Kermie's Girl (ushy-gushy fanfic)

aw man great update- I love how Kermit used Piggy for inspiration to help make Scooter feel better and wow, Strathers is a total nut-job (and not in a good way like crazy harry or Dr. phil van neuter, lol).

I cannot wait until our two lovebirds are united again- desperate as always to read more!

Chapter 118: The Curious Incident of the Badger and the Lo Mein
The next couple of days saw everybody busy about their own business—or other people’s. Kermit and Scooter put the desert scene to bed and Scooter meticulously copied their next segment before dropping it off at the digital imaging editors. As a final precaution, he and Kermit watched the footage roll start to finish just to make sure everything was hunky-dory. Determined, with fire in his eye to match the fiery red of his hair, Scooter set out to deliver the film. Kermit had promised to procure edibles of some sort, and he was scrolling through his extremely backed-up email while lurking around the doorway waiting for the delivery badger to arrive with the food.
His stomach rumbled loudly, causing Kermit to frown and wonder if there was anything—anything at all—left over from the Valentine’s party. The fridge had been picked clean, but he hadn’t actually looked in the old freezer for stray cupcakes or eggrolls or anything. He seemed to remember Sara putting things away, and his flippered feet went faster as he thought about finding something from her kitchen to munch on while he waited for lunch.
He had to scoot the table and chairs to the right in the tiny break room in order to even open the freezer, and Kermit struggled to get the lid up, eyeing the overabundance of frost ruefully. A large chunk of ice dropped on the ground and skittled under the freezer. Kermit made a rude noise and decided to hunt for it after he’d looked around—there! He’d been right! Try as they might, they had not managed to eat all of the cupcakes that night, and there was a small chocolate cupcake with white icing and red sprinkles that was positively calling his name. Kermit lunged for it, his froggy fingers reaching— No good. The freezer was a relic—it had probably come across the Pacific on the Ark—and while Kermit was tall enough to see everything in it, his arms weren’t long enough to reach what he saw. Smugly, the cupcake taunted him, just out of range. Kermit felt his mouth watering and looked around in frustration. Inspiration hit and he reached back with his right flipper and snagged one of the chairs, dragging it over so he could stand on it. Actually standing on the chair while he held the heavy freezer lid open proved to be quite a feat, and Kermit balanced precariously on one foot, the other stretched behind him for balance as he groped in the bottom of the freezer.
He heard the studio door open, suddenly remembering the food delivery, and contemplated dropping the lid to deal with that first, but he was so close. “Hang on a second!” he called out to the delivery badger. “I’m in the break room getting something out of the freezer! Be right there!” The badger could be impatient if made to wait, but Kermit’s fingers could almost grasp the paper baking cup. He could feel the fluted edges on his fingertips and, straining, took hold of the little comestible with a cry of triumph.
“Aha!” Kermit cried, and several things happened at once. The chair lurched beneath him, he lost his balance and the lid to the freezer started closing. Kermit dropped the cupcake and grabbed the lid, which proved to be a tactical mistake. The heavy lid continued to descend, momentum dragging it down. Kermit gave a groan and a heave, wrenching the freezer lid open again—
--and tumbled into the freezer itself. Scrambling to his feet, Kermit grasped the edge of the icy box and tried to swing one leg over as well, but the lid banged down on the top of his head and knocked him out, and backward, and down. The freezer lid closed and sealed.
All was still in the kitchen for several seconds, then a muffled figure walked gingerly across the floor…and pushed the chair casually under the break-room table, where it had resided until Kermit had nabbed it. The figure paused and nodded once in satisfaction. Excellent. The room looked like it always did, with no hint that there was a slowly solidifying frog in the freezer. It was tempting to linger, to savor the moment, but that little red-headed assistant would be back soon, so there was no time to waste. The swaddled figure walked quickly back toward the studio door, slipped through it, and was gone.

Piggy got to the theater early that day, trying to vary her schedule a little. She had gone to the dressing room and was laying out a few things. She needed to decide what to wear when she and Kermit “talked” on awards night, and she wanted to talk to Thoreau first. He had not been up to see her yet—there had apparently been some change in the schedule—but he was still planning a working vacation here in New York, and Howard was still coming with. On impulse, Piggy called him and—to her complete surprise—he answered on the first ring.
“Darling!” he cried. “How are vous! How’s every little thing in the Big Apple?”
Piggy giggled, relaxing just a little. The conversation with Fleet, and the worry over what Moishe had told her, and the worry over who was following her and the worry over Kermit—who was probably working his little green butt off—had taken their toll on her mood and she was glad for a familiar voice on the other end of the line. “Every little thing is larger than life here in New York. Moi thought you were coming to see for yourself!” Implicit in that comment was, “Where the heck are you?” and Thoreau set his phasers to “soothe.”
“I am coming, my goddess. In fact, I am coming Saturday. Or rather—we are coming Saturday.” His voice became abject—as least, as abject as Thoreau’s voice ever got. “I know it’s short notice but you can still get us tickets?”
“Oh! Oh—Thoreau! How wonderful! Of course Moi can get you tickets.” With the shows all sold out, Piggy had simply thrown her comped tickets into the cast’s cache of tickets, counting on the fact that—when her company came, the favor would be returned. “When are you coming?”
“Our plane leaves about six-thirty Friday night,” said Thoreau. “We’ll pull in there at some ungodly hour, but the only thing on the agenda for Saturday is you, sweetie, so we’ll probably sleep in and call when we’re up and presentable.”
“By all means—wait until you’re presentable!” Piggy cried in mock horror, and giggled again when her designer made an indignant little huff. “Call me and I’ll come get you at your hotel, then we’ll go to the theater early. How is that?”
“That is de-lovely,” said Thoreau. “But you didn’t call me to talk about my schedule,” he said at last. “What gives?”
“Actually,” said Piggy. “Moi did call to talk to you about your schedule. Kermit and I are supposed to appear, um, together at the Academy Awards,” Piggy began, but Thoreau interrupted.
“Oh yes—the remote thing,” he said. “With him here and you there.”
“Sadly,” said Piggy, but her tone was matter-of-fact. “I am supposed to be backstage in costume but I am having a hard time deciding what look to go for.”
“Hmmm,” said Thoreau thoughtfully, and Piggy knew he was pulling absently at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve heard about your wardrobe. You’re a regular little hussy on stage, aren’t you?” he teased, and it was Piggy’s turn to huff.
“Moi is still a diva off stage,” Piggy growled, and her friend heard the warning in her voice and got down to brass tacks.
“Okay—so what are you thinking? You’ve got the pedal-pushes, but I’ve heard they’re skin-tight.”
“So are the jeans,” Piggy admitted. “It’s the right look for Rizzo, but not for Moi when she is talking to her frog.” Both of them momentarily imagined Rizzo the Rat in a pair of skin-tight pedal-pushers, then pushed the thought hastily away.
“Is the prom dress awful?”
“It’s not awful,” said Piggy thoughtfully. “It’s a little…streamlined, but not really trashy. Cha Cha’s dress has to be trashier than mine, so it’s actually semi-foufy.”
“A semi-foufy semi-formal?” Thoreau quipped, and they both laughed.
“Um, there’s this one thing I wear but only once—it’s a poodle skirt.”
“Been there, done that better than they do it, I’ll bet.”
“You’d be right. Any inspirations, dear?”
There was a pause, and Piggy heard Thoreau make a disgusted sound. She guessed (correctly) that he’d realized he’d been pulling on the corners of his mouth and desisted. “You know,” said the designer thoughtfully, “I’m thinking maybe the pedal pushers might not be sure a bad thing. It might be useful for you to look like a total tart while you make those ushy-gushy eyes at that frog of yours.”
“Moi does not make—“ Piggy started, then stopped herself. “Okay,” she said, and giggled a little breathlessly. “I do. Is that…will that…work, do you think?”
“Piggy, honey, when you look at him like that he can’t keep his mind on anything else. Tell me that won’t be adorable on national television.”
Piggy thought about it. She thought about the outfit, and the way it hugged her curves, and the way Kermit was likely to look at her when he first saw it, and then saw him going from indignant to mushy right there in front of the cameras. It could work.
“He is very cute when he gets all befuddled,” Piggy said.
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” her designer said dryly.
“Said the man dating his own pig,” Piggy shot back, and it was—again—Thoreau’s turn to make a huffy noise.
“Well, just remember that this won’t work if you don’t go all melty when you see him. The audience will have to see it to believe it.”
“They’ll see it,” Piggy almost growled, trying not to grit her teeth.
“I believe it,” said Thoreau. They talked a few minutes more, and Piggy remembered to ask him if Sara had taken him up on her offer. Thoreau’s voice became furtive.
“She did,” he said, trying not to gush (and failing). “That little periwinkle number with the Austrian crystals looks gorgeous on her, and I didn’t have to do a lot too it. She’ll be a knock-out on Skippy’s arm Sunday night.”
“Scooter,” Piggy insisted, but knew he was just yanking her chain. “Scooter will be surprised when she comes out in that,” she said firmly.
“Nice of you to give her your seat.”
“Well, the Academy wouldn’t dare take it back because Moi is presenting, even though it’s not in person. I don’t see why she shouldn’t use the ticket, and there’s no point in going at all if you don’t look fabulous.”
“She’s no you, my darling, but she does look fabulous in that dress.”
“You’re a dear for doing the alterations,” Piggy said, and the wistful tone in her voice told Thoreau she had to hang up soon.
“Already on your bill,” he quipped.
”And you are coming on Friday?”
“I’ll see you Saturday,” he reminded her.
“And you really don’t care about being out of town during the Academy Awards? What if some starlet needs your help finding something for the red carpet?”
Thoreau’s chuckle was rich. “Dearheart—why do you think I’m leaving town?”

