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Kermie's Girl (ushy-gushy fanfic)

Discussion in 'Fan Fiction' started by Ruahnna, Apr 21, 2006.

  1. The Count

    The Count Moderator Staff Member

    Hey, we don't bother with that silly DST down here in PR either. The only time I have to pay attention to it is to keep track of what local time my US shows actually end up airing at. Frankly, I've always thought DST should be inverted, spring back and fall forward for us kids who have to and are allowed and end up staying up late even if it's a schoolnight.

    Time issues aside... Hope we get another chapter to add to the novel we all so love here. :jim:
    Twisted Tails likes this.
  2. miss kermie

    miss kermie Well-Known Member

    I came back because I can't get over the shirt thing, it was so sweet! :)
    Ruahnna likes this.
  3. Ruahnna

    Ruahnna Well-Known Member

    Chapter 127: If I Don’t Meet You Here, I’ll Meet You There

    “Teeth is never late. He is always the most punctilious man in the band,” said Floyd. “Where do you think he is?” he asked. Janice shook her long hair.
    “Like, I don’t know. This is a rully big ship. He could be anywhere.”
    “Can. Nast. Stah.” said Animal, and they all turned and looked at him.
    “Come again, Animal?” said Floyd, and Animal looked mildly annoyed and said, “Can. Nast. Stah. Can. Nast. Stah!!!”
    “Oh!” said Zoot. “Right. Right, man.”
    Janice touched his arm. “Like, wanna share with the band?” she said, trying to control her impatience, but at that moment, Dr. Teeth arrived in all his glittery, bling-ish glory. His glitter and bling were well-complemented today by a couple of well-turned out middle-aged ladies whose smooth faces and expensive clothes said, “old money.” Another fashionably slender dowager followed along, chatting with the woman on Dr. Teeth’s right arm.
    “Thank you, ladies! I am much obliged for your bodacious help,” said the good doctor cheerily. “Now I am going to earn my keep and lay down some heavy chords for some light listening.” He swept off his hat and beamed at them. “May I reconnoiter with you ladies at the shuffleboard court? B deck?”
    “B deck,” confirmed the lady who had only reluctantly surrendered the doctor’s other striped sleeve. “Be there or be square,” she quipped, and they all giggled like schoolgirls.
    “Posolutely,” said Teeth, and grinned his big shiny grin. “I would never be square.” He watched them until they had turned the corner, then sighed and turned around to find his band mates staring at him.
    “Where you been?” Zoot demanded. “You lingering over the buffet again?”
    The glitzy keyboardist laughed. “Something like that,” he said. “Now let’s get this jam on a roll!”

    “Oh merciful heavens,” Howard exclaimed. “You look like an absolute tart.”
    “It could be worse,” Thoreau said. “Notice how I put a couple of teeny-weeny darts in the back to accentuate the roundness of—“
    “It could be better,” Piggy growled, mildly self-conscious about having her assets publically vetted. But here, both men protested.
    “I don’t see how,” Howard was saying. “If you’re aiming to knock Kermit right out of his socks, this ought to do the trick.”
    “Frogs don’t wear socks,” Piggy corrected automatically.
    For his part, Thoreau straightened gracefully and indicated Piggy should move. She twirled, but he mimicked walking fingers, and she obediently strutted the length of the dressing room and back, then dropped a mocking Mary Pickford curtsey in front of them. Howard was scandalized, but Thoreau’s eyes had the lazy self-satisfied look that indicated he was pleased.
    “I’ve done all I can do,” he said, “which is saying something. You’ll have to…sell the rest yourself, Piggy.” Howard snickered, and Piggy gave him a look that made him pull himself together rapidly.
    “You look tres chic, Piggy honey,” Howard said, appeasingly, “although I don’t think Kermit would let you wear that to the grocery.”
    “Moi does not do the grocery shopping,” Piggy said airily.
    “Thank goodness,” Thoreau said. “Can you imagine the carnage with all those shopping carts if you wandered down the aisles in this get-up? There’d be wide-spread wreckage. “
    “Clean-up on aisle 9,” Howard agreed. “But it’s perfect for the show, and perfect for the interview. If that frog has a thought in his head after he gets a look at you in this, I’ll eat the bear’s hat.”
    “I’m thinking of a scene from Gone With the Wind,” said Thoreau, and Piggy said, “I know which one.”
    “The red dress-entrance. Yes,” Howard said. “Although I have to admit I love the Carol Burnett parody almost as well as the real thing.”
    “That Dinah Shore,” sighed Thoreau. “What a sweetheart.”
    Piggy waved their digressions away. “Moi is going to change into street clothes,” she said. “And we are going to go and have ourselves some lunch.” She stepped behind the dressing screen as both men found a seat and sat down to wait for her. She emerged mere moments later and was dutifully zipped up by Thoreau, who approved the smart little nautical-inspired suit-dress with the sailor collar and crisp white piping. Spectator pumps shaped her plump, well-muscled calves, and she reached for a cloche hat.
    “The straw one, I believe,” said Thoreau. “Trust me—I know it’s big but it will make the outfit.” Doubtfully, Piggy put it on, but when Thoreau helped her adjust the netting so that it artfully covered one eye, she saw that he was right.
    “I defer to you, darling,” Piggy had said, and bussed him lightly on the cheek. She had to hold onto the hat with both hands to do it.
    “As well you should,” he said confidently. “Now get your tidy self in gear. I’m ready for a mimosa.”
    And Piggy had giggled, and inclined her head. For a moment, she looked like Old Hollywood glamour come to life, then the image was dispelled by her dialing her cell phone.
    “Bonjour, mon amis,” Piggy said into the phone. “Je m'appelle Mademoiselle Cochonne. J'ai une réservation pour trois.” She waited. “Oui—trois.” Another wait, then Piggy made a happy sigh. “Merci beaucoup,” she said at last. She hung up and looked up at her friends. “Let’s bag it and drag it, peeps!” she said, and they followed her out the door.

