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Muppet Terror....

Discussion in 'Fan Fiction' started by Beauregard, Jul 7, 2005.

  1. The Count

    The Count Moderator Staff Member

    Good job Bo. Understood and the story's putting forth the very brave topic you've chosen. Just one little glitch though.
    You got the US Doc in the UK FR setting. To my understanding, the lighthouse is the correct setting for the UK version of FR, but it's not Doc who's stationed there but the Captain instead.
    Hope this helps.
     
  2. Jonathan

    Jonathan New Member

    God knows they want, Beau, God Bless you
     
  3. Vibs

    Vibs Active Member

    You are already touching many hearts Beau.
    And you are right TA (Lisa isn't it?). That line sure says a lot. Or those two lines do:

    "They won't win, will they?"
    - "They won't".

    I'm gonna go get some sleep now, thank you for writing us another touching story Beau.
     
  4. theprawncracker

    theprawncracker Well-Known Member

    <more stunned silence>
     
  5. redBoobergurl

    redBoobergurl Well-Known Member

    Wow, I just got home from a field trip with my kids so I just got to read what else you've posted today. I too am floored by the line "they won't win" and also "a war on peace" But, I am hopeful by the line "light at the end of the tunnel" because it gives hope that someday, we will prevail over these evil doers. We have to have faith, it is all that matters. Beau, I think you're doing a great job at trying to make sense of something so horrible. I wish I knew you on September 11th, 2001.
     
  6. Skeeter Muppet

    Skeeter Muppet Active Member

    Well, with Beau's permission, here's the first part of the view of today's events from Faffner Hall. It came out to nearly 3 pages on Microsoft Word. Hopefully I can pull this off as well as Beau has.

    ~*~

    It was a slow morning in Faffner Hall Music Conservatory. No special events were planned, no guests were expected to visit. One of the Hall’s most colorful residents, the Wild Impresario, was in London visiting two former members of the old Wild Bunch. Up in the nursery Fughetta was giving the babies their daily lesson. Farkas was up in his office, although what he was doing no one knew and they preferred it that way.

    Riff was in the basement workroom/office, waiting for his computer to boot up. Over the course of the week he had been working on converting recordings of pieces played by Ensemble or residents of Faffner Hall into mp3 format and burning them onto CDs. Not only would this ensure that the Hall had digital records of everything they had done in case something happened to the hard copies (“something” meaning another one of Farkas’ schemes), but the CDs would make nice gifts as well.

    Before getting to work on the CD Riff checked the friends’ list of his online journal, catching up on anything he missed from the night before. Although Mimi had scoffed at the idea of Riff having a blog, and he had gotten lectures from Fughetta and Wild both on how to protect himself on the Internet, Riff found his web journal to be very useful. He had joined a couple communities, and had made a few friends that shared his tastes in music.

    As he read, Riff began to frown. The first few posts on his list were talking about something that had happened in London. Piper was extending her condolences to everyone in that area in a post on her journal. In the sax_addict community, Rondo had posted asking if the UK members of the comm were all right; he had already received a couple comments from members who resided in London saying that they were fine. Finally Riff came upon a post that had a BBC article link on it. Sure that he’d get some answers, Riff clicked on it.

    He immediately wished he hadn’t.

    ~*~

    Mimi had holed up in one of the empty classrooms on the second floor, trying to work out a tune she’d had stuck in her head for the past couple days. Her aim was to get it written down and performance-worthy for the Faffner Hall Ensemble by the time the annual composition contest rolled around. Perhaps she’d even outdo Wild’s entry from the previous year; now that would be a feat!

    The blue-haired Southerner hummed the melody to herself as she made notations on a piece of staff paper. It was just a rough draft, figuring out note placement and what key would fit the tune best. But just as she was coming to the bridge of the piece, the song was drowned out by the sound of footsteps running up from the basement. As far as Mimi knew Riff was the only person down there this morning, and she wondered what her friend was in such a hurry about.

    “Mimi! Fughetta! Come quick!”

    There was no mistaking the urgency – and the fear – in Riff’s voice. Mimi put down her pencil and hightailed it out of the classroom and downstairs as fast as she could, taking the stairs two at a time. She followed Riff’s call to the television room. Fughetta was materializing in the den after leaving the nursery as Mimi came in.

    “Whatever is the matter, Riff dear?” the specter asked once she had solidified.