Mere moments after the shadowing figure had gone, the badger showed up with the two vegetable lo meins and knocked on the studio door. When no one instantly appeared, the badger sighed, griping loudly, and pulled the door open to yell inside.
“De! Liv! Rie!” he shouted, expecting the frog to come running around the corner like he usually did. No frog. He shouted again. “Hey! I got your lo mein!” he bellowed. “Come and get it.” Nothing happened. No frog. No redhead. No weirdo, either, and no sign of the bear who always told him bad jokes. The badger sighed and had just filled his lungs to holler again when someone came up behind him and he turned.
“Oh, hey,” said the red-headed guy, eyes lighting up at the sight of the food bags. “I guess you need to be paid.”
“You guess right,” the badger grunted. “I called but the frog didn’t come.”
“He’s probably got the earphones on in the editing room,” said Scooter, pulling out his wallet and paying the badger the amount on the receipt stapled to the side of the paper bag. Before the badger could say anything, Scooter held out a five-dollar bill, but when the furry paw reached for it, the guy wouldn’t let go of the other end.
“Did you remember the eggrolls?” Scooter demanded. “And the fortune cookies?”
Grumbling, the badger swung his backpack off his back and consulted a list, then grudgingly added two eggrolls and a handful of fortune cookies. Scooter traded him the five and grinned.
“Thanks,” he said. “You guys make the best eggrolls in town.”
At that, the badger finally grinned. “I’ll give the chef your compliments,” he said, and trundled off.
Happily, breathing in the spicy, gingery smell of the food, Scooter walked toward the editing room but came right back out. Kermit was not in the editing room. Puzzled, Scooter went and knocked on the bathroom door, but Kermit did not answer. Scooter went and looked in the sound booth, now truly bewildered. Perhaps Kermit had stepped out to run an errand—but would he have left the delivery-badger waiting without a note? Scooter decided to call Kermit, who had gotten much better at charging, carrying and answering his phone since Piggy had left, but he couldn’t do that with his arms full of food. He went and sat the bags down on the break room table, then paused. Something about the room seemed off, but he couldn’t quite place it. He fished out his phone and dialed the amphibian he worked for, then heard the phone ringing somewhere. He went to find it and came back, holding Kermit’s phone and looking worried. This wasn’t like Kermit. Kermit was responsible and thoughtful. He left notes and didn’t stand up the delivery people. He had ordered lunch…then what? He wasn’t calling Piggy—here was his phone. Despite the fact that he had programmed—and retrieved—most of the information on Kermit’s phone, Scooter felt vaguely guilty as he checked Kermit’s phone to see if he’d talked to anyone. Nope. Scooter left the kitchen and made a quick circuit of the studio, calling Kermit’s name. No one answered except the echoes. Scooter was beginning to be spooked. He had never thought twice about the cavernous depths of the studio soundstages and he certainly had never worried about what might be lurking in the dark corners. When you worked with monsters, a lot of rather ordinary things didn’t worry you anymore, but he was worried—or at least he was about to be.
Kermit had said he was hungry. At the thought of the food in the white paper bags, Scooter’s mouth began to water. It smelled heavenly, and he was hungry, too. Oh! Of course! That would do it! If Kermit was just somewhere distracted, the smell of the food ought to bring him round. Scooter returned to the kitchen, then stopped in the doorway, put off by that subtle wrongness he had felt before. Something was different about the break room. He counted chairs, looked in the microwave. He even checked on the fridge and in it to see if Kermit had left a note, but there was nothing. Scooter went and opened the bags to set out the food. The smell was tantalizing, but he was no longer hungry. This wasn’t like Kermit—this wasn’t like Kermit at all.
He heard the studio door open and gave a great sigh of relief. Thank goodness! he sighed. But when Fozzie rounded the door Scooter let out a little bleat of dismay. Fozzie looked behind his back self-consciously, hoping he wasn’t the reason Scooter had sounded so disappointed. He took of his hat and twisted it in his hands.
“Um, hi Scooter. I know you are busy and everything, but could I talk to Kermit for a minute?”
“You could if he were here,” Scooter said, and Fozzie looked up, startled.
“But…where is he?” Fozzie asked.
“I wish I knew,” Scooter said. “I went to deliver the film and when I came back he had vanished.”
“How long were you gone?”
“About forty minutes.”
“How long have you been back?”
“About twenty. It’s so strange. I went to deliver the film and he was going to wait on the food. He said he was—oh my gosh! Fozzie! Help me!”
And Scooter was rushing over to the freezer, throwing the lid open and looking down in horror at a very pale, lightly frosted Kermit the Frog.

AAAAAAGGGGHHHH!

NOOOOOOOOO!

DRAMATIC PAUSE!!

Oh wait. Not that. Nevermind.

Oh no!!! Poor Kermit! Also very curious about the swadled figure- who could this evil-doer be!? I hope Kermit is ok!

Love how Piggy intends to surprise Kermit by being in her sexy pedal pushers and using the ush-gush between them as a press angle- love it!

I love all this new updates!!! definitely have missed this story- thank you auntie ru and as always, post more soon!

OMG
OMG
OMG...

More please... pleasez! (Z's make it cuter!)

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WHOAH.

Nice use of dramatic teasing there -- throw frog in freezer, cut to cute chatty scene while reader pulls nose hair in anguish... you minx, you!

I hope hairdryers set to HIGH can defrost a frog. Then again, the northern ones DO hibernate in frozen streams all winter, so it's in his DNA, I suppose.

Swaddled? Muffled? Why am I suddenly envisoning the desert nomad ninjas from Zelda?? All you left out was the evil high-pitched chortle! Huh. While whomever it is surely doesn't want to be recognized, wouldn't a mummy disguise be rather attention-getting in and of itself?

It's that Mookie-mookie character! I KNEW he wasn't dead! Er...dead again...

I doubt that, Newsie. But it IS awfully weird...

*a collective HMMMM goes up from the group. All foreheads wrinkle*

Piggy must be one of the only people in the world who CAN actually tease Thoreau. Several times. In one conversation. Impressive. Er...am I right in thinking, however, that those two tickets Piggy needs will be somehow unavailable? Will Howard wind up sitting next to Seymour? Will Scribbler be watching from the flyloft?

Will lo mein noddles go well with reheated amphibian? --Sorry.

You made a joke!

*glaring at Rizzo* No, I was handed a cue card! Darn it rat!! Stay out of my newscasts!

Had to liven this thing up somehow. After all SHE just gave YOU a funny review. This thing is so dull they use it for contrast in Ginsu commercials.

Cute. Cute snark.
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* faints *

uh ho !