    “I don’t care,” said the tough stubbornly. “I don’t want no part of it. I got kids, and the wife ‘ud skin me alive and boil me for dinner if I so much as made a mean face at, um, you know?” He looked nervously over his shoulder.
    “Then get one of your little friends,” came the gritted reply.
    “Look—my friends may be tough, and some of them may be scumbags, but they ain’t stupid. Touching those guys—it’s the kiss of death. You get caught, you wouldn’t last a day in prison. You know what they do to folks what hurt kids in prison? Yeah? Well, what do you think they’d do to someone who hurt a kid’s—“
    “Fine, fine!” snapped the voice. “Stop whining already. I can’t hear myself think.”
    The thug, whose name was CB, had a thought that maybe thinking wasn’t the strong suit of his erstwhile employer, but by the time the thought reached his face, it didn’t show. He waited, trying not to fidget. Sheesh—he was twice the size of this blockhead but he was getting the wind up bad. Besides, the job…geez, the job! Who in their right mind would take out a hit on the--
    “Look,” said tight voice, interrupting his thoughts. “I’m not asking you to, um, dispatch him.”
    “You makin’ fun of my name?” CB asked, trying to puzzle it out. People who made fun of his name figured out quick how he’d gotten it.
    “What? No, you idi—“
    CB loomed, blocking out the sun.
    “I mean, what, no! Of course I wasn’t. I was just, um, saying that you don’t have to, um, eradicate—”
    “Huh? I ain’t no English scholar.”
    “I’m not asking you to kill him!!!”
    “Shhhh! What are you—nuts? Get out of here! No—you stay. I’m getting out of here. It’s bad enough you want someone to do it, but now you’re talkin’ about it—“
    “Wait, wait—I’m sorry.”
    A well-manicured hand grabbed his arm and it was all he could do not to react. Smart people didn’t put their hands on him, but he’d already figured out he was dealing with stupid—and maybe crazy—so he took a deep breath and tried not to pummel.
    “Stop trying to talk like a gangster on tv. Use small words, and choose ‘em carefully or I’m walkin’—got it?” The smaller figure nodded hastily and the hand was removed.
    “I just want you to rough him up, okay? I just want to, um, scare him a little—make him think twice about what he’s doing. Don’t tell me a big guy like you is scared?”
    “I ain’t scared,” CB said, but in truth he was sweating. “But I can’t help you.”
    “I’ll double the price!” This was wrenched from the speaker unwillingly, but it was worth it. CB wavered. “I’ll double the price and you don’t even have to lay a hand on him. I just want him scared out of his wits so he’ll go running off home and never—“
    “Fine, fine,” said CB. “Geez, you talk a lot. Okay—look. I know one guy who might do it. He’s big.”
    “Bigger than you?”
    CB snorted. “Bigger than everybody,” he said. “He doesn’t like to hurt people, but he’s good at…suggesting things to them, you know what I mean? And he’s not put off by these people like I am—like the other guys are.” He hesitated. “I could ask.”
    Ask.” The venom in that voice made CB step back. Crazy was right. He hesitated again, then held out his hand.
    “Okay—give me the dough and I’ll ask.”
    “What--? What makes you think I’ll just….” That last came out rather squeaky as CB towered imposingly. Good grief—it was like a solar eclipse. “I mean, here’s half. Get the job done and you’ll get the other half. I don’t care who does it—just get it done. Okay?”
    But CB was counting the money, already moving on. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll explain the job to him. He does it, you pay me this much again. He says no….I’ll take this as a nuisance fee for asking. Okay?”
    This was obviously not okay, but when there was no answer, CB started to turn back—
    “Okay,” gasped the voice. “Just scare him. Make him afraid.”
    CB did not turn around. “I’m sure I can arrange it.”
    The shakes didn’t hit until CB was out of sight, but then they hit with a vengeance. “I have no doubt you can,” came the shaky reply, but there was no one there in the alley to hear it.

    “Well, I feel positively decadent,” said Autumn, settling back into her lover’s embrace on the big brass bed. “I don’t know when I’ve slept this late.”
    “Well, I feel positively debauched,” Ed teased. “And you weren’t exactly sleeping.”
    “Leave it to you to be literal,” she pouted.
    “Leave it to you to be…” His arms tightened around her. “Figurative.”
    Autumn laughed and kissed him, then wriggled free again and went to check the coffee pot. She inhaled the scent, which was permeating the spacious suite. “And you don’t want to sample my French Press?” she said. The teapot stood in readiness, but she was asking once more to be sure.
    “As delectable as that sounds, no,” said Ed, toeing into his houseshoes and padding into the kitchen. “I’m not a coffee drinker.” He heard her snort and the sound of hot liquid hissing into a cup. Earlier, he had heard the whistle from the teapot, and now heard the rasp of the copper pot being lifted off the burner. He heard the water pour and smelled the heady scent of tea leaves steaming. Autumn placed the tea on the counter just so, and he reached gingerly for the mug handle.
    “Well, I like a French press because you get to control how hot the water is, how long you let it steep, how much--.”
    “You do like to be in charge of things,” Ed said lightly, and Autumn made a face at him.
    “Still complaining because I kidnapped you?” she demanded, but Ed turned and smiled at her.
    “I wasn’t thinking of that at all,” he murmured, and only narrowly missed being hit with a linen napkin that she had balled up and thrown. “This is good,” he said, sipping the hot liquid. He sat down on the couch in the sitting area and held the mug near his nose. “Is this English Breakfast or Irish Breakfast?”
    “That’s Autumn breakfast,” she said. “From home.”
    “I like it,” Ed said. “Strong and yet subtle.”
    “I’m good at subtle,” Autumn said. She hesitated, and Ed waited, half-knowing what was coming. “I…Ed, I got a, um, message,” she said.
    “If you have to go—“
    “No. I don’t have to go.” She said, coming to sit cross-legged on the couch beside him. She reached for his hand, watching his expression. “But I have…something I have to do, Darling. It won’t take long, but—“
    “Well, I’m going to take a long shower and shave again,” said Ed, rubbing his budding stubble. His expression was serious. “You are free to do what you need to do.”
    “If I’m not back before you’re done—“
    “Then I will dress with exquisite good taste and go on to our lunch. You will meet me there?” There was a wistful quality to his voice that Autumn loved.
    “Yes, Dearest. No matter what. If I don’t see you here, I’ll see you there.” She leaned forward and kissed him, two warm, flavored mouths working together. Then she stood up and left him to savor the remains of his tea—and his morning—alone.

    Leila stared at the little pink phone that sat beneath the counter and impugned her. It was afternoon and Miss Piggy had not come by for it yet, and she was doubting—again—whether or not she should have taken the phone in the first place. The man had seemed nice, but you never knew, did you? She was lost in thought when the door opening sounded the bell. Leila looked up to see an almost familiar face. She knew that man—she did, but from where…?
    She watched him wander up and down the aisles and it hit her—all of a sudden—why he seemed familiar. This man had come into the store the day Miss Piggy had crawled down the aisle and made a quiet escape. Was this the guy she’d been trying to hide from? Or was it the guy who had left the phone? This guy didn’t look like a bad guy. He looked like a gentleman, although he was moving rather stiffly, as though his back was sore. His face was boyish but nondescript, his coat well-tailored and expensive. So lost in thought was she that he looked up and caught her looking at him. His eyes narrowed suspiciously and Leila caught her breath. He suddenly did not look either boyish or gentlemanly, then—quick as a wink—he was smiling at her, a charming smile, showing lots of white teeth.
    “Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly.
    Good breeding will tell, willing or no. “Good afternoon,” Leila answered politely, and smiled her well-mannered shop-girl smile. “Can I help you with anything?”
    He almost said, “I’d like some information, please,” but something about the girl’s wholesome demeanor warned him off. Seymour smiled, a practiced smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
    “Just looking,” he said, and when her eyes squinched at him, he amended hastily. “I think you sell umbrellas?”
    Leila pointed. She said nothing, but she thought, We both know it isn’t going to rain today. She watched him walk in the direction she pointed and was startled when the doorbell clanged again. She turned to see a big bruin of a guy in a blue suit walk into the store.
    “Hey, how ya doin’?” he said, waving a big paw. “I heard you got some of those big cookies—the oatmeal ones with raisins in ‘im?” His face was so comically hopeful that, in spite of herself, Leila smiled back. “Up here at the counter,” she said, and he lumbered forward and looked at the selection eagerly.
    “Great!” he said. “I’m starvin’! I just got into town!”
    Leila bit her lip. On a turnip truck, no doubt, she thought wickedly. What she said was, “Is this your first time in the Big Apple?”
    “Heck no!” he replied, surprising her. “I been here lots of times. I just came to town to do a job.”
    Leila looked at him skeptically. “You a dancer?” she asked. There were always dancers coming to town, and they came in all shapes and sizes. This guy didn’t look like a dancer, but you never knew.
    “Oh, heh heh. Not really. I’m an actor. But right now I’m working security down at the theater.” He pointed. He pointed to Miss Piggy’s theater.
    “Really?” said Leila, trying to keep the incredulity out of her voice.
    “Yeah! Got the call early this morning. Say—you got any sammiches?”
    Leila helped him load up a paper sack with edibles and a couple of grape Nehi drinks, then rang everything up. He paid without complaint and shuffled off down the street toward the theater. Watching him, Leila became aware of another set of eyes watching him lumber down the street. The gentleman in the nice coat was glaring at his back with something like venom in his gaze, and Leila reached below the counter for the comforting familiarity of the tire iron.
    “Did you find an umbrella you wanted?” she demanded. The man looked down, startled, as though surprised to find his clenched hands empty.
    “Um, I must have set it down….” He mumbled. He went back, grabbed the first umbrella he saw—a pink one with big gray polka dots—and paid for it hastily under Leila’s gimlet eye.
    Leila watched him go, and she had lots of things to wonder about for the rest of her shift.

