!

Chapter 115: Guys and Dolls

“So what do you think?” Clifford asked. He and Tricia grinned as they waited for Mabel’s response.
“I think I’m glad I didn’t buy that new punch bowl,” said Mabel. “This one here will do just fine, I’m thinking.”
They had set the embarrassingly large trophy on the kitchen table, waiting for Mabel to join them before they unwrapped the cellophane to see what was inside.
There were chocolates, red-hots, a horrifying pair of matching pajamas, a CD of “Songs for Lovebirds” and a couple of items that were put hastily out of sight—but not discarded.
“Well, the punchbowl is all yours, Mabel. I don’t think they’d let me on the plane with that thing.” He turned and looked at Tricia. “Unless you want it? You could take it on the road with you when you tour….”
“Are you joking? There’s barely room for us in the van. I don’t think there’d be room for this monstrosity,” she snorted.
“You could put it on the roof and maybe pick up cable on the way,” Clifford deadpanned, and she laughed and smacked his arm.
“No thanks,” she said, shaking her head. She turned back to her Mom. “So how were Sammy D. and Ol’ Blue Eyes last night? You have a quiet evening?”
“They were great,” said Mabel, but my evening wasn’t that quiet. Forty-two of your siblings called, texted or emailed, so I spent a little time updating my Facebook page, catching up with the gossip on Muppet Central.” She looked at Clifford. “You hear what happened?”
Clifford nodded. “Yeah. Rizzo texted me and told me that Kerm wasn’t able to go. He was a little scanty on details, but I got the impression there was some sort of post-editing problem.”
“Apparently,” said Mabel. Because of nervousness about rumors, no one had been forthcoming with specifics, but experience as a parent had taught Mabel to read between the lines. “I think I’m gonna have to send Miss Piggy another care package.”
Clifford sniffed. “I’ll bet she’s drowning in chocolates by now. The fans will have caught up to her, and she’s probably inundated with all sorts of goodies.”
“Probably,” Mabel admitted. “But the only goodie she’s interested in couldn’t come see her, so maybe I’ll do something anyway. How ‘bout you? You want to come raid the kitchen? I haven’t rustled up any grub for you in about 24 hours, and I was under the impression that you came here for the food,” she said saucily.
“I did not come for the food,” Clifford said with great dignity. “I came for the company.” He turned and looked at Tricia. “I’m staying for the company.”
Mabel saw her unflappable daughter blush, and tried hard not to smile. “Well, come along then, both of you. Let’s go see what Mother Hubbard has in the cupboard.”

“Piggy, I swear—I am going to kill you for leaving those things in here,” Kristen moaned.
“I’m not,” said Stacey, helping herself to another triple caramel crème. “I’m pretty sure that these things are illegal on all seven continents, but I’m not complaining.” Piggy’s late-Valentine and early-fanboy fanmail had caught up with her, and they had been inundated with chocolates and scanty undies. The chocolates were on the make-up table, and the undies were making a colorful pile on one of the chairs.
“Well, if Mr. Lowry sees them in here, he’s going to tip off wardrobe and they are going to start giving us the evil eye,” Darcy moaned. “I can barely fit into my prom dress as it is!”
Piggy was nonplussed, and had another caramel crème as she gave Darcy a saucy look. “Sweetie,” she said. “It’s not the caramel crèmes that are making it hard to fit into your dress.”
Darcy rolled her eyes at Piggy, then looked down to where her t-shirt strained valiantly to hold its shape against the considerable tide of her charms. “Could be,” she admitted. “But there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Why would you want to do anything about it?” Cordell demanded. The presence of forbidden fruit—or chocolate, to be literal—had attracted the guys to the girls’ dressing room and they hovered about and got in the way, trying out their pick-up lines and vying for their share of the goodies.
“I’d like to do something about it,” Harrison said, reaching for a chocolate and managing to upset the box. Darcy giggled. It took four dancers and six hands to keep the ladies’ dressing room floor from being littered with chocolate and creamy caramel paste.
“Good grief—clumsy much? I don’t even know how you stay upright,” Kristen scolded Harrison, slamming the lid down on the box and hauling him out of reach by his shirtfront.
Harrison put an arm around her waist and pulled her into a dip. “I’m much better horizontal,” he smirked. Kristen humored him for an instant, but when he swung her back up to her feet she flipped his nose and then grabbed hold of his ear to haul him toward the door.
“Out!” she said. “Get out of the girls’ dressing room!”