DUN DUN DUN

a frog-sical ah waka waka !!

Thank you for the birthday wishes! Kermit's Girl is, indeed, six years old today! Er, yesterday! I am not quite done with the next post, but I am almost done with the post after that! And I'm almost (one-half paper away!) done with my first and next-to-last semester at school! And I got a teaching job this week on a temporary basis! (So it's been a busy week!)

Thanks for hanging in there, folks! It's been such a pleasure to write for you, and for them and to do my part to bring a little more frog/pig snuggling into the world.
Kermit: (appearing, hands-on-hips, behind her) Although I seem to notice an absence of frog/pig snuggling, thank-you-very-much!
Ru: Er, sorry, sweetie. I'm working on it.
Piggy: Ahem.
Ru: I'll work faster--promise. I'm almost done with school for this semester! And I'll have a whole two-and-a-half weeks off before the next semester. That should move us along a little, right? (nervously) Um, right guys?
Kermit: (arms crossed) For instance?
Ru: Well, we're going to make it through the Academy Awards and, um, see some folks we know there. And Thoreau and Howard are finally going to make it to New Yorik. And--
Piggy: (growling) When is the frog coming to see me?!
Ru: (gulping) Um, soon. Soon, Sweetie. Promise.
Kermit: Humph.
Piggy: (looking at Kermit for a moment and whispering in Ru's ear) Got any more of those, um, cavorting stories?
Ru: (surprised) Um, yes, actually. Lot's more. Oh. Oh! Why don't you and Kermit, er, run along for a bit and I'll try to write and catch up--okay?

Wish me luck, guys!

I love this story I read it without an account but got one because I love the muppets and this story I'm also writing one called an electric mayhem love story you should check it out

Aw, thanks floyd<3janice. I'll try to get over and read your story this week. More of KG coming up...NOW! (waves arms wildly over head)
Chapter 119: When the Other Shoe Dropped
The first shoe didn’t even wake him, but when the other shoe dropped, Scribbler woke up. Startled, he looked down to find Harve maneuvering his other shoe off his aching foot.
“Wuh?” Scribbler asked, momentarily disoriented. “Harve?”
“Thought if you was going to sleep, you’d probably ought to let these puppies breathe,” the stout little rat said matter-of-factly. He turned his face away, his eyes watering, and coughed a little. “Um, oh yeah. They need to breathe all right.”
“Yeah?” said Scribbler, and smiled a tired smile. “Well—you need to breathe, too. Get up here.” Scribbler reached down to pick Harve up carefully the way he’d been instructed. “Hey!” he said, surprised. “You lost a little weight, Harve?”
“Eh, a little,” Harve said gruffly, but Scribbler thought he looked pleased. “I been working out some.”
There was some sort of vegetable chowder in the bowl on the table, half-uneaten, and Harve sniffed it hopefully.
“You want to finish up?” Scribbler asked. “I’m not hungry.”
Torn between wanting the soup and wanting to fuss, the rat did both. “I could eat,” he said grumpily, “but you got to eat, too, buddy-boy. I ain’t hardly seen you around here for days, and you’re going to bed in your clothes and not eating proper. What’s up with you, anyway?”
“Following up on a lead,” said Scribbler dismissively, but Harve stamped his foot in annoyance.
“Following up on a lady pig,” Harve snorted. “And look where it’s got you! Out all day and half the night, not eatin’, not sleeping right and you look like a mess. When’s the last time you shaved, huh? Or changed your shirt?”
“I changed my shirt yesterday,” Scribbler mumbled.
“Yeah? Well, didja change it for a clean shirt?”
Scribbler said nothing, not entirely certain of the answer and Harve pointed accusingly.
“See? See? That girl of yours has got you so worried you ain’t good for nothin’,” Harve said.
“She’s not my girl,” the reporter muttered, and Harve was surprised to see him cringe. He was immediately contrite.
“Aw, hey—I’m sorry, buddy. Look at me, yellin’ at ya when you’re down. Some kind of friend I am,” he groaned. He took off his hat and twisted it in his hands.
“It’s okay,” Scribbler said, and the smile he mustered up this time was more genuine. “I should have told you what’s going on.”
Harve sat down on a wheat roll and looked up at his friend. “So tell me now,” he entreated.
Scribbler did. Harve listened, thoughtful and concerned, until he was done, then he frowned and shook his head.
“This is too big a job for one guy. You cannot investigate the entire male population of New York,” grumbled Harve. “You need to slow down a little before you collapse.”
Scribbler waved him away. “I’m fine,” he lied. Harve gave him a look and he shrugged. “I told her I’d keep a watch out.”
“Okay—fine. You looked. You didn’t find anyone in particular. Duty done. Finité.”
The reporter squirmed, but there was no evading that beady black eye. “I, um, sort of gave her my word.”
The rat threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. “Oh! Well! That explains it,” he said sarcastically. “I should have guessed. You sign the deal in blood?”
“It’s not like that,” Scribbler protested, but his blush belied his protests.
“What is it with you two, anyway?” Harve demanded. “So you had a bad bust-up—big deal. It happens. And she got married. That happens, too. But here she is and here you are and where is that lousy frog?”
This time, Scribbler couldn’t help smiling. Harve had never met Kermit, but he had taken Scribbler’s side without question. If his friend thought the frog was, er, a rat, then Harve thought he was a rat, too.
“He’s in California trying to make her even more famous than she is now,” Scribbler said dryly.
“Like that’s possible,” Harve snorted.
“Well, it’s a lofty goal, at least,” Scribbler admitted.
“Sort of depends on why he’s doing it, don’t you think?”
“I have thought, actually. But right now she’s got more attention than she wants.” The worry in his voice was palpable.
Bowing to the inevitable, Harve changed tactics. “So you think this guy is a real threat. Maybe he’s just someone trying to horn in on your story, you know?”
“He’s not a journalist. I know that. I don’t know much else but I know that. There’s about a million guys that would like to be up-close and personal with her, and the ones that think they stand a chance—the Hollywood types—are thick as thieves here in New York. I’ve been keeping tabs on some of the others people she knows here—Tim Curry used to have a thing for her, I heard. Jim Belushi called her on and off for a couple of months after they did a bit on TV together. Both of them are out of town. A couple of producers and such wouldn’t mind auditioning for her, but Marty’s apparently blocking any of that. A couple of guys she’s worked for are in town but laying low. But that might just be because of…Kermit.” The name was bitter in his mouth. “He’s…he’s a likable guy,” Scribbler admitted unhappily. “Lots of folks won’t move in until he throws in the towel—professional courtesy and all that.”
“You think he’ll throw in the towel?” Harve asked, surprised. “I thought he was pretty, um, whole-hog, pardon the expression.”
Scribbler’s voice was cold. “He’d be a fool,” he said shortly. “But he was a fool for a long time—stringing her along for years—so it’s not out of the question.” I wish, he thought fervently, then felt like a louse. If Kermit ever abandoned Piggy, it would devastate her. Goodness knows she had waited and hoped for Kermit’s declaration of undying love for a long time without much cause that he had seen, but it had come after all. Fleet thought sourly that Kermit would not have survived nearly as long without Piggy’s love once he had decided he wanted her, but—drat the amphibian anyway—he hadn’t had to find out. Yet, he thought furiously. He hadn’t had to find out yet.
“So some slimeball is following her,” said Harve, still worrying his hat, but absently, as though unaware of it.
“Some other slimeball,” Scribbler corrected, but Harve waved him away like a pesky insect.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Harve. “You’re not a slimeball. You’re a journalist.”
“Da-dum-tum,” said Scribbler, doing a vocal rimshot. “Look out or you’ll be giving the bear competition.”
“I’m serious,” said Harve, annoyed by Scribbler’s self-deprecation. “You’re not a slimeball. You’re the one she came to for help.”
He had expected this pronouncement to cheer Scribbler, but it most decidedly did not.
“I know,” moaned Scribbler. “I’m the one she came to! How pathetic is that? All that proves is she doesn’t have the protection she needs.”
“You think she couldn’t get protection? A famous, glamorous lady pig like that? If she waved that little satin pinky-finger around she’d have Pinkertons hanging off her like pearls.”
“Well...maybe,” said Scribbler.
Harve spat—right in the vegetable chowder. “Maybe nothin’,” he said. “She didn’t come to you because she had to—she came to you because she knew she could. She trusts you.”
Scribbler looked pained. “She shouldn’t,” he said. “I…I haven’t been…she shouldn’t trust me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“My boss…I—I’m supposed to be up here trying to find out stuff that would make hubby miserable. Catch her going to parties and living the high life without him—that sort of stuff.”
“And that makes you untrustworthy? Since when?”
“Since—look, see—you and I both know that what you see in the tabloids is, um, it’s—“
“Crap.”
“Creative,” Scribbler said at the same time, then sighed. “No—you’re right. Most of it is crap. And I’m writing it, so what does that make me?”
“A working guy what needs a job,” said Harve firmly. “Just because your tabloid wants to print garbage doesn’t mean you have to write it. I’ve seen your stuff. It’s not like the rest of that stuff. It’s good. You’re good.”
“I’m a good writer,” said Scribbler sadly. “But I’m not good.”
Harve waited.
“My boss wants me to give anything that will make Missy look bad,” he said. “But I’ve been holding out. There are things I know—things I’ve seen that would really damage, but I haven’t used them. There are things I could have written—things I could have said that would make things look different than they are.”
“But you haven’t.” It was not a question.
“I haven’t. So I’m not even a good employee.”
“Your boss is not winning any prizes either,” said Harve, who had heard more than one shouted conversation on the phone.
“I shouldn’t have taken the job but….” He sat silently, lost in thought, and Harve knew he was somewhere else, somewhen else, back in the time when he had been cozy with Broadway’s newest sensation. A world of feeling—800 different emotions—passed over the reporter’s tired face. “I was angry. Angry at Kermit for taking her away. Angry at her for…well, no point beating dead horses. I wanted to hurt her—or I thought I did.”
“Not so much anymore?” asked Harve, and Scribbler shook his head.
“No,” he said, but did not elaborate.
Harve put his little hand on Scribbler’s thumb and the journalist looked up in surprise. “You’re a good friend,” said Harve. “She may not know it, but I know it, okay?”
Scribbler’s eyes stung for a moment at this unexpected kindness, then he smiled his sardonic smile. “Okay, but you’re not as much fun to take dancing,” he teased, just to lighten the mood. Harve put his hands on his hips and glared at him.
“Shows what you know,” he huffed. “The old lady says I can cut quite a rug when we’re doing the foxtrot.”
“I’m more of a waltz guy myself,” said Scribbler, and laughed when Harve gave him a look of absolute disbelief. “No, really. If you’re gonna get the good pictures, you got to fit in with the hoi-polloi.”
Harve gave him a look. “You won’t get within 20 feet of the hoi-polloi like you are. They’ll smell you before they see you. Hit the shower, and shave—then hit the bricks again if you’re determined to be a one-man guardian angel.”
Scribbler managed a smirk. “Guardian, yes. Angel—not so much.”
Twenty minutes later, Scribbler was showered, freshly shaved and wearing freshly pressed duds.
“Better?” he asked his friend.
Harve twisted his hat in his hands and sighed. “Be careful out there, won’t you? Lots of lunatics in the world.”
“Then I’ll be in good company,” the reporter laughed, and was gone.