    Scribbler wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and surveyed the bags under his eyes ruefully, then grinned at his reflection. Awww, nobody’s looking at me, he thought sardonically, then his heart all but leapt out of his chest. But somebody is talking to me again! He had hardly slept last night, too keyed up from everything that had happened. In flashes, he had relived the moment he looked up to see Missy struggling with her attacker, his mad dash across the pavement and the brief but intense altercation between him and the man in the dark coat and hat. He had tried until his brain hurt to remember anything specific about the man’s appearance—anything that might give a clue to his identity—but the only face that came to mind was Missy’s, gazing up at him with something like adoration in her big, blue eyes. Something like, he reminded himself. She’s just grateful. But if he closed his eyes and thought about it, he could almost feel her satin-gloved arm around his back, the warm press of her body as she leaned on him for support.
    These images were interspersed with other images: the sight of Jonesy behind his desk, his humiliation in his boss’s office, the sweetish smell of…dinner on the breath of his boss and the thugs that had manhandled him. He flexed his arm and winced. Luckily, he would only be wielding a microphone tomorrow, and the thought of it made him grimace.
    He used to love the award show crowd. He could look around the crowded causeway and see a hundred different stories, all waiting for his byline, but that had been a while ago, when his name and face were familiar, when people had actually known who he was. His expression grew sad. When he and Missy had been starting out, it had been different. Both of them had been thrilled to be recognized, and things had not been so one-sided. Now, everybody recognized her face and form, and he was wondering with a sense of dread if some of the new stars and starlets would even know who he was.
    But Missy knew him. When it was dark and late and the frog had disappointed her yet again, she had called. She had been tentative at first, uncertain, but she couldn’t talk to him for any length of time without being aware of how he felt about her, and her divahood began to reassert itself. She had been imperious, demanding that he stop writing unkind articles about Kermit or their marriage. He had not promised—he had dodged as artfully and as skillfully as he ever had—but he had been surprised—a little, at least—to realize how much his stories had hurt her. Time was she’d enjoyed being the focus of his article—any article—no matter what it said. When he’d written those things about the frog, he had been glad to get a little of his own back, but he had not anticipated how distressed she had sounded about them now. He wanted to feel triumphant at having gotten his jabs in, but now he just felt mean. She wasn’t his target, and he thought that she’d believed him when he’d said it. He presumed she knew that meant that Kermit was, but there they had reached an impasse. He could not tell her what his boss was about—he did not actually know what his boss was about—but he could mind his manners while they were on the phone. He had promised that—she had made him pinky swear, albeit through the phone—and it had brought back a bouquet of things he had willed himself not to think about.
    Missy standing in his living room, asking his approval on her audition outfit…Missy calling him, crying, from the bus station when she hadn’t gotten the callback…Missing letting him make them drop biscuits and tea in the eensy little kitchen because there wasn’t any grocery money until payday. Scribbler swallowed. Missy, crying on his shoulder, because that stupid frog had been mean to her again.
    “Never you mind about the frog,” he had said, setting her back from him and handing her an almost clean handkerchief. “One day, the frog will be begging you to come back to him and star in his shows,” he had said, and Piggy had raised her tear-stained face to his.
    “Pinky swear?” she had asked, desperate for reassurance, and Scribbler had twined his little finger with her satin-ensconced pinky and grinned.
    “Pinky swear,” he said. “Easy to bet on a sure thing.”
    He had been sure.
    And he had been wrong.
    She hadn’t called him. When it had mattered most, it had been the frog after all, and she had not called him. When her dreams had come true, his had ended. He stuffed the thought away, shying from the way it could make him feel.
    But last night, she had called him, and hope had flared once again. In his mind, Scribbler pictured that hope like a nuclear cloud over his dingy apartment.
    He had told her about the phone, explained about the phone. She had been wary at first, noncommittal, but he was pretty sure that—if the frog ever made it up to see her, which Fleet doubted he would do any time soon—she had come to the same conclusion he had come to: it wouldn’t do either of them any good for their secret little talks to become known. Missy had promised to pick up the phone from the sundries shop—nothing more—and he had had to be content with that. Scribbler smiled and began to unpack his shaving kit. He had learned to be content with a lot less than he’d once supposed it took. He was the king of doing without, and it had all started when he had started doing without her.