‘Ow, ow, ow!” wailed Harrison. “ You’re tearing my ear off.”
Cordell beat a hasty retreat, following Harrison out the door and shutting it behind him, but not before Harrison could holler back in, “So, Darcy—it’s a date, right?”
Darcy giggled, but shook her head. “Even I know better than to go out with Harrison,” she said.
“Yeah, well, he’s about the only loser around here you haven’t dated,” Trudy said. She had been writing a letter on some of her stage stationary, and the other girls looked at her curiously.
“Who ya writing?” Kristen asked. “I didn’t think your boyfriend could read.”
“Oh, dry up,” said Trudy. “I’m writing my Ma.”
“Your Ma doesn’t text?” said Stacey. “My Mom learned to text.”
“Yeah? Well, your Mom is probably a lot more hip than my mom,” said Trudy. “My mom is real old-fashioned. Besides, she can’t text me. She still has a rotary telephone.”
Listening to the banter, some good-natured, other not-so, Piggy felt like she was finally becoming one of the girls. She shook herself a little, reminding herself not to be a lurker in the conversation.
“So Harrison isn’t date material?” Piggy asked, leaning against the wall. “He seems to think he is.”
“That’s sort of the problem,” Darcy admitted. “He’s so in love with himself, it’s always three’s a crowd.”
Piggy had a sudden insight into why Harrison had been so cautious about warming up to her—he was protecting his own place in the spotlight, afraid Piggy might outshine him. Evidently, he had made his peace with her presence on the show, deciding that it was in his own best interests to be welcoming. Understanding him more, Piggy liked him better instead of worse. Actors were capricious and needy and insecure—at least some of the time—and she was glad to know his show of dislike at the start hadn’t really been personal.
“Oh—I see now. But he’s literate, right? Eats with utensils? And he can act?”
“I won’t vouch for the utensils, but yeah, he’s literate, all right,” said Trudy. “He can come on to you in three different languages.” She smiled to show there were no real teeth in her complaint. “And he can act. Not a bad singer, either.”
“Rory’s better,” said Kristen flatly. “If he didn’t look so much like a rube he’d have been cast as Danny instead.”
And I’d be stuck with Harrison, thought Piggy. She silently blessed whichever parent had graced Rory with his gray eyes and reddish-blond hair. Although she thought Rory could play Danny just as well as Harrison, Piggy admitted privately that his open-faced-kid-acting-tough look was perfect for Kenickie. Still, she thought that Rory would have made a stellar Danny playing opposite Kristen’s cool good looks—but then, again—she’d be stuck with Harrison. Sometimes you just ended up on the right side of things.
“Give me a sheet of that paper,” Piggy said thoughtfully. “Kermit’s literate. I think I’ll write him a love letter.”
This was said more in jest than in earnest, but Piggy was going to write him a note. Email and text were both nice, but Kermit was old-fashioned, and he would love getting something in her own hand in the real mail. They had both been known to save letters. She sat down at her dressing table and wrote a couple of quick lines, nothing more than sweet nothings, but, having written them, she wanted to write more. She did, letting her swirly, feminine hand-writing fill the page. There was nothing of substance in the letter, and it wasn’t truly naughty, but it was full of the little ushy-gushy thoughts that she so associated with her calm and steady frog. She told him how she missed him, and that the sky here was not as blue without him with here. (True, that—the smog here was atrocious!) She told him that she longed for his strong arms around her and that she was hoping to see him soon—and soon, please, sweetie. Piggy would have sworn she had only written a moment or two, but when she looked up, the other girls smirked at her knowingly.
“Earth to Piggy,” they teased. “What were you writing, anyway? An addendum to the Kama—“
“A love letter,” Piggy insisted. “Not a trashy note.”
“Speaking of trashy notes, where the heck did that note come from last night?”
Piggy had surprised everyone by ending “There are Worse Things I Could Do” on a heroically sustained note. She shrugged. “I can go a long time without taking a breath,” she said nonchalantly.
“Is that from practicing?” Trudy asked, earnest now. Her own voice was sweet but did not have the staying power of some of the other girls.
“No,” Piggy said slowly, licking the envelope. “That’s from being married to a frog. They are terrific kissers.”
The giggles followed her out the door.

“So, this is the new schedule?” Kermit asked. It looked better than last weeks’ schedule, but then—anything looked better than last week’s schedule, and anything would be better than last weekend’s schedule.
“Unless you see anything we should change. I know it looks intense but I want to bank as much time as we can,” Scooter said, half-apologetically. He did not explain why; he did not have to.