His lungs were on fire, his chest straining to rise. This was worse than when he’d made the awkward transition from tadpole to frog and was just learning not to breathe underwater. But why was the water so hot? It was boiling. He was boiling—no, he was on fire. His fingers were on fire, his legs, his neck. He was burning up, wishing he could sweat, but amphibians don’t sweat. Kermit’s thoughts chased around in his head. He was hot he was hot he was freezing.
“Waaa!” Kermit cried, coming suddenly to consciousness.
“Oh! Hey! He’s awake! Hey Boss—Kermit—can you hear me?” Scooter said, peering anxiously into Kermit’s bulbous eyes.
Kermit tried to speak but found he was shivering too violently to form words. He nodded, or tried to, and the resulting motion almost made him flop over to the side, but before he could fall, two wonderfully warm, furry arms enveloped him and hauled him back against a furry chest. The combination of softness and warmth was so intoxicating that Kermit almost passed out, but the looks of panic on the faces of his friends made him cling stubbornly to his senses.
“F-f-fozzie?” he guessed, and was rewarded when Fozzie rested his warm, fuzzy chin on top of his cold head.
“Right here, Kermit,” said Fozzie soothingly. His snug hold tightened around Kermit and Kermit almost groaned with relief. “I’ve got your back—just relax,” said the ursine comedian. The furry funnyman, so wont to panic over small things, was a fountain—no, make that a blanket—of strength when things were really desperate. If Kermit could have moved his arms, he would have hugged him.
“Th-th-thanks,” Kermit managed, and found that he could move his neck a little. He saw his assistant’s anxious face before him.
“Sc-sc-scooter,” said Kermit with difficulty.
“Yeah Chief,” Scooter said, stepping closer. Again, Kermit’s still-frozen form shook so ferociously the frozen frog couldn’t talk, and once again Fozzie snuggled him closer until the shivering stopped.
“Wh-what h-h-happened?” Kermit asked. “D-did you g-get the f-film dropped off?”
Scooter made a wry face and put his hand on Kermit’s shoulder. The heat communicated itself into Kermit’s shoulder and he sighed with pleasure.
“He’s okay,” said Scooter dryly. “He’s asking about the film.”
“Make way, make way—coming through,” sing-songed Gonzo. He and Rizzo had been closest when Scooter’s urgent text had been received and they had rushed back to the studio. Gonzo walked up to Kermit and draped his furry blue form over the clammy amphibian’s front.
“Oooh,” Kermit sighed. “That’s—that’s, thanks, Gonzo. That helps a lot.” He paused for a moment, then tried to look down. “Um—um, is, um, someone breathing on my feet?” he asked.
“That’s me, buddy,” said Rizzo. “You want I should stop?”
“No. It, um, feels nice,” Kermit said. He looked over Gonzo’s shoulder. “And the film is okay?” he asked again. This time, Scooter actually grinned.
“Yeah,” he said, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Yeah—the film is just fi—“
“Watch him! He’s going down!” someone shouted, and Beaker stepped up and put a no-nonsense arm around Scooter waist, guiding him into a chair as he paled and almost fainted. The adrenaline was wearing off, and Scooter felt like all the blood was rushing from his head. Beaker fussed over him, touching the back of his neck with a comforting hand.
“Thanks,” Scooter mumbled, a little embarrassed. “I—it was just such a surprise.” The young man’s teeth began to chatter, too, and within moments, Kermit, Scooter, Fozzie, Gonzo and Beaker were a solid knot of humanity, um, muppetdom there in the break room. Kermit was thawing, and Scooter’s teeth eventually stopped chattering, and then—and only then—did they try to sort out what had happened.
“I was reaching for a cupcake,” Kermit said. “I thought there were some left over from the Valentine party.”
“Are there any left from the Valentine’s Day party?” asked Fozzie wistfully. Gonzo shot Fozzie a look and the bear subsided meekly. He sat in between Kermit and Scooter, one furry arm draped around each of them.
“But I couldn’t see, so I stood on a chair and looked in the freezer. I, well, I guess I fell in.” He reached up gingerly and touched the back of his head. “Ouch,” he said conversationally. “I guess the freezer lid must have bonked me on the noggin and knocked me out.” He reached over and touched Fozzie’s knee, then Scooter’s arm. “Thanks. Thanks, guys. I would have been stuck in there until the Spring thaw if you guys hadn’t looked for me. Um, how did you find me?”
“Scooter saw water under the freezer, and he realized that some of the frost from the freezer must have fallen off when the freezer was opened,” Fozzie said matter-of-factly. Kermit had already heard how Fozzie and Scooter had pulled him from the freezer¸ terrified that they were too late. Scooter had rallied the troops while Fozzie had engulfed Kermit with a life-sustaining hug, literally bringing him back to life in front of them. By the time reinforcements had arrived, Kermit’s body temperature had risen quite a bit, and other than feeling damp and loose and clammy and cold, Kermit was doing about as well as can be expected.
“Kermit?” said Scooter. His voice sounded funny. “Did you…did you say you climbed on a chair to look in the freezer?”
“Um, y-y-yeah,” said Kermit, giving sudden heave. Fozzie wrapped his arms righter around his friend and Gonzo went and sat next to Kermit, wrapping a fuzzy blue arm around his shoulders. Kermit grimaced at him thankfully.
“Um, Chief?” Scooter’s voice sounded even odder than it had, and all eyes turned and looked at Scooter’s pale face. “There…there wasn’t any chair in front of the freezer.”
All eyes swiveled to look at the deep freeze.
“Wasn’t there?” said Fozzie, but Scooter shook his head.
“There wasn’t,” said Scooter. “I came in here a couple of times and thought the room looked…off. I would have noticed a chair in front of the freezer.”
They looked at each other in various states of startlement and blankness.
“Um….”
“The how—“
“What does that, um, mean?” asked Fozzie anxiously.
Scooter swallowed and looked at Kermit, not wanting to say it. As usual, Kermit took the lead.
“It means,” he said slowly, “that someone else was here. Someone who moved the chair after I fell.”
“Could have been the cleaning crew,” Rizzo said uncomfortably.
What time does Beau come in today?”
“Not until later,” Scooter said. The uneasiness in the room grew.
“But—but why would someone want to move the chair?”
“So Kermit wouldn’t be found right away. So he would, um, freeze to death.”
“Oh, come on, guys,” said Kermit, with forced cheeriness. “Everybody knows you can’t freeze a frog to death. We just thaw out with the Spring.”
“If there is a Spring,” said Gonzo darkly.
“But, but—look, folks. What are we saying—that someone tried to kill me?”
He’d expected them all to scoff, but instead they looked back at him, brows furrowed in confirmation.
“Yeah, Boss,” said Scooter, shivering again himself. “I think that’s exactly what we’re saying.”