    “No, really,” said Scooter. “I didn’t mind coming in. Sara’s working today because I made her promise not to work tomorrow night. I want her to come and enjoy the Academy Awards—not work them—so she practically ran out the door when I told her I was going to come in.” Scooter smiled at Kermit’s obvious discomfiture. “Besides,” he teased. “Aren’t I usually the one who shanghaies your schedule?”
    “You’re entitled.”
    “I’m nervous,” Kermit admitted. “Work makes everything else go away, but when I’m not working, I’m worrying. I worry about what the tabloids are going to say about her there and me here and I don’t want her to, you know, have to face all that garbage when I’m not with her.” Kermit looked down, bumping his fingers together anxiously.
    “She seemed to survive opening week pretty well,” Scooter said earnestly. “Everybody loved her.”
    “Yeah,” said Kermit glumly, and Scooter had a minor bubble-pop as he reasoned out why that might make his boss morose.
    “Look—you can’t take all that tripe seriously, Boss. Really. Miss Piggy may be the new darling of Broadway but she’s always going to be your girl.” Scooter waited a beat to be sure Kermit was listening. “Miss Piggy’s always going to want to be your girl.”
    Kermit looked up at him hopefully and almost smiled. “I sent the bracelet and the shirt,” he confided, feeling shy, but Scooter thumped him roundly on the back.
    “Thataboy,” said Scooter. “I told you Sara would know what to do. When she opens them, Piggy will be a puddle on the floor. We’ve just got to get you through this next, um, week? Maybe? And then you can go up there and mop up, okay?”
    This time Kermit did grin. “Okay. It is going better,” said Kermit. “I felt a little silly asking for more security, but I think it’s keeping the traffic flow down, at least.”
    “Yeah,” said Scooter, “although with all the extra bodies, you have to get your cheese doodles early in the week or they’re all gone.” They had stopped in front of the vending machine and noted the empty cheese doodle queue sadly. Suddenly, he grinned and pointed. “Look—honey puffs! Fozzie will be happy. Oh, and hey—how come Bobo didn’t come today? There was some new guy this morning. I thought it was strange but he seemed legit.”
    Kermit looked at him and Scooter’s face flamed scarlet. “I, um, ran his ID to be sure. After the freezer thing….” Both men shuddered. “But I thought it was strange that Bobo didn’t show up. He’s usually happy to pick up some extra hours here with us.”
    Kermit looked evasive. “He’s, um, busy, I hear,” Kermit muttered.
    Had his boss not looked so furtive and guilty, Scooter would never have pursued it, but Kermit’s demeanor caught his eye.
    “Boss? What do you mean, busy?” he asked. He frowned and put his hands on his hips. “You look like you’re up to something.”
    “Um, no,” said Kermit, completely unconvincing. “I’m, you know, not hiding anything.”
    Kermit caved. He’d obviously been dying to talk to Scooter about it all along, but needed a little arm-twisting to get it out. “Um, Marty called early this morning. He wanted to tell me he was going to try to put some security on Piggy.”
    Scooter looked skeptical. “She’s not going to like that.”
    “I know. I know,” Kermit said. “But Marty said he’s got the willies…well, he said something like that, but the gist is he thought Piggy should have someone on the ground looking out for her.”
    Scooter looked around, then stepped closer to his boss. “Do you think he heard about the, um…?” He trailed off but jerked his head toward the freezer.
    “Um, I don’t think so,” Kermit said. “We’re usually pretty blunt with each other. I think he would have told me if he knew about the freezer.”
    Scooter felt a rush of affection for Kermit, who—despite his business acumen and fantastic people skills—could be very naïve. “You think Marty tells you everything?” he demanded.
    Kermit started to say “yes.” He wanted to say “yes.” But he couldn’t.
    “No,” he mumbled. “So he might have known and just figured he’d better cover his bases if it was, you know, not accidental.”
    “It wasn’t accidental,” Scooter said evenly. “But—but what does this have to do with Bobo not coming—oh. Oh.” Scooter’s eyes were wide behind his glasses, and he looked at his boss with amusement and respect. “So you sent Bobo to watch out for Miss Piggy.”
    “No,” Kermit said firmly, also looking furtively over his shoulder and whispering. “I did not send Bobo to Piggy. Marty sent Bobo to Piggy.”
    Scooter grinned. “The unstoppable force meets the immovable object,” he deadpanned. “If Piggy doesn’t want him around, he’s too big to karate chop, but he obviously adores her, so she probably won’t mind. Too much.”
    Kermit’s expression was smug. “That’s what I’m hoping.”
    “Won’t he, you know, drive her nuts, though?”
    “Probably,” said Kermit. “But he’s as big as a, well, a bear and if Marty tells him nobody gets in to bother Piggy, well, chances are good nobody will get in.”
    “And you don’t have to be the bad guy.”
    “And I don’t have to be the bad guy,” said Kermit. “I’m the, um, expensive bracelet and snuggly shirt guy.”
    Scooter’s expression was wry. “I bow to your superior understanding of women,” he said, but at this, Kermit drew the line.
    “I don’t know anything about women,” he confessed. “I just know my girl.”

    (Let the typo hunting begin....)
    The Count and newsmanfan like this.
  4. The Count

    The Count Moderator Staff Member

    Yay! *Is happy and giddy with the new chapter. You could knock me over with a feather.
    :batty: Vhich is to say, he approves of everything.
    UD: Good thing we still retain some passing French to understand what Miss P mentioned to the maître d' at wherever they're lunching.
    *Grins at the thought of Bobo up in NYC as the pig's bodyguard. Just so long as you don't brake into that awful Whitney Houston alarm….
    And the segment revealing more of Fleet's past, he's becoming a figure that has as much to do with the plot going forward as any other main Muppet.
    *Laughs/snickers at the conversations between frog and gofer. Sage advice about knowing your girl Kerm.

    Thank you for this. *Leaves muffins, thrilled at another chapter added to the tally.
    Ruahnna likes this.
  5. newsmanfan

    newsmanfan Well-Known Member

    A hah hah hah hah I KNEW it was Bobo! Nicely played -- and even funnier that MARTY thought of the bear, not Kermit! Oh I cannot wait for Seymour to run smack into the Kodiak at the theatre, pardon my pun. Though now that he's seen what he's up against, perhaps the creep will back off? We can hope...

    Yes, Piggy is very good at channeling that old Tinseltown glamor. I love the look of the starlets of the '30s and '40s and le pig is marvellous at bringing that out. I had to go look up Mary Pickford (yowza!), but of course I got the dress reference...and the dress joke. "It's curtains for you!"

    Hmmm. So CB is talking to, I'm guessing, the Big Uggy Over Scribbler? Or is that Seymour? When a thug recognizes Crazy, man, that has to REALLY be CRAZY... And thus far I've seen no evidence to suggest Big Boss is nuts, just evil as American Idol. Hmmmmm.

    Rhonda: You want a banjo to back up that humming, or what?

    Autumn Breakfast! Ooooh! I want! Er...I mean the TEA. I'd like the TEA. Ed can have the other! ;) And WHAT is it exactly Autumn does? Her needing to do "a job" right on the heels of CB and BigUggy's chat is...suggestively twisted. Hmmmmm.

    Rhonda: I'm serious. Hey Floyd, can you strum a banjo?
    Teeth: Wouldya consider a ukelele?

    Oh, and the Mayhem On Cruise was cute. Canasta and shuffleboard?? Yeek! Are you calling the band -- gasp -- OLD?

    Fleet's reminiscing is touching and sweet...I may actually be growing accustomed to feeling something other than contempt for the little hack...

    :news: HEY!

    Uh...not like THAT, Newsie. Hush.

    :news: *grumbling in background, refuses to read any of Fleet's sections*

    Rhonda: Suit yourself. There's some juicy stuff here...oooh! I didn't think Fleet had the arm strength to actually rip a bodice!

    :news: WHAT? *looks*

    Rhonda: Heh heh heh. Sucker.

    In all...looking forward to awards night! WILL Piggy pick up her secret phone, and will Kermit actually wave his arms right out of their sockets when he finds out? Will Seymour meet the Immovable Grizzly and become fishbait? Will Piggy experience a wardrobe malfunction which causes multiple myocardial infarctions at the FCC and keeps Thoreau in business for decades?

    :news: You're starting to sound like Louis.

    And YOU sound like you need a nap. Come on. Nappies.

    :news: Ack! Hey! I do NOT need --

    I'll cuddle.

    :news: *suddenly meek* okay...
    Ruahnna likes this.
  6. The Count

    The Count Moderator Staff Member

    *Laughs with Kris's review. *Knew she'd make him look/read Fleet's portion.
    You know, I'm perfectly okay with leaving (leafing? :o Aaaah) Autumn's profession vaguely up to Ru as she sees fit to write.

    English breakfast, reminds me of the omelette with baked beans on top.
    Irish breakfast, would that be with some healthy hash?
    :shifty: So what's a rat gotta do to get some grub around here?
    Why don't you follow Piggy and find out.