    “Yeah, what’s the problem?” Mimi chimed in.

    The boy’s only response was to point to the television set, which he had tuned to the news channel. The reporter was speaking. “…have confirmation of at least two fatalities, as well as scores of people injured from these blasts. However, it is too early to tell for certain how many more have been wounded or killed.” Mimi and Fughetta could only watch in horror as the newsman recapped the story of the bombings of three Tube trains as well as a double-decker bus.

    Finally the blue-haired girl was able to utter a single word: “Wild.”

    ~*~

    The hallways and corridors of Faffner Hall were unusually quiet. There was no music to be had anywhere, not even any mindless humming from the residents as they wandered through the house. Just complete, total silence. The one thing that Farkas Faffner had yearned for since the day he had moved into Faffner Hall and taken on the duties of owner and landlord.

    It scared the living daylights out of him.

    Curiosity finally got the better of Farkas, and he ventured out of his attic office/apartment to see what was going on that would cause the cessation of song in the conservatory. He became even more unsettled when he realized that the hallways and rooms were not only silent, but vacant as well. Where in the world could everyone be? he wondered to himself.

    Farkas came downstairs, only to find about half or so of Faffner Hall’s population crammed into the den. Some were perched on the chairs and the sofa, while the rest were seated on the floor. And everyone was metaphorically glued to the television set; even that blasted ghost was there, hovering behind those two young upstart teenagers.

    “What’s so interesting?” Farkas asked loudly, sounding bored. He immediately received a chorus of “Shhhhh!” from the others. Undeterred he added, “Someone televising a concert? Claraphone or something like that?”

    “Farkas, please!” This time the reprimand came directly from Fughetta. Rolling his eyes, Farkas entered the room fully and turned around to face the TV, determined to see what was so darn interesting.

    To his dying day, the image of the double-decker bus with its top blasted open would be engrained in his memory.

    “Wha- when did this happen?” the landlord asked. This time he respectfully lowered his voice.

    “This morning,” answered Riff, not taking his eyes from the screen. “They also bombed three Tube Stations.”

    “‘They?’”

    “Terrorists,” was the boy’s glum answer. “A branch of the same group that destroyed the towers in New York is claiming responsibility.”

    Farkas nodded numbly, returning his attention to the screen. True, this wasn’t the worst attack Britain had been through. He’d witnessed an IRA bombing, and had lived through the Blitz of World War II. Compared to those, three subway bombings and one bus explosion by terrorists was small potatoes. But it still had a way of putting things into perspective.

    Suddenly a thought occurred to him. “Say, wasn’t the Wild Impresario supposed to be in London or something today?” Mimi choked down an anguished sob, and Fughetta shot her great-great-great grandnephew a Look.

    “Yes, and we haven’t heard from him since last night, when he called to let us know he’d gotten into the city all right. What we do know is that Wild was supposed to meet Fahz and Joe for breakfast at a café this morning,” the ghost answered. Mimi whimpered, burying her head in her arms. Riff laid a consoling hand on her arm, quietly assuring her that the Wild Imp was fine.

    “Of course he’s all right,” Farkas heard himself saying. “The Impresario’s too stubborn to be killed off by a bunch of cowards who like to bomb public transportation.” The remark made the blue-haired girl smile a little, and Fughetta looked over at her relation in mute surprise.

    Maybe, she thought to herself Farkas does have a heart underneath that stingy exterior.

    ~*~

    As everyone sat watching the continued news coverage, no one noticed a figure slip from the television room. It didn’t come as a surprise; he was used to not being noticed. Out of all of the monsters on the old Muppet Show, he had been one of the least recognizable. The most he had ever done was be part of the monster chorus in some of the scarier numbers, plus a lead vocal part on a song when Alice Cooper was on the show.

    The blue-furred figure silently made his way down the hallway. As he walked, he passed the rooms of some of the residents of Faffner Hall. Those that couldn’t find room to sit in the den were in their rooms, listening to the news on the radio. As he passed by Tootie’s room, he overheard one announcer talking about the rising death tolls, all of them from the subway stations that had been bombed. This made him quicken his pace.

    Finally he made it to his destination – the main office. Closing the door behind him to ensure his privacy, he sat down at the desk, picked up the receiver and proceeded to dial a number.