Love love love it<3 great job as always

Ee Gads!! Muppet news Flash: Frozen Frog legs? Will it lead to delayed frog/pig snuggling? Stay tuned to find out more!
Piggy: For the author's sake I hope not...Grrr.
Love the story, Ru! Missed your skills in writing!

Harve seems godfather to me for some odd reason...

Anyway, I'm anxious by the remark on someone trying to kill... *gulp* Kill Kermit...

More please!

Nice update! I guess it's ok if Scribbler has a friend and some support, but Scribbler better do the right thing...

So glad Fozzie was there to bring Kermit back to life with a bear hug. Glad Scooter remains to be quick on the uptake realizing that someone is trying to kill our green froggy friend...

Can't wait to read more and PLEASE LET KERMIT AND PIGGY VISIT EACH OTHER ALREADY!! Their separation is giving me separation anxiety, lol! I'm sure they would appreciate it!

--------------
Let me just say that though I personally understand very well how a minor rat character can sort of...uh...gnaw their way into a writer's heart and chapter after chapter...I REALLY enjoy Harve. Whadda rock! Whadda pal! Heck, if anyone could actually pep-talk a hack like Scribbler...could actually help him realize he has a conscience of sorts...it would be another scavenger! LOVE it!

And the spitting into the soup gag cracked me up.

Aww...a fuzzy Fozzie fulminates frog unfreezing! I could picture this very plainly, and the image struck me as amazingly sweet, even though I would expect such loyalty and comforting from the bear. Very very nice. Rizzo's breath-bath on frozen flippers was chuckleworthy. I love how Scooter eventually figured out Kermit was in the freezer (water on floor -- perfect tiny clue for a CSI geek like me!) and everyone's stunned reaction when they all process what a moved chair means.

Who will track down the stalker first, in which city? Any chance the two are working in concert? Do enemies really lurk in every corner for the fuzzy friends? Dun dun DUN... Tuning in next, er, chapter with baited breath!

That is DISGUSTIN'. Whadda waste of blue cheese.
----------------

Chapter 120: Colder, but Wiser



As someone once observed, it’s funny how one thing can mean so many different things, depending on how you look at it. To Fleet, the little convenience shop had been a place where, if she lingered, he could count on seeing Piggy. They had not talked since the day she had asked for his help, but he made sure that if she dawdled a little, she would see him if she needed to talk to him. Once, she had looked vaguely and searchingly in his direction on the far corner of the block, but he had shaken his head slightly, admitting defeat. It had been difficult and humiliating, but Scribbler had put out feelers and called on some old contacts. Some had been rude; most had been astonished. A few had been friendly, surprising Scribbler. One had even dragged him along on a doughnut run, and they had sat around his old friend’s crowded and messy desk and eaten the doughnuts and drunk bad coffee out of the ancient, stained coffee pot. Scribbler almost felt like a reporter again.
To Piggy, the little sundries shop had been a place where she had sought refuge—and found it. As promised, the once-goth girl behind the counter had brought in some of her grandmother’s scarves, and Piggy had exclaimed over the quality, making the girl look pleased and hopeful. Underneath all the layers of chalky make-up, it was determined that Leila had lovely peaches-and-cream skin, and while her lashes were the same honey-blonde as her natural hair-color, a little Very Black mascara on the tips after a thorough coat of Black-Brown made her hazel eyes pop under her tastefully decorated eyelids. Piggy had not even fussed over the triple pierced eyebrows, merely insisting that she find quality silver or gold studs that did not detract.
“Moi is afraid we’re going to have to create cheekbones,” Piggy had fussed, but the awed store-clerk was compliant and ready to be reformed in a more glamorous image. Piggy fussed, brushing three different shades of powder blush in a subtle upsweep over the young lady’s round face, and the fake cheekbone lines did look enormously convincing. Bemoaning the lack of color and variety, Piggy had finally allowed Leila to put on a simple black sheath. The tights had been banished—“Men usually want to see your legs, dear,”—but the platform boots had met conditional approval until the whole ensemble had been hauled together. Piggy draped the scarf artfully across her shoulders, then stood still and stared at Leila’s pale locks with a charming frown on her face. “Half up, Moi thinks,” Piggy had said, and had grabbed the salesclerk’s shoulders and spun her around. “You’ll have to sit,” Piggy demanded. “Moi is not wearing very high heels today.” Three-and-a-half inches was, indeed, a low heel for Piggy. Leila sat on the counter stool and in less than two minutes, Piggy had lifted and teased and secured a substantial little poof of hair. The rest of the shop girl’s locks, freed from the weight of the hair on top, were coaxed into curls with a spritz. She hauled Leila over to the glass window—the only place that might afford a full-length view—and Leila had stared, mouth gaping.
“How—how did you do that?” she squeaked. “I…I look…pretty.” Her pretty mouth, now the color of Dazzling Berries, smiled tremulously at her reflection.
“You are pretty,” said Piggy matter-of-factly. “Not as lovely as Moi,” she said, brushing her hair back from her distinctive profile.
“Oh no,” Leila agreed.
“But quite worth looking at. When’s loverboy getting back to town?”
“He’s supposed to get leave to come see his folks and me,” she said wistfully. “He said this weekend or maybe next.”
Piggy fought the urge to say, “I’ve heard that one before.” Instead she said, “And you haven’t seen him since he left for boot camp?”
Leila shook her head, then dug in her purse under the counter and held out a picture. “This is us before he left for the service,” she said, holding out a picture. Piggy had been an actress a long time, and it took most of her training to keep from openly wincing at the unfashionable display of black leather, silver studs and eyebrow piercings. If anything, he was wearing more makeup in the picture than Leila had been. “And this is…?”
“Dante,” she said, then blushed. “Well, his real name is Donny, but his friends call him Dante.”
Piggy wondered idly who was likely to come home from leave—Dante, the goth guy, or Donny, the soldier. She had an idea but didn’t want to jinx things. “Well,” she said. “This will certainly give him something to want to come home for.” She glanced at the clock, and Leila did, too.
“You need to go,” said Leila, who had become used to Piggy’s daily schedule. “They’ll be looking for you soon.”
“And it’s time for your lunch break,” said Piggy, but Leila looked down at the counter, strewn with the tricks and tools of Piggy’s ten-minute makeover gig. Makeup, curling spritzer, cotton balls cardboard packaging covered most of the surface near the cash register. “I think I’d better clean up a little first,” she giggled, and began to put stuff into a bag from under the counter. It only took a moment, however, and Piggy sailed out the door and headed for the theater in time for Leila to lock the front door and duck into the back room.
Despite missing Kermit, and worrying about Fleet’s nonappearance for the past few days, Piggy felt moderately happy and pleased with herself. She had saved another young lady from fashion Hades, and she had not had any more unpleasant encounters, unless you counted the man who had tried to mug her the night before. She had dispatched him with no effort, berated him for ten minutes while he lay groaning on the pavement and waited until the policemen had scooped him up before going back to her apartment to heat her then-cold food. Stupid muggers. You really had to keep your wits about you in the city. It didn’t do to be caught daydreaming— Daydreaming made her think of her frog, and Piggy, despite her own caution to the contrary, became very distracted indeed.