    *After Rizzo leaves, hands leftover French press coffee to Rhonda, she'll need it when she learns what's in store down in the underground.
    Ruahnna likes this.
  7. WebMistressGina

    WebMistressGina Well-Known Member

    :search: The mystery continues afoot!

    I was sure CB was talking to Seymour and they're gonna rough WHO up?? Obviously a guy, but who? The frog? Or the assistant?

    Bobo!? I love that guy! He's like a giant, dumb Fozzie!

    :o Heeeeeey!

    Sorry buddy. I didn't mean it all mean like. I like the guy. And you know what? He makes the perfect body guard for Piggy. Even she can't deny it. Try it!

    :mad: well...

    You can't! Come on! Think about it - some ruffians come up and are all up in your grill and you bust out the Bobo!

    Piggy: Bobo, tell these guys who I am.

    And then Bobo is all like, "listen fellows, I'd hate to get rough with you, but you're gonna need to take a few steps back" and when they don't, blammo!

    :concern: Blammo?

    Blammo! And just in case they think they can sneak around, boom! There's Piggy with the karate chop like Hong Kong Phooey!

    :mad: Have you been drinking?

    I am perfectly sober, thank you! Though I'm wondering how long that anesthetic remains in my system. I did go through a whole tube earlier. I'm sure that's probably not good...

    Hey, I muffined! Aw, I'm sorry. What I meant to say was, "I'm completely down with this total Muppet Mystery of Mayhem tour."
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  8. The Count

    The Count Moderator Staff Member

    And a rinky-dinky-doo to you too Gina!
    Spot, bring the Phooeymobile around, and convert it to limo mode.
    :fishy: (to whoever's playing the roles of Kristen and/or Stacey, will you please sign my fish?

    You know, I'm not so sure the scene with CB was Scribbler's boss. Scribbler's boss just intimidated his urstwhile journalist, with his own thugs, in his own office, with the ham sandwiches. And though we've gotten glimpses of Scribbler's boss attempting to hire outside help (or would that be hindrance?) to thwart the frog's studio, I agree with Kris in that the boss is more evil than recognizable as 'crazy' by CB.

    But Ima still grinning over one particular segment and looking forward to how that, along with the rest of the story continues to develop.
    Ruahnna likes this.
  9. Twisted Tails

    Twisted Tails Well-Known Member

    Oh, Ru! Kermit only knows Piggy? That is so true. But I understanthat d he doesn't know women. Who in the rock is CB? It's strange! Seymour is really up to no good.
    :excited: He's after the silly creature?
    Red, this may sound scary, but yes he is after Piggy. I hope a nice or a creature as tall as a gorg can protect her. Besides, why does Seymour want to try to brainwash the pig? Bleech! I don't want that awful Silly Creature to get near that pig And scribbler? The poor thing! I know he feels guilty for hurting Piggy so badly. I don't know boys as much, but I love being a girl. (chuckles)!
    Ruahnna likes this.
  10. The Count

    The Count Moderator Staff Member

    *Bumping this back up topside for Aunt Ru where it deservedly belongs. :dreamy:
  11. miss kermie

    miss kermie Well-Known Member

    Shoot, I didn't get the alert. Now I comment last instead of first! Or second!:cry:
    N E Way!

    Wow, I was not expecting Bobo!
    I should've, but hey, I can be a Beaureguard sometimes.

    More Please Ru.
  12. Ruahnna

    Ruahnna Well-Known Member

    Chapter 128: Taking Care of Business

    “I still can’t believe it,” said Mabel. “A contract and a tour both! Oh, Honey, I am so proud of you I could just bust. Can I tell people?”
    “We sign the paperwork this afternoon,” said Tricia. “He’s bringing the paperwork here and the girls from the band are coming over. I guess we should wait to tell,” she said, and her eyes slid over to Clifford. He smiled and spread his arms wide.
    “Don’t look at me!” he said. “I’m the designated secret-keeper for the group. I’m not saying anything to anybody about anything—yet.”
    “Pretty big yet,” muttered Tricia, and Clifford grinned.
    “Yup,” he said. “It is, that. But when the word comes down, well, I’m tweeting the world.” His mouth twitched up at the corner. “If that’s okay with you, Miss Trish?” He looked meek and docile and completely unbelievable. Mabel and her daughter burst out laughing.
    “You’re an idiot,” said Tricia fondly. “When the ink is dry, I would not begin to tell you who you can and cannot tweet, you twit.”
    Mabel watched them surreptitiously. There was an easiness between them now that had not been there before. They had obviously reached some sort of agreement about…something, and had decided to be friends. She was glad. She had not planned this, worried a bit about how they might react to each other, but she was glad they had found a comfortable groove for their friendship. She did not say, “their relationship”, even to herself, but she was beginning to think it. But now the tour and the album would stop everything dead in its tracks—it was well-nigh impossible to have time and energy for a long-distance relationship when you were on the road. Mabel comforted herself with the hope that they had laid a good enough foundation that they might want to see each other again after the first blush of excitement over this career opportunity had cooled.
    “Well, if we’ve got people coming over, I’ve got to see what’s in the cupboard,” said Mabel, getting to her feet and heading toward the kitchen. “Watcha think, Clifford? Lemon bars or brownies?”
    “Lemon bars.”
    “I like brownies,” said Tricia, looking at Clifford, “because they’re sweet.”
    “Lemon bars are sweet—and tart.” He was looking at her fondly, and Mabel just about had a heart attack when her errant, opinionated daughter dropped her eyes and blushed.
    “I’ll change my vote to lemon bars,” she murmured, then scurried after her mother into the kitchen as though afraid to be left alone in the living room with Clifford. “Here—let me grate the zest for you, Mom.”
    Clifford just smiled, proud and happy about the way things had turned out. It was okay. It was good. Tricia and the band would be consumed with the new album, then the tour—a real, live, label-sponsored concert tour would begin. He would become a footnote—well, an album liner note, he supposed—in the long run, but the long run wouldn’t start for a couple of weeks, at least. Between then and now, they could have a few laughs, share a few more of those neck-popping, lip-smacking kisses and then, hey, howdy, it was fun, wasn’t it? Let's stay friends….
    It was good. It was okay.
    Clifford worked hard on making himself believe it.