    “Hello, Operator? I’d like to place a long-distance call, please.” He gave the operator the appropriate number and patiently waited for it to go through. Finally it rang on the other end, and someone there picked up. “Scooter? It’s Boppity…Yeah, I heard; everyone at Faffner Hall’s pretty much glued to their radios or the TV set. A-are Piggy an’ Rowlf okay? I knew they was over here…oh, you haven’t, huh?…Not really. The Wild Imp was supposed to be in London today, and we haven’t heard anything from him…Everyone’s getting’ real worried, especially Mimi and Riff. They really look up to him, y’know? But anyway, could you pass the word along?…Thanks. I’ll let everyone here know about Rowlf an’ Piggy. Okay. ‘Bye, Scooter.”





    -Kim
     
  7. The Count

    The Count Moderator Staff Member

    Truly vonderful Kim. And that kind of spirited creativity is why we miss you at the dorms.

    But you and Bo have done a hexcellent job with this story.
     
  8. Beauregard

    Beauregard Well-Known Member

    Kim, that is a truley lovely eddition to the story as it is unfolding. I'd like to offer anyone else who wishes to place a story of yesterdays events effecting perhaps Sesame Street, or Bear, or the Fraggle, to join this story. I will be posting more of my own later today.
     
  9. Beauregard

    Beauregard Well-Known Member

    And as the day goes on...the days go on...we need to keep in mine, not the hatred of the terrorists, but the love we feel for those affected by this horror.

    __

    “You’ve got to know something! I just want you to check a name!” Fozzie slammed the receiver in the cradle of the telephone. It came unhooked. He hit it again. Why did no one know? He leant against the brick wall, stared out the window. Green trees blossomed. People walked on the pavement, white plastic shopping bags in their hands. Normal lives. It wasn’t fair. He hit the telephone again, and looked away. He rested his head against the wall, and closed his eyes.

    No news. Nothing new. Deaths confirmed. No names. Fozzie was going mad with worry. Where were they…

    Lines were blocked, hospital phones rang but were not answered. When he did get through, there was nothing they could tell him. “We are trying to get a register. We will try to find relations. If this is not an emergency please get off the line, sir.” Trying.

    But Kermit didn’t need trying. He needed to know. Fozzie grabbed up the phone again, flipped open the phone book. He stabbed numbers. At the other end, phones rang.

    *^*^*^*

    Feet ached, and bones hurt. It was exhaustion now, more than anything. Rowlf felt as though he could sleep, just lie down and rest, take a kip, a catnap. He slowed, feet dragging. Others moved past him, some spared him a look, more were concerned with their own safety.

    Rowlf slumped against the wall of the tunnel, and slipped down to sitting beside the hard rails. He watched feet and boots and legs pass him. A woman walked in her socks, a pair of red strappy sandals hanging from her weary fingers. Then there was feet walking the wrong way. Towards him not away. They stopped. A woman crouched, a wide brimmed hat filled his view. It was the fat woman, she’d come back for him.

    Rowlf made it out into the station among the walking wounded. The station was deserted. Just men in uniforms and medical professionals. The only sounds were quiet talking, and clipped commands. Paramedics crowded the group. They hurried the worst injured out, and saw onsite the less hurt. Provided the attention they needed.

    Rowlf got the all clear. He was directed up the steps to the street. Reporters. Microphones. Cameras recording. He was lost, cut off from the events. All he knew was one explosion. Had there been more? The clamour here was greater than he’d imagined. The explosion had made the news then. Was it a bomb?

    Did his friends know?

    He just wanted to find a taxi and go home.

    *^*^*^*

    “We condemn utterly these barbaric attacks.”

    Kermit sat hunched forward towards the television where the Prime Minister of England was speaking.

    ”We send our profound condolences…”

    Sam stood straight, and proper as the ruler spoke. It was right that a man should stand, and say he was sorry for what happened, and say it for what it was, wrong, evil, barbaric.

    Those responsible have no respect for human life….”

    Scooter nodded. No respect for Rowlf, or Miss Piggy. Or their friend from Faffner Hall.

    “This terrorism…is not an attack on one nation, but on all nations and on civilized people everywhere.

    Then Kermit knew what he could do. He had been wrong. There was not nothing for him. The world had to understand. He had to tell them.