“You’re the boss of me,” Kermit said, and in spite of how tired they both were, it made them smile.
“Good,” said Scooter. “Then I’m giving us both a raise.”
Kermit snorted. “I said you were the boss of me. Unfortunately, the budget is the boss of everything right now.”
“You know,” said Scooter grumpily. “In our movies we’re always broke, and it’s sort of charming.”
“Um hum,” Kermit acknowledged. “Because we did, you know, struggle in the beginning. I think that whole…feel of doing it for the love of the thing is what made that sentiment work.”
“Yeah…I can see that,” said Scooter. “But in real life,” he said sourly, “money troubles stink.”
“Worse than Lew Zealand’s act in July,” said Kermit, and Scooter grunted. That was saying something.
“But it’s always a little lean just before we release a movie,” Scooter said. “We had to pay for everything but we have gotten any of the spoils of wars yet.”
Kermit gave him a look. “Spoils of war, huh?”
“Um, Sarah and I watched the history channel last night,” Scooter mumbled. “Something about ancient Rome.”
“Did you learn anything?” Kermit asked. “Other than what the spoils of war are?”
“I learned I need to go to the gym more,” Scooter said ruefully.
“Don’t we all,” Kermit agreed.

Piggy dropped her letter into the mailbox on the corner and turned, but some sixth sense had alerted her before she did, so this time, at least, she didn’t startle.
“Fleet,” she said, eye’s narrowed, nostrils flaring.
He was standing on the sidewalk between her and the theater, hands on his hips, his trench coat flared behind him. He looked leaner than she remembered, and his hair was shorter and less unkempt that it had been the last time she’d seem him. “D’you read my review?” he demanded.
Piggy had been ready to launch into a diatribe, but his aggressiveness caught her off guard.
“Your-your review?” she stammered, her bottled-up angry thoughts deserting her in her moment of need. “What…about your review?”
“Did you read it?” Fleet insisted, but he knew the answer already. Her cheeks were flushed and she would not quite meet his eyes.
“So what if I did?” she quavered, wishing her voice didn’t sound so uncertain. Though her voice sounded unsteady, her eyes were steely and full of fire.
“I just wanted you to know that…that I meant it. I meant all of it. I remember what you always used to say, about belonging here. I think you belong here, Missy.” The last was said so low that Piggy almost couldn’t hear it, but he knew she had because one velvety ear twitched forward and the blush deepened.
“Saying that doesn’t make up for what you’ve done!” Piggy hissed. “It’s too late to try to be nice and say the things you think I want to hear.” Drat him, he had always been good at that, at burrowing into her defenses and soothing her tattered ego.
“You do want to hear them.” Fleet said smugly. “Somebody ought to say them, because I know you want to hear them.”
Piggy balled her hands into fists. “Not from you.”
That made him flinch, but it also made him grin. “Yeah?” he said. “Well—he’s not here, is he?”
Angry tears sprang into Piggy’s eyes. How dare he! How dare he mock her loneliness because Kermit’s stupid ol’ job was more important than coming to see her on Broadway! Shocked by her own reaction, Piggy took a swift intake of breath. “He’ll be here,” she said, her voice low and vibrating with emotion. “You wait and see.”
“I’m good at waiting,” Fleet said flatly. “Lots of practice. And I meant it, Missy—I meant those things I said, those things I wrote. Every one of them. You are wonderful, marvelous, talented—too talented to be—“
“Go! Please…just go, Fleet. There’s nothing here for you.”
“You’re here,” he countered. “That was enough for me before.”
He had scored. He could feel it, could see it in her tragic blue eyes, but he was not asbestos himself, and he had no desire to see if she would erupt in anger or pain. Best to be far away, and leave her with what he had said.
“Get away from me,” Piggy said, her voice shaking with anger. “Go far away and let me be.”
“I’ll go,” he said, “but I won’t go far. And you know you can count on me. My word is good.”
Piggy stared after him as he turned and walked toward the corner, then disappeared down the alley. Heart thumping, hands shaking, Piggy fought her way back to calm and tried to think. What did he mean, his word was good? What was he implying—that Kermit’s wasn’t? That she had somehow betrayed his trust? After a moment, the chill air made itself felt, and Piggy pushed her decorously- but insubstantially-gloved hands deep into her coat pockets. He brain was tired and she was weary of these stupid mind games she couldn’t seem to get away from. She did not see a slight figure emerge from a taxi at the end of the street, did not see him approaching her swiftly from the rear, hopeful of overtaking her. But the wind was chill and Piggy was cold. She hurried forward and gained the lobby before anything else could happen.