    “So, there’s this guy, see?” CB said, looking over his shoulder after making fleeting eye contact. He wasn’t sure which made him more nervous—what might be behind him, or what was in front of him. This guy was huge, and there was something…off about his eyes.
    “Yup,” said his companion amiably.
    “No. No—you don’t see, yet. I’m still explaining to you, okay?”
    “Okay!” boomed the deep voice. CB felt like he was standing in a strong wind.
    “Um, okay. Here’s the deal. This is an easy job, really. There’s this guy what’s gonna be walking by here sometime this afternoon. At least, we think he’s coming today. If he comes by, he’s gonna be wearing a green jacket, probably, and he’s got, um, red hair and he’ll be carrying a package. Got it?”
    “A package. Red hair. Got it,” echoed CB’s companion.
    “And when he walks by—“ He indicated the sidewalk just beyond the alleyway. “And when he comes by, I want you to…um…take care of him. You know what I’m saying?”
    “Ah’m supposed to take care of him if he comes by with a package.”
    “That’s right. And if you do, then you get paid.”
    The big fellow’s eyes became shrewd. “How much? Who’s gonna pay me?”
    “Um m-me,” said CB. “Here’s, um, half of the money up front, okay?” He counted bills into the huge hand. The hand closed over the money and stuffed it inside a grimy vest.
    “And when I’m done?”
    “You get the other half.”
    “What if he don’t come by today? What about that?”
    “If he doesn’t come by today, we’ll have to try again. But you’ll get paid if you, um, you know, make sure he gets the, um, message.”
    “That we’ll take care of him if he tries to take a package by here.”
    “Well, that you’ll take care of him if he takes a package by here,” said CB. “I, um, can’t work on this job, so it will have to be you. Can you handle it?”
    "Hmmm." The guy apparently wasn’t as dumb as he looked.
    “Ah can do it,” the fellow boomed. Subtlety was not a skill he had mastered.
    “Um, good,” said CB, glad to be off the hook. “You make it happen, I make with the money—okay?”
    “And, um, look—can you keep it quiet-like? I’m not sure I want everybody here knowing my business, you know what I’m saying?”
    “I guess,” said the big guy. “You don’t want me to tell anyone I’m doing this job.”
    “Well, I don’t want you to tell people I’m doing this job. This one is allllll yours, buddy—okay?”
    “Okay!” He nodded his huge head.
    CB clapped him once on the shoulder and eased quietly away. He seemed good for the job, and the job seemed suited for him. Why, the redheaded kid probably wouldn’t even argue, just faint away at the sight of him towering over him. At least, he sort of hoped that’s what would happen. He was still spooked by the thought of someone taking out a contract on, geez, one of the nicest guys in showbiz. Or at least, on his assistant. But as long as the money was good and nobody knew…well. He was a working man, after all.

    The proliferation of cable channels had, in Scribbler’s opinion, muddied the waters quite a bit, and the proliferation of people who got famous posting their dirty laundry online had polluted the already stagnant pond that was Hollywood. It was harder and harder, sometimes, to tell who was a star and who was simply, as they euphemistically put it, “a personality”. Scribbler thought that, after tomorrow night, he would have had his fill of personality and be quite ready to chuck the business for good. Except…except he had a new life now—a new life in New York. He had friends there—people, well, rats who cared about him and Missy was going to be there for a while. Scribbler grimaced. Actually, truth be told, he didn’t have a new life—he had part of his old life back. He had forgotten how sweet it had actually been.
    A million years ago, Piggy had covered the back wall of his apartment with clippings of his articles, his byline nestled cozily up to the bombastic headlines. More than a few of the articles—okay, most of them—were about Piggy, but they hid the cracks in the plaster, and Piggy seemed to like seeing them up as much as he did. Other reporters had started to notice her now, but when she had something she wanted to tell the world, it was ol’ Fleet to the rescue. Scribbler mused idly that, if Piggy’s star had been rising today, she might have simply tweeted or posted her own news, making his stories and articles unnecessary. But he did have a knack for writing about her. Everyone said so. And Piggy knew so. That had kept little Missy Sunshine happy most of the time.
    Most of it.
    There were days—weeks, sometimes—when she could be impossible. Angry one minute, joyful the next. Scribbler suspected that she was in the throes of love, and while this information didn’t necessarily alarm him, he realized later that he had been too complacent. He had known—from the beginning—how she felt about Kermit. What he hadn’t known—what he couldn’t have known—was that Kermit actually returned those feelings. He had expected trouble from that quarter, but not disaster. He had expected rainy days, not monsoons that had washed his life right down the toilet. But underneath that smooth and sometimes snarky green exterior, Kermit had apparently been pining for her all along. And when he had decided to act, it had been the final act. Game over.
    But now…now, the game had been reset. At least, some of it had reset.
    And it was up to him to build on what he had. One good thing about all this tweeting was that people were not so hard to find. Once, his rolodex had been full of hard-to-get telephone numbers, gold cards in a tinsel town. The demands for information, privacy and attention had required a whole slew of people just to say that Starlet A and Star B had decided to share a martini, a movie offer or a divorce attorney. Despite its intricacies—or perhaps because of them—Scribbler had become adept at reading between the lines of other reporters’ work, and he had once commanded a considerable arsenal of information. He’d once had the power to set the town on its ear. Now, all his secrets would be met with “What?” and the occasional, “Who?”. No doubt about it—he was a little rusty—but he had been working before some of these stars had been born. And everybody—everybody—had to admit that he had once been good. Very good. A household name, almost. Stupid frog.
    Hastily, Scribbler stuffed his ire away. He had promised, hadn’t he, not to hurt Kermit with untruths? If that became known, his boss would be livid, would become furious. And, given the lengths to which they had gone to yesterday to horrify him, he was afraid of what might happen if his alliance—or his genuine loyalty—were shown. Even though he was alone in his apartment, he shivered, and felt his gorge rise. Angrily, Scribbler shook his head, dispelling the images, the smell that seemed to linger even after a long shower. He was a reporter. He was a pro. He could get the job done.
    He took another swig of his coffee—the instant stuff had gone stale in the jar while he’d been gone, but it was caffeine all the same and he was grateful for it.
    Resolutely, he turned his face toward the day. Get his jacket on, throw a tie around his neck, and go and make himself agreeable with people who were famous—or who wanted to be.
    He had been surprised, really, at the people who had remembered him. Remembered him or wanted the publicity, his mind sneered in the voice of his boss, but Scribbler pushed it determinedly away. He wouldn’t think about his boss now—not until he had to. The folks who remembered him continued to link him with Piggy—it had been his best work—and it didn’t hurt that she was so much in the news now. Even here in Hollywood, Broadway had a way of looming imposingly. Today he’d plant a few seeds, throw out a few lines and see what he could turn up that might turn into something tomorrow. He hadn’t quite admitted it to himself, but he was interested in what Piggy and that dratted frog would get up to in their interview. He’d heard about it, of course, but not from Missy. He’d seen the news clips—the pieced together clips that seemed to imply that Kermit and Piggy were planning some sort of on-screen reunion—but he still thought it was a paltry showing by the frog, who ought to be getting his little green butt going to see her in person. Not that he was complaining…. He couldn’t hope to rival their broadcast, but perhaps he could—pardon the expression—piggyback onto their conversation, make a couple of snide asides about Kermit not going for opening night. He had promised not to hurt Kermit with lies—he had never promised not to wound him with the truth.
    The truth…did the frog even know the truth? Did Kermit know how she’d betrayed him, Scribbler, and all her promises to him to run away and marry him on a second’s notice? He doubted it. Scribbler found he was gritting his teeth and stopped, beating back the anger that had threatened to swallow him whole the past several years. It wasn’t Missy’s fault, his mind insisted. If it hadn’t been for that stupid frog, everything would have been perfect, grand—the whole wide world in the palm of their hands. But it had not happened like that—yet. Scribbler felt the familiar thrill of fury and channeled it—channeled it and controlled it and focused it to firm up his resolve.
    Things could change. Things had changed. Things could go back to the way they’d been. They could. He just had to get his game face on and get out there and fight for her like he should have done in the first place. If only she’d encouraged him—just a little—he’d have come banging on the studio door and pleaded his case, but she…hadn’t. She had, after all, been honest with him about the way she felt about Kermit. She just hadn’t been honest with him about anything else.