    *^*^*^*

    Miss Piggy reached the doorway. She paused there, leaning against it for support. A doctor came towards her, and passed by, his white coat billowing slightly. He turned a corner and was gone.

    Miss Piggy stepped out into the corridor. Like everywhere eles, it was sterile, clean, white. She tottered forward, moving aside to let two nurses and a doctor pass with a patient on a gurney. The gurney clattered. The nurses talked loudly. A clipboard snapped, and papers rustled. Then they were passed her.

    She didn’t know where she was going exactly, but she was going there.

    She came to a reception. It was full, crowded with injured people. She didn’t understand. Terrorists, it had to have been. But why? The news played on a quiet tv monitor. Harassed looking anchormen explained that as yet there was no known motive. Maybe al-quaeda. Its shadow still stretched from 9/11. Had it reached England too?

    “And now a message,” the anchorman said. “Messages are coming in from around the world, messages of condolence, and of hope. This message, we felt, we should pass on to you.”

    Miss Piggy put a hand on top of the small monitor. A face she recognised appeared, a face she loved. Kermit. She turned it up.

    *^*^*^*

    Kermit swallowed. “I want…” he started. Then stopped. “You all know me, you know what I have come to stand for, who I am. And…I wanted, I needed to tell you, I had to say.” He paused again. Took a moment to recover. “We are all in this together,” he said. “You, and me. England, America, the very world. These people, these cowards, who have done this thing, they can’t…” He shook his head. “What I want to say, and, I’m not sure that I am saying it, is…These people, they can...” He choked up, but continued. “They can take our lives, they can take our peace, our security, and our trust, and everything…everything we hold dear to us, they can take. But, they can’t…” A tear glistened. The drop formed and rolled down his check. “They can’t take our hopes. They can’t shatter our dreams. They can’t win, if we don’t let them. I’m asking you. To be strong. To fight it, fight your fear. They cannot terrorise us if we, if we don’t let them cause us terror.”

    He wiped his eyes. “Miss Piggy…Rowlf…my friends, my good friends, they are in London. Rowlf was on a train. I haven’t, haven’t heard from Piggy. But I will stand strong, for them. I won’t let this evil break me, shake me, destroy us. We can stop this, not by war, not by more death, but by...hope, by not being afraid, by never ever backing down from the ideals that make us the nations…the world that we are.”

    Again he stopped. Again he could not go on. He looked into the camera, into the eyes of every viewer and said more than words could express. He licked the corner of his lips. “The G8 summit is meeting today, to discuss poverty, making this world a better place. If these people, these terrorists, cannot but strike against us on this day, in this hour, then they are not worthy. Not worthy to stand beside us in this world. I don’t…I don’t hate them. I pity them.” And that was all he had to say. A lump caught in his throat.

    “Miss Piggy, Rowlf. If you are watching this, I love you. Please come home.”
     
  10. theprawncracker

    theprawncracker Well-Known Member

    <stunned silence>

    Wow...

    <stunned silence>
     
  11. JaniceFerSure

    JaniceFerSure Active Member

    *wiping away tears*

    Amazing job Beau.
     
  12. redBoobergurl

    redBoobergurl Well-Known Member

    “They can’t take our hopes. They can’t shatter our dreams. They can’t win, if we don’t let them. I’m asking you. To be strong. To fight it, fight your fear. They cannot terrorise us if we, if we don’t let them cause us terror.”

    *chills*

    *speechless*

    *Powerful*

    Good job Beau.
     
  13. TogetherAgain

    TogetherAgain Well-Known Member

    <gasp> oh...

    <stunned silence>
     
  14. The Count

    The Count Moderator Staff Member

    With Beauregard's permission... Here's my contribution.


    "Good morning" came his reply to everyone at the Sesame Street subway terminal. Guy Smiley was dressed in his usual white shirt, red necktie, blue blazer, and brown pants and shoes. He was on his way to the studio for his early morning show. The only thing was... Either everyone was a bit sullen and too many Muppets in line for him to make any real progress. Not that mattered, though he was oblivious to the delayed train schedules. So many Muppets lined up, Guy thought he would never get to the studio on time.

    "Move along, you young whippersnapper!" called out Granny Fanny Nesselrode. Farley was next in line, waiting for a ticket to go visit his mom's offices. Telly Monster was dressed in his Monster-On-The-Spot reporter's garb chatting with Oscar at the grouch newsstand.