**********
“Aw, c’mon guys,” said Kermit, feeling sheepish and conspicuous. “I don’t think anybody tried to, um, bump me off or anything. Sheesh—will you listen to how melodramatic that sounds? This is…ridiculous?”
“You’re a lot more convincing when your voice doesn’t go up on the end like that,” said Gonzo dryly, and Kermit turned and glared at him.
“Not helping,” said Kermit shortly.
Gonzo merely shrugged. “Depends on your point of view,” he said, un-cowed by the frog’s irritation. Scooter, initially relieved to be reassured by Kermit’s sangfroid, plunged determinedly into the fray.
“There was no chair in front of the freezer. The badger didn’t come in. He was outside about to bellow again when I came up.”
“The badger—oh! The lo mein is here?” Kermit asked hopefully. He had been hungry before, but now that he’d used about a gagillion calories bringing his body temperature up to just barely subnormal, he was starving.
“What? Oh—the food. Yeah. The food’s here.” Scooter discovered that he, too, was starving. Fozzie said nothing, but his stomach grumbled loudly and Gonzo and Rizzo looked at each other.
“You wanna go, or you want me to go?” Gonzo asked.
“I’ll go. You stay here with Mr. Denial and try to talk some sense into him,” Rizzo said, and Kermit shot him an annoyed look and gave another convulsive heave. Fozzie reached over and pulled Kermit back up against him. At first, Kermit resisted, his body taut with tension, but Fozzie’s gentle insistence made Kermit feel mean and churlish and he relaxed once more against the warm fuzziness of his friend. He saw Scooter watching him anxiously and sighed, giving in. Oh! How he hated to be the absolute center of attention, Kermit thought miserably. He was no wilting vine, but he usually liked just his share of the limelight and no more. He would much rather be shoving his friends into center stage than stand there alone, and Piggy had never had any trouble finding center stage. The thought made him smile, then cringe with worry.
“Oh, look,” he blurted. “Don’t mention this to Piggy. Who knows what she’ll do if she thinks there’s trouble here.”
“You mean if she thinks you’re in trouble,” Fozzie said gently, and Kermit made a miserable sound and acquiesced.
“Me meee meep,” Beaker said insistently.
“Yes,” he admitted. “It will make her crazy if she’s there and I’m here and she thinks something is wrong.”
“Something is wrong,” Scooter insisted. He had been pretty badly shaken up by the whole debacle, but he had found his footing again and was now digging his heels in. “There was no chair in front of the freezer. I didn’t mistake that. I’m not saying someone pushed you into the freezer, but I’m saying someone moved the chair. Why would someone see the chair and not look in the freezer?”
But Kermit didn’t answer. He was looking down, his brow furrowed with thought, and his expression changed from distraught to somber.
“I—maybe someone did push me. Well, the chair, anyway.”
“Chief…?” Scooter said, eye’s widening in disbelief, but Kermit looked up wearily and nodded.
“I didn’t want to say anything because…well, it’s just…I mean, I heard the door open and I thought it was the food, so I hollered that I was in the break room.”
Scooter swallowed. “When was this?”
“It couldn’t have been too long after you left. I was waiting on the food but I knew it was too early for it to get here. I went back to see if there was any food left over from the Valentine party. And, well….someone came in the building. And if it wasn’t you, and it wasn’t the food…” He did not finish his statement.
“That’s…strange,” whispered Scooter.
“A lot of strange things have been happening around here,” Gonzo said. There was no gloating in his voice about being right, and he walked over and stood next to Scooter and Beaker and a Fozzie-draped Kermit to show solidarity.
“Me moo moop,” said Beaker, and Scooter nodded.
“Yeah, more than usual,” Scooter agreed. In his nonexistent spare time, he’d been making some headway with the Guinea pig-to-English dictionary and could now make a modicum of sense out of what the tubular scientist said.
“Yeah,” said Fozzie, and Kermit felt the rumble of his stomach again against his backbone. “I mean, I even got a fan letter,” said the comedian. Kermit felt a great surge of affection for his stalwart and painfully honest friend. “And that annoying magnetic tie tac,”
Beaker startled to life. “Mee meee me me me,” he said, holding up a finger. Scooter looked at him expectantly.
“Um, moo me meep?” Scooter asked. At the blank looks of the others, Scooter cross-translated. “Um, he said he’s been thinking about something. We, um, talked the other day about the film.”
Beaker waited, not patiently, for Scooter to finish talking to the others, then launched into a long, animated discourse that Scooter struggled to translate in spurts. At some point, Scooter looked stunned, then stopped translating in favor of talking rapidly back and forth with Beaker. When they finished talking, Scooter looked dumbfounded.
“But, but—but I never even thought of that.”
“Mee MEE mee,” said Beaker, with finality.
The others had crowded around to the point that Scooter, looking up, felt mildly claustrophobic.
“He says—Beaker says that the film may have been demagnetized.”
“De-magnetized?” Kermit repeated. “I—but how would the film come in contact with—oh. Oh.” The flummoxed frog very deliberately did not look behind him, but Fozzie gasped and put his fingers over his mouth.
“Oh no!” he wailed. “Oh! But—but, I don’t want it to be my fault!” Fozzie cried.
“It’s not,” said Kermit. “It’s not your fault.” But Fozzie had his hat over his face, keening, inconsolable.
Scooter rushed in to the rescue, patting Fozzie on the back and trying to comfort the distraught bear. “It’s not your fault, Fozzie. I thought it was my fault, but it wasn’t.”
“I know,” Fozzie moaned. “It wasn’t your fault because it was my fault!”
“Don’t take it so hard,” said Gonzo. “You couldn’t have known about the magnet.”
“Meep mee meep,” Beaker said, indignantly. “Me moop mee mee.”
“He says it’s not your fault,” Scooter translated. “And he’s right.”
“But it was my tie tack that caused the problem,” Fozzie insisted. “If it hadn’t been for that stupid fan letter, the film would have been okay, and Kermit would have gotten to go see Piggy and this is terrible. Ma would be ashamed of me.”
Despite the grimness of the situation, Kermit actually chuckled. He walked over and put his arms around his friend, holding him and offering comfort the way Fozzie had offered his earlier. “Your Ma would be proud of you, Fozzie. You practically brought me back to life today, and no one—no one here and no one anywhere—thinks the film mess-up was your fault, okay?”
Fozzie’s voice was very small and hopeful. “Really, Kermit?” he asked wistfully. “Really really?”
“Really really,” Kermit said. “Scooter and I have had this same conversation, and here’s the end of the conversation—okay? The end of the conversation is—it’s over. It’s done. We made up the time and redid the film. Whatever happened, happened, and we survived it—okay? That’s all there is to that.”
“But you were going to see Piggy,” Fozzie said, and Kermit squashed the wave of bitter disappointment that washed over him and planted a smile on his face.
“I am going to see Piggy. We just don’t know when yet, okay? But Piggy is fine. She’s in New York starring on Broadway and—besides—Howard and Thoreau are going to see her this weekend. She won’t be lonely, and I’ve got you guys to keep me company.”
“I don’t think we can replace Miss Piggy,” Gonzo said dryly.
“Miss Piggy can’t be replaced,” said Kermit firmly. “But I think the lot of you can probably keep me out of freezers until she’s back where she belongs, don’t you think?”
There were smiles—genuine smiles—and murmurs all around. Things might have gotten maudlin, but Rizzo arrived at that moment with a variety of takeout, all but buried under the wrappers.
“Soup’s on,” the little rat shouted, and they helped “de-bag” him and set the food on the table. Rizzo picked up on the shift in mood immediately. “What happened while I was out?” he demanded. “Are we looking for Snidely Whiplash yet?”
“I’ll fill you in while we eat,” said Gonzo, “but you’d better hop to.” Kermit and Scooter and Fozzie had fallen on the food like starvelings, and the rodent had to hurry to fill his plate.