Rowlf felt someone behind him, but before he could turn, Jolalene had slipped past him and inserted herself into the four inches of space between Rowlf and the sliding bus door.
“Hi Rowlf,” she purred, her voice low and inviting. “I see you’re done practicing that new number.”
“Oh, um, yeah. Trying a little something different on the bridge,” he said.
“Want to try a little something different on the bus?” Jolalene said archly. “I was just going to slip on something more comfortable and settle in with a nice big chew toy. Want to join me?”
Rowlf had seen this one coming down the tracks toward him, but he hadn’t yet figured how to get out of the way.
“Gosh, Jolalene,” Rowlf said slowly. He looked up at here—she had about four inches on him when they were both standing upright—and gave a lopsided grin. “I sure do appreciate the invite, but I don’t think I’m quite ready to settle in for the evening,” he said politely. “Maybe I could take a rain check?” Jolalene was not fooled by this show of good breeding.
“So what’s the deal, sausage boy?” she demanded. “You swapping chew toys with somebody back home already?”
Rowlf took a deep breath. “No,” he said finally. “Not exactly. It’s just…gosh, Jo, you sure are something else, and I might just be crazy for taking a pass on this evening, but the truth of it is that I think you’re a little too much for me.”
Rowlf had expected her to snap—maybe even bite—but he was surprised at her astonished expression. She crossed her arms across her chest and her wide mouth curved into a smile. “Tell me more,” she purred.
Rowlf let out the breath he’d been holding. “You are one heckuva singer, and you are one heckuva lady, but I would be lying if I even said I thought I could keep up.” Rowlf scratched self-consciously behind one ear. “I got a buddy, and he got it bad for a girl like you from the get-go. It ended kind of badly for him.”
“So what happened?” Jolalene said, amused.
“Oh…well, they got married.”
“Married?!” She looked faintly horrified.
“Yep. Once he met her, that was it for him.” He grinned up at Jolalene cheekily. “I couldn’t chance that now, could I? Falling for you so hard it hurt?”
“Well no,” said Jolalene, playing along. “And I sure don’t want things to end badly between us.”
“Glad you see my point,” said Rowlf. “Now, if we were just a couple of guys from the band, sharing a chew toy or two…well, that’d be different, if you see what I’m getting at.”
“I do, rather,” said Jolalene. She slipped a finger under his collar and tugged him after her. “I guess I could just be one of the guys tonight,” she admitted. “Let’s go find a movie to rent.”
“With car chases?” Rowlf asked. “I love car chases.”
Jolalene just looked at him. “What else?”

“Yes—it is perfect, but she can’t wear it—not this year, anyway,” said Thoreau. Howard put the sketch back down on the light board regretfully.
“What a shame,” he murmured. “That shade of blue….”
“Yes. I know. Perfect with her eyes. But she’ll be stuck in whatever they have her wearing on stage.”
“The reviews were good—everybody liked her wardrobe.”
Thoreau snorted. “Yeah. It was her wardrobe they liked.”
“I see your point.”
“Well, you know, she dresses more like a nun when she’s on stage with that frog,” Thoreau said.
“She wasn’t dressed like a nun for the movie,” Howard pointed out, more to hear what Thoreau might say on the topic than to be argumentative.
“Have mercy—that’s true, but I thought he was going to have a fit until they added more beads.”
“I didn’t know you designed those outfits!” Howard said, giving his friend a surprised look, but Thoreau threw his expressive hands up in the air.
“Not guilty,” he said hastily. “Although I got chapter and verse about it from Piggy while they were filming.” He sighed, his expression thoughtful. “It must be difficult, being entranced with someone so amazing, someone so adored and in the public eye.” He turned to find Howard looking at him with amusement and felt his cheeks flush scarlet.
Howard’s voice was dry. “I’ll keep you posted.”

The audience tonight seemed inclined to like everything they did, and everything they did caused the audience to want more. The show was running on an excess of exuberance, and Piggy was privately concerned that they might peak well before the second half got started.
She had wrestled her composure back into place and was almost fully engaged in diva mode, but one small part of her brain still wrestled with what Fleet had said.
What did he mean, about being as good as his word? After she and Kermit had gotten married all of her suitors had been forgotten in the rush of new happiness. Fleet had not had anything good to say about her marriage. In fact, he had not said—or written—anything about the wedding, about the way Kermit had whisked her away to Paris for a quick honeymoon, about how they had settled in to domestic bliss. The reporter who had once had everything to say about Miss Piggy said nothing—nothing at all—about the new Mrs. the Frog.