    Okay, Scooter thought. He just had to drop the film off and then he was a free man for the rest of the day. And Sara would probably already be home—or getting there—after her trip to the office. Like him, most of her work wasn’t done in an office. It was done in the field. Scooter thought, not for the first time, that he really had the best of both worlds—a glorified office assistant without the routine of an office, and plenty of excitement to boot. He wasn’t planning on a lot of excitement on this trip to the editor’s.
    There are disadvantages to working with monsters. You get sort of used to things that are larger than you creeping up behind you—usually they were just wondering where their paycheck was, or if they could get an advance on their paycheck. So Scooter didn’t immediately turn when something big and shaggy and hulking loomed behind him on the sidewalk, but then the short hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he turned, catching something enormous out of the corner of his eye. Too stunned to cry out, he was turning, he was running, he was falling—
    And a huge four-fingered hand closed on his arm, pulling him not just on to his feet, but off them, and he found his voice and cried out.
    “Sweetums! Oh my gosh! You scared me half to death!” His heart was pounding painfully in his chest.
    “Oh, hey, Scooter! Ah didn’t know that was you!” boomed Sweetums. Scooter’s carefully combed hair flattened in the blast of the ogre’s breath and immediately began to curl from the humidity. Sweetums set Scooter back onto the sidewalk and patted him on the head. Normally, Scooter protested head-patting, but he said nothing, concentrating on keeping his teeth from rattling from the bone-jarring thumps to his skull.
    “Well, it’s me all right,” said Scooter, straightening his jacket. He was pleased to note that he had a death-grip on the envelope with the film in it, glad to know he hadn’t dropped it. He smiled up at the big Muppet. “What are you doing here?”
    “Well, you see, Ah’m working,” said the ogre. “Ah was supposed to wait here for a guy.”
    “Who was it?”
    “Some guy with a green jacket and red hair and a package….” He trailed off, looking Scooter up and down, and Scooter’s friendly smile threatened to slide right off his face. His heart, which had slowed with relief, began to thump loudly again. He hoped Sweetums couldn’t hear it.
    “Um…me? You were waiting for me?” Scooter said, his voice squeaking slightly. His knees felt weak and he almost wished that Sweetums still had a grip on his arm. Almost.
    “Uh, yeah,” said Sweetums, scratching his shaggy head. “Ah guess so. And Ah’m, uh, Ah’m supposed to take care of you when Ah see you.”
    The wall of the building caught Scooter as he fell backward, supporting him. Sweetums was looking up and down the sidewalk furtively. Sara, Scooter thought dully. Kermit. Reflexively, he gripped the package.
    “So, is somebody bothering you?” Sweetums asked.
    Scooter blinked, then shook his head. “Is somebody…bothering me?”
    “Yeah,” Sweetums said. “Ah reckon they thought you needed some help delivering your package, so somebody must be trying to stop you. Gosh! Who’s bothering you, Scooter?”
    “Um, nobody—I mean, I don’t know, Sweetums,” Scooter said, thinking fast. “But I’m sure glad you showed up to help me.” He smiled up at the big monster hopefully, hoping his smile was not tremulous.
    “Well, that’s what they paid me for,” said Sweetums. “To take care of you and your package.”
    Scooter swallowed with effort. “I sure appreciate it, Sweetums. The editor is just around the corner there.” He tried to point but found his arm was shaking too much, but Sweetums didn’t notice. He was looking up and down the sidewalk carefully, his huge eyes rolling back and forth. He thrust one long arm behind him protectively.
    “You stay behind me, Scooter. Ah’ll make sure you get there with your package.” He led the way out into the bright sidewalk, and Scooter found, to his complete surprise, that his legs would carry him, after all.

    [ Lunch had been sublime, and there was only lingering over coffee. Piggy had excused herself to go to the ladies room and powder her nose, but what she really wanted to do was call Kermit and thank him for the presents. There had not—yet—been enough privacy to do this appropriately, but she was determined to find some. The little vestibule off the bathroom was too busy, talking while in the bathroom was too gauche, and Piggy finally found a slightly out-of-the-way corner and dialed. Kermit picked up on the first ring, and Piggy knew he’d been waiting for her to call.
    Kermit didn’t know much beyond high school French, but he nevertheless managed to get the gist of what Piggy was saying before she descended into pure mush. That he understood perfectly, and responded in kind. Very few people who learn mush as late in life as Kermit did ever become proficient in it, but in this, as in other things, Kermit was the exception that proved the rule. He held up his end of the conversation admirably, glad that Scooter had gone to take the day’s work to the editor and that he had not gotten behind the wheel of his car yet. He stood inside the door of the studio and traded little affectionate nothings with Piggy for at least ten minutes. If she had been here, he would have interspersed his words with kisses, but beggars can’t be choosy, so he tried to appreciate what he was getting instead of what he wasn’t.
    “I miss you, too,” Kermit said. They had begun repeating things, but noone was actually keeping track of the conversation.
    “I miss you more, Kermie,” Piggy cooed. “Moi will be thinking of vous when I go to sleep tonight with your wonderful present—oh!”
    “Piggy?” He heard a loud thunk, then shuffling noises, and his heart began to race. “Piggy! Piggy—are you—?”
    “Sorry, Mon Capitan. I dropped my phone. Moi really should be getting back to Howard and Thoreau now. They will be wondering what has happened to Moi.”
    “Yeah, don’t fret the boys, okay?” Kermit said dryly.
    Piggy giggled. “Moi will try not to fret the boys. Are you being good for Scooter? Is he still working you hard?”
    Kermit made a scrunchy face. “Um, yeah. He’s working me pretty hard. We got some more film in the can today. He just went to take it to the editor.”
    “So you are closer to coming to see Moi?”
    “Yeah. I’m coming, Honey. Soon. As soon as I can, okay?”
    “Okay.” Piggy sighed. “Moi should go,” she said, showing no signs of hanging up. He knew she was twirling the ring on her finger, lazily, not agitated,
    just thinking.