**********
“And ol’ Creepella was by again today,” said Gladys. “I saw her outside the door like she was waiting on someone.”
Harve looked at her, surprised. “That’s sorta creepy,” he admitted. “Didn’t you just run into her in the laundry room the day before?”
“Yeah—and the day before that I swear she was hanging around the mailboxes.”
Harve grunted. “Usually, the old hag stays in her room. Sometimes I doubt if we’d know if she kicked off.”
“We’d know by the smell,” Gladys said, imminently practical.
“Not much,” muttered Harve, and Gladys hushed him with a kiss on the top of his head.
“C’mon—be nice,” she soothed. “I know she’s a witch but I feel kindof sorry for her, you know?”
“No,” Harve said. He did not like the landlady—not at all. Although she had always been polite to their faces, and Gladys sometimes spoke with her, Harve had heard from too many of his friends about mysteriously placed food that made you ill and well-placed kicks in the hallways. No. He did not like the landlady.
“She’s like your friend, the reporter.”
Harve looked at her. “How do you get that?”
“Well,” said Gladys. “I just mean that she’s lonely. Your friend misses his lady pig friend, and I just wonder if Creepel—um, Doreen ever hears from anybody.”
“Who would want to talk to her?” Harve said. “She’s mean and she watches you all the time. Creepella is right.”
“Well, I try to be nice and talk to her a little,” said Gladys. “She’s so alone,” said Gladys, and her little hands clasped in front of her. Harve reached out and snagged her, pulling his wife onto his lap.
“We’re alone,” he teased, and kissed her on the neck. “And I’m nice.” Gladys giggled and put her arms around her husband’s neck.
“And I think about her not having anybody,” said Gladys.
“Think about me,” murmured Harve, kissing her on her furry little cheek.
“I have been thinking about you,” said Gladys, and kissed him rather thoroughly. Harve blinked.
“Wow,” he said. “I like it when you think.”
And Gladys had giggled again. “If you like that,” she said, “you’re gonna love this….”

**********
To Seymour, the little stylish sundries shop near the theater was the place he’d almost gotten her, the place he had almost had his deepest heart’s desire grasped firmly between his clutching hands. He believed Piggy had come to think of the little shop as somewhere where she would be safe—which was very dangerous indeed—but Seymour liked the way that worked in his favor.
He watched hungrily until the new sales clerk ducked into the back room. For days, it had been some goth-girl chick, but maybe this blonde was new or something. She and Piggy had certainly chatted like old friends, he thought, and felt a twinge of dissatisfaction like he had the other day. What right did she have? What right did she have to lavish attention and praise on strangers when she owed him so much more? They would have to talk about that. Although he knew Piggy was proud and independent, she needed to learn appropriateness. Chatting with salesclerks when she should have been draped submissively over his arm was not going to cut it—no siree. He felt a surge of anger. She should know that by now, he thought irritably.
The last attempt had not gone well. He had realized that he was going to have to time this a little more delicately than before. Too soon, and there would be witnesses. Too slow, and she’d be within the safety of the theater. Safety, hah! Nothing would keep her safe until she was safe and secure and subservient in his care. He saw her walking down the sidewalk slowly, thoughtfully, unmindful of him. The moment had come. He poured the chlorophyll onto the chamois rag in his gloved hand, held his fist so it was hidden from view, and stepped out of the dilapidated wreck of a car he’d rented.
Some guys will do anything to get a girl.

**********
“You think she’s gonna be mad at me?” Clifford muttered to Mabel. He was chopping up green and red peppers and an onion for her while she cut the tofu sausage into bite-sized morsels. The smell of hot butter beckoned in the skillet, and Mabel waited until Clifford slipped his vegetables into the pan so the sound of sizzling would cover her answer.
“I guess it depends,” she said, also casting anxious glances toward Tricia’s room.
“On what?” Clifford murmured. He looked over his shoulder, worried that the sexy little singer might pop through the door at any minute.
“On how it goes,” said Mabel, but she smiled at him and—completely surprising him—stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. “It was sweet of you to call.”
“Eh, I didn’t do much. It’s just, well, I know a guy who knows a guy who knows several guys—you know how it goes, right? And he’s looking for opening acts.” He moved to the other side of the sink so he could whisper and watch the door at the same time. “Tricia’s band looks good, and they sound great. They’ve really got some talent.”
“So you told ‘em to come and catch the set they’re doing down at the Bat, Bolt and Skull in State Line. Which you also set up.”
“No big,” said Clifford. “I know the guy that started the franchise in Hensonville. It’s not a big venue, but the audience usually likes their music pretty well, and it’s a fun place to kick back and have some laughs.”
“Did you tell the girls about the monsters?”
Clifford squirmed a little. “I might not have mentioned that,” he said. “Do you think they’ll care?”
“Honey, the monsters are more likely to be scared of Coraline than the girls are to be afraid of the monsters.”
“Good,” said Clifford, and started to say more but the door to Tricia’s room cracked open and Clifford practically leaped across the kitchen to sit at the table, snatching up the evening paper as though reading it. Tricia walked out of her room talking on her cell phone, but hung up almost immediately and sauntered into the kitchen. She looked at her mother at the stove and at Clifford pretending to be engrossed in the paper and laughed. She reached out and tangled her hand in Clifford’s dreadlocks for a moment, pulling playfully.
“Get done with all your gossiping?” she asked, and Clifford put the paper down and grinned at her.
“Just about,” he said. “Kermit and the Missus are going to be on the Academy Awards together Sunday night,” he said. That had been the actual start of their conversation, which had segued into other realms before long.
“I thought Miss Piggy was in New York,” said Tricia, puzzled, but Clifford explained.
“She is—starring in Grease!, and Kermit’s still in California, but they’re doing this remote thing. Scooter says it ought to be worth seeing.”
“So Miss Piggy couldn’t get out of her play to come and be on the awards show?” Tricia asked, and was surprised when Mabel and Clifford both burst into laughter.
“Tricia, honey,” said Mabel. “Now that Miss Piggy’s had a taste of Broadway, it’d take something pretty desperate to get her off the stage.”
“Yeah, man,” said Clifford. “She’d have to be out cold to miss her cue.”
On the other side of the continent, something wicked shimmered in the cold New York air.

The little cell phone clicked shut, and the owner sat fuming. Fuming and plotting. Drat that stupid reporter anyway. So he was up in New York on the company dime trying to make time with that silly pig when he ought to be…well….
For an instant, that idea didn’t seem so bad. If Scribbler was cozying up to the pig, then it probably meant that Piggy was forgetting about boring ol’ hubby at home and getting ready for some genuine New York night life. Hmmm….there was an idea….
But the hare-chasing would have to wait. There was a recalcitrant reporter who needed to be hauled up short, needed to be reminded who was boss, who was god of his little world. Besides, somebody had to cover the Awards, and Scribbler had a knack for ingratiating himself with the hoity-toity. He’s worked the red carpet pretty well in his day, before—well, back when he’d been somebody. So this dressing down might accomplish two purposes—show the little weasel who was boss and get some decent coverage of the Academy Awards. That stupid pelican who had been hired the month before couldn’t spell worth jack, and the smell of stale fish permeated the office (if they were lucky, and it wasn’t the smell of decaying fish). Having a real reporter back on home turf and on a short leash would be a welcome relief.
The blood-red iphone appeared and, with a tap here and a tap there, speed dial popped onto the screen. Number 13, one ring, two rings, three rings—he was probably fumbling the phone out of his holder this very minute—huh. Voice mail. Tip tip tap and the phone went dormant. There were days when it was fun to leave a blistering voice mail and enjoy the thought of Scribbler cringing with dread before he called, but this was different. This would be better if Scribbler was caught totally off guard, totally unprepared for the accusations and without a chance to rehearse answers. Like a predator, the thought of bringing down the buck made the black heart go pitter-pat. Better to catch him unawares, confront him with the evidence and enjoy his abject groveling while he tried to worm his way back into nonexistent good graces. Ah…something to look forward to.