Piggy had assumed that after the first shock had worn off—she had been surprised herself—Fleet would come around again. She had expected him to be disappointed. She had not expected him to quit his job and practically disappear. Her marriage to Kermit had been a bigger blow to him than she had imagined—she had never—no, never—hidden her true feelings about Kermit from Fleet. She had, perhaps, fudged a bit on Kermit’s feelings for her, and Fleet must have known that, but perhaps he had counted on Kermit’s feelings being even less than they were. The first time they had seen each other after her wedding had been several years later, and the meeting had not gone well.
She had burst, triumphant, into a swirl of back-stage reporters, fresh from presenting an award with Kermit at the Academy Awards. She had looked up from arranging her feather boa to find Fleet staring at her with something like pain, and had not known what to say. But the reporters had been surrounding her, wanting a quote, wanting an interview, and by the time the fuss had died down, Fleet was nowhere to be seen. After that, they ran into each other sporadically, and each time Fleet seemed pained to see her. His writing began to reflect it, and where he had once been glowing about her potential, he began to be critical of her project choices, critical of her staying so firmly inside Kermit’s orbit.
As good as his word, Piggy mused. Well, she had certainly been as good as her word. She had told Fleet that one day—one day—she was going to marry that frog. And she had.
The show was over, the bows taken, the crowd finally dispersed enough for her to make a dash for her cab.
“How’d it go, Miss Piggy?” said Moishe Finkel. “You wow ‘em again, tonight?”
“Piece of cake,” said Piggy, daring the fates to defy her.
“Well, I’m not surprised,” he said loyally. “Nobody can say nothing bad about your acting!”
For just a moment, Piggy let the façade slip. “I wish they couldn’t say anything bad about my marriage,” she said quietly.
Finkel made sympathetic noises. “You just ignore those schmucks,” he said. “I told your agent he ought to shut those stupid tabloids up.”
Piggy leaned forward, speechless with surprise. “Marty’s here?” she said. “When did you see Marty?”
Finkel turned around and looked at her. “The other day. After you went to that car lot. He came looking for you, just making sure there weren’t any reporters following you that day.”
Piggy sat still, very still, her mind racing. All thoughts of Scribbler fled from her mind, and she clicked through question after question in her head, unable to get one out. Finally, her silence concerned him. When he pulled up at a red light, Finkel turned and looked at her.
“You okay, Miss Piggy? Don’t let that tabloid stuff bother you—who reads that stuff anyway.”
“Moishe,” Piggy said quietly, finding her voice at last. “My agent’s name is Marty and he’s in California. If you talked to someone who said he was Moi’s agent here in New York then he was lying.”
“I knew it,” Finkel said, slamming the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. This caused the driver in front of him to flash the “Welcome to New York” sign, but Finkel didn’t notice. “I knew he wasn’t on the up-and-up.”
“What did he…what did you…say to him?” Piggy asked. She did not want to accuse her friend, but she needed to know what had been said.
“I didn’t say nothing,” said Finkel. “I told him you and your actor friend were just checking out a car lot—no flirting, no nothing. Just an errand.”
Piggy was thoughtful. There had been no tabloid articles mentioning her afternoon excursion with Rory, but somebody at the theater had obviously tipped off Chad because he had known enough to ask about it. Still, there had been no printed gossip….
“Thank you, Moishe. That was very smart of you.” She paused, thinking. “What did he look like, this fellow?”
Here, Moishe’s description failed to move her. Although he had a good eye for detail, and remembered specific things about his coat and hat, her cabbie insisted that the man had been nondescript in every sense of the word.
“But you thought he was a reporter?”
“I thought he was, yeah,” said Finkel. “But I told him I wasn’t talking to no stinking reporter, and that’s when he told me he was your agent.” He looked at Piggy miserably. “I’m sorry, Miss Piggy. I should have told you sooner.”
Piggy smiled, making an effort to assuage his unhappiness. “Not to worry,” said Piggy. “Reporters I’m used to.” But who was this reporter? Not Fleet. The hair was wrong. Fleet had always stood out, with that mop of silver hair. Piggy had teased him about it many times. She did not know who the reporter might be, or what he might do with the information he had gotten, but Fleet would know. He would be aware of anyone that was aware of her. Piggy took a deep, slow breath. The next time she saw Fleet, she had a few questions to ask him.