    “There you are!” Kermit distinctly heard Thoreau’s voice in the distance, then the phone made a raspy staticky sound. “I’ve got her now, Kermit,” he said. “She’ll call you later.” The screen went dark.
    Kermit stared at the phone for a long moment, then made a scrunchy face. “What the hey,” he muttered disgustedly, then grumbled audibly. The sound seemed suddenly loud in the quiet studio, and Kermit startled.
    “All right there, Mr. The Frog?” said a voice, and Kermit turned and found himself looking at one of the security guards. The new security guard. Despite his teasing, Kermit was suddenly glad that Scooter had thought to check the man out. Well, he wasn’t a man, exactly—he was a beaver, but Kermit was glad he’d been vetted.
    “Yeah, I’m, um, fine,” said Kermit, trying to sound hearty.
    “Sorry if I spooked you,” said the beaver, and Kermit flushed sheepishly.
    “I was just, er, on the phone,” he said, wondering all of a sudden if he’d been overheard. He felt his face grow warm.
    “Zat right?” said the beaver. “I tell you what, I feel like Captain Kirk every time I talk on my phone. Amazing technology, id’n it?”
    “It sure beats the heck out of the old telephones, you know?” Kermit said. He remembered the gags they had done with the old-style telephone on The Muppet Show and thought with fondness of how hard Fozzie had worked to bring that zaniness onto the stage.
    “That it does. When you’re as long in the tooth as I am, you’ve seen a lot of changes. You heading out for the day?” asked the beaver. Kermit cheated a little, leaning forward and reading the man’s name tag under pretext of scratching the back of his neck.
    “I am, um, Gerald,” he said. “I think we’ve done all the damage we can do today.”
    “I hope so!” laughed the beaver. “And please—my friends call me Gerry.”
    “Well, thanks for checking, Gerry. We appreciate the help keeping everything safe.”
    “It’s my pleasure, Mr. The Frog. Um—look. I hope I don’t sound presumptuous or anything, but do you think your missus would sign a picture for my missus?”
    “I’m sure she’d love to be asked,” said Kermit. “Want me to ask her?”
    “Oh—gosh! Would you?” said Gerry. “My wife’s seen every movie Miss Piggy has ever made—we own all the DVD's, and we’re working on the bluerays as soon as, um, well…as soon as they become available,” he finished, seeming to realize it might be impolitic to whine to his new employer about the slowness of their merchandizing.
    “Trust me—I’m waiting too, but they tell me they’re working on it. Supposed to be lots of extras and stuff.”
    “You going to do a director’s cut?” asked Gerald, and Kermit made a half-shrug.
    “I’m thinking about it,” he said. “If I feel like I have anything to say that we didn’t say in the movie, but I like to think our work speaks for itself.”
    “You can say that again!” said Gerry. They were at the door. “Want me to walk you to your car?”
    At this, Kermit drew the line. “I’m fine,” he said. “My car is just outside.”
    “Thanks for the autograph,” said Gerry. “It’ll make me a prince at home.”
    Kermit smiled, remembering something Piggy had said on the phone. He reached for the door handle….
  13. Twisted Tails

    Twisted Tails Well-Known Member

    Wait a minute! The weird CB and someone is after Scooter, not Piggy. That's trange but..gasps! The poor thing. That kid better.be careful. And scribber? Oh no!
    :excited: What now?
    He blames on Kermit! What? Ru, I love your writing, but now I am mad at Scribbler right now. Ugh! Just imagine that madness from him!
    :coy: Uh-oh!
    I knwo that, Wembley, but I just don't trust that creature anymore. Now to Kermit, he meets the cute little thing. Awwww! I'm glad he's making new friends. It sounds very nice!
    Wow Sweetums! Ohh! What a big mountain creature, but it's great that he's helpoing that kid out.
    :sigh: I have a bad feeling about this.
    Oh for someone to be after Piggy and Scooter. Yeah, Boober! I know they sound scary. but I would never trust those creatures. Nope!
    Overal, I really loved this chapter, I love where this is going, Ru.
  14. miss kermie

    miss kermie Well-Known Member

    Kermit, go VISIT HER!!!

    And... Wierd exit line... Theoreau...

    But Kermit's "What the hey" turned confusion into smiles.

    More please!
  15. WebMistressGina

    WebMistressGina Well-Known Member


    *looks up* Yeah, that's what I said! So as soon as I saw the descript of Scooter, I went "Oh no!" and then for him to meet up with Sweetums?? What what what??

    But then Sweetums turns around and is the big lumbering sweetheart we all know. Good thing Scootie's been in the business for a while; those acting classes have really paid off! LOL

    Okay, I'm officially in the "I hate Scribbler" camp again - not that I ever left. He's getting to be as creepy and creepy Seymour and they're both pretty creepy. And a half.

    I'm glad I'm not the only person who thinks that after, at least 7 something years in Paris, Piggy finally learned actual French. Somehow I knew you would also feel the same about that. Kermit knows French? Well, well, well.

    And who's this Gerry Beaver guy? Has he been checked? Has Gonzo checked him? What about Rizzo? Cause I don't trust no body who hasn't been checked by Gonzo and Rizzo.

    :concern: *snaps on plastic glove*

    :shifty: Where is he?

    That's right, boys, you check him thoroughly. I don't trust these interlopers.
  16. The Count

    The Count Moderator Staff Member

    "Posted by Web: "What what what?"
    Did you just pull off a Sheila Broflofsky?

    Posted by Mistress: "Well well well"
    :batty: 3 wells!

    Posted by Gina: "checked by Gonzo and Rizzo, leading to the plastic gloves."
    Okay, who ordered the BCS? Was it you again Mahoney?
    Gerry's already been checked and cleared by Scooter if you'd read the prev chapter. He's probably Maureen's man. You remember Maureen? The mink Kermit got for Piggy that one Christmas back at Grizzly Farms? Now leave 'im alone you wiseguys.
    :concern: Aw, you never let us have any fun.
    Not true, we let you use up all of the frog's mayonnaise for that launch last month.
    Clifford: I don't wanna know 'bout it man.

    Now get back to posting fic my lovelies. *Maniacal laugh.
  17. WebMistressGina

    WebMistressGina Well-Known Member

    Why, yes I did. Thank you for noticing!

    Ah ha ha!

    I know he was checked by Scooter. Don't mean nuttin. Seymour seemed pretty harmless way back in chapter 20, didn't he? But he's a WACKO! And I don't mean of the Warner Brother (or Warner Sister) variety.

    And as long as you're invoking Police Academy, I call on the combined powers of Hightower and Hooks. Why didn't Kermit get one of them.

    That's a lie and you know it. Not only did I do that...mayo thing with you, I leveled you up to Serious Gonzo in the last Monday fic AND this latest one. AND Ru has gotten you back together with Camilla, I think, so you shut your cake hole, Gonzo!

    Yeah, yeah. I gots the works to do and then I'm on it like buttah!
  18. Ruahnna

    Ruahnna Well-Known Member

    Just a couple of clarifications. I hadn't thought of Gerry being Maureen's hubby, but that could work. The song goes, "A skunk was badgered--the results were strong...." so I guess a Beaver and Mink might make a beautiful coat, um...er, a lovely, uh, make beautiful music together! Yeah, that's it. I'll think about it. And Gerry is a good guy, just like Bobo and Sweetums. You may all be surprised to find out who the good guys are--and who the bad guys are.

    And Gina, I did not say that Kermit became conversant in French. He has become conversant in mush, which comes in any language on the planet. It's a totally different skill set than learning a new country's language....

    Speaking of language--Ed--did you not catch my Harry Potter reference? I thought surely you would get it. And what about the lyrics from a certain new muppety song? And did anyone get the significance of CB's name? Hint: Think about what truckers say when they are trying to contact other on the radio? That will tell you how he got his name. Anywho... More to come, but after a couple of papers are done....
  19. The Count

    The Count Moderator Staff Member

    Dang it Ru, of course I caught all that, the comment from CB about the guy hiring him making fun of his name took a second reading, but I haven't commented yet cause I was waiting for mom to come back home with groceries—she needs help getting it all unloaded from car to our kitchen—and I'm now in process of cleaning the chapter for my hardcopy.

    So yes, things that made me smile have been mostly addressed. So long as Clifford doesn't get tricked into talking to any unknown rats...
    Yolanda: Yes?
    Rhonda: You called?
    :shifty: Secrets! Get yer red-hot secrets over here! What?
    *Girls glare at him.
    Now to kill off some nasty little typos.
  20. WebMistressGina

    WebMistressGina Well-Known Member

    I stands corrected. :o I kinda had to read in a hurry.

    I did not get the HP reference? Of the Muppet song. Geez! Now I'll have to go back and actually read. CB, I gotcha.

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