**********
Piggy was thinking of Kermit, and it was very nearly the last thought she would remember. She was wondering what he was up to that moment, envisioning what she would say to him, how she would delight him with her make-over tale when she talked to him, how she would remind him that Thoreau was coming and could bring her anything he wanted to send (hint, hint) and how much of their Sunday night conversation they would pre-rehearse. She knew there was someone behind her on the sidewalk. Her peripheral vision had told her than a man in a dark coat had stepped out of a rent-a-wreck and started for the sundries shop. She had noted the expensive shoes and the nice cut of the coat, but the man appeared to be consulting a map, and his hat kept his face in shadow. When he crossed behind her on the street toward the corner shop, she thought nothing of it, and very nearly thought nothing for some time.
Piggy heard a step—too close and too firm—and half-turned, but then a pair of surprisingly strong arms clamped around her torso, immobilizing her arms, and an acrid-smelling cloth was pushed over her mouth and snout. Piggy gasped, then coughed and sputtered, inadvertently inhaling more of the noxious gas. Instantly, she knew what it was and what it meant. Chloroform! Someone was trying to knock her out, make her woozy or worse, and helpless and then…well…it didn’t bear thinking about.
Fleet stopped at the corner, still out of sight of the street, and wrestled his phone out of his trouser pocket and looked at the name that popped up. Not now, he thought sullenly. He wanted to talk to Piggy and he did not want that…that voice in his head when he did. He would call back. He would call back after he had talked to Missy, and given her what snippits of information he had. He pushed the phone back into his pants pocket and looked up. Piggy was no longer on the sidewalk.
She was—instead—in the street, being dragging quite unwillingly toward a junked car on the far side of the boulevard by someone in a dark coat and hat. Someone was trying to kidnap her. Scribbler shook his head, unable to make sense of what he saw.
Something blue fluttered on her face, and Scribbler stared, transfixed. Merciful heavens! Someone was trying to drug her—drug her and kidnap her and— He saw her blue eyes, wide with terror, and it shook him out of his paralysis. Scribbler swore. Then he ran.
Piggy stopped breathing—or tried to, holding her breath despite her assailant’s attempts to squeeze the existing air out of her lungs. She planted her feet, impeding her attacker’s progress as he tried to drag her backward toward the dilapidated car. Her suddenly immobile form made him grunt, and he pushed the damp, smelly cloth harder against her face. It was burning her lips, and her cheek felt slightly singed. She bucked and heaved, trying to break the grip of the arms that held her, but she was light-headed and off-balance. She almost got one arm free, but then her foe loosened his hold around her arms, grabbed her in a headlock and smashed the wet cloth against her nostrils. Piggy heard a roaring in her ears and thought she must be about to pass out;
She did not pass out. Instead, she was released with a suddenness that surprised her, falling to the sidewalk and banging her elbow hard. She heard grunting and muttering and rolled to her elbows and knees, dazed, to see Fleet Scribbler closing in a furious grapple with her attacker. She tried to stagger to her feet but could not manage it. If she could have, she would laid into the man in the coat with all her might, but she was not in any condition to fight.
Piggy shook her head and coughed, wanting to scream, wanting help. She was so close to the theater, that if only someone would look out, or she could yell, help would come. She was sure of it. Help had to come. Her throat was raw, burned by breathing the chloroform and she watched helplessly as Fleet swung at the dark-coated man. If the man knocked Fleet out and no one came--!
The other man had an edge on Fleet in size, but Fleet was wiry and compact, and he had grown up hard-scrabble enough to be able to handle himself in a street fight. The other man was swinging wildly, but his reach was longer than Scribbler’s, and a couple of times Piggy saw his gloved fists connect with Scribbler’s head. One glanced off, but the other one seemed to faze Scribbler and he slowed, shaking his head. The dark-coated figure turned and—although she could not see her attacker’s face in the shadow—Piggy felt the fury radiating from him and shrank back in spite of herself. Scribbler launched himself at her nemesis and threw his arms around him from behind, but the thwarted kidnapper let out a growl and broke Scribbler’s hold. He took a step toward Piggy, who tried not to whimper, paused uncertainly, then ran for the car. Fleet started after him, but—panicky—Piggy reached out and clutched his trouser hem.
“Don’t…leave me,” she croaked. Scribbler stopped where he was, knelt down and helped her to her feet. Behind them, the car screeched off into the distance.
That brought the attention of the theater, and security poured out of it. Harry—as big as a wall—came thundering down the sidewalk toward them, leading the pack.
“Miss Piggy! Miss Piggy!” Harry shouted. “Theater security! Make way!”
“Missy—oh, Missy….” Fleet said. “Can you stand?”
Piggy nodded, but she couldn’t stand up unassisted. He held her up, letting her lean on him, and quickly assessed what he could see. Her hands and knees were scraped, and her face looked puffy where the chloroform had touched it. The heel was broken off one of her shoes, and the neck of her dress was ripped. She was breathing hard and shaking, and Scribbler was worried at first that she was in shock, but a quick look at her proud face told him it was fury—not shock—that made her tremble. In spite of himself, Scribbler grinned.
“You’re okay, aren’t you, Missy?” he said softly, then Harry’s big figure loomed on the sidewalk behind her. Fleet saw the look on Harry’s face, and it was not friendly. He saw the look on Piggy’s face and stayed where he was.
“Miss Piggy--are you hurt—did he hurt you?” Harry demanded, glowering at Scribbler, his face almost as red as his hair.
“No—no. Moi is…I’m fine, Harry.” Her voice and her legs were unsteady and she had a death-grip on Scribbler’s lapel.
“Missy, I—I’m sorry,” Fleet murmured. “I tried to hold him.” Harry loomed closer, and Scribbler squared his shoulders and prepared to defend himself. Piggy felt his balance shift and looked behind her, glad to see Harry’s rhinocerous-like form coming to help her, but she realized, even in her befuddled state, why Scribbler had squared off.
“Moi is fine,” said Piggy, making her gloved hand release Scribbler’s collar. She turned and tried to smile up at Harry, who was still glaring at Fleet and his arm around Piggy’s waist.
“Who are you?” Harry demanded, and Scribbler looked up. From where he stood, the security guard’s shadow blotted out the afternoon sun.
“A friend,” said Scribbler firmly.
“Says who?” Harry demanded.
“Says Moi,” Piggy said, sounding more like her usual diva self. Absently, she put a hand to her face and winced.
“What’d he do to you?” Harry said, shifting his glare at the reporter for an instant so he could look at Piggy.
“Someone tried to…mug me,” Piggy said, the lie tripping off her tongue like it was nothing. She felt Scribbler stiffen beside her, and then she turned and looked up at Fleet. “And he…saved me.” If, in the next moment, Harry had pounded him into the earth like a nail, Scribbler would not have cared.
“Fine. She’s safe now. You can go. We’ll take it from here,” said another guard, Micah, wanting to assert control over the situation.
“I’ll stay until…until they make me go,” Fleet murmured, his voice pitched for Piggy’s ears alone. “You say. You’re the boss.” And he almost laughed when he felt Piggy stiffen in shock beside him.
“Some odious man tried to grab my purse,” Piggy said, batting her eyelashes at the guards. “And this…this nice…stranger helped chase him off. Moi is fine, although Moi is afraid my shoe is broken—“
Harry stooped and swept Piggy up in his arms like she weighed nothing at all, breaking the contact beween them. He and Scribbler glared at each other for several seconds, then the big guard turned and carried Miss Piggy away.
But Piggy was not quite done. “Oh—Micah—Micah! Will you please get that nice stranger’s phone number?” she asked. “Moi would like to call him and thank him later.”
Grumbling, not at all content to have been scooped on the job by a scrawny stranger, Micah took down the man’s phone number.
“Yer name?” Micah asked sourly.
But Scribbler was ready for him. “Harve,” he said. “Just call me Harve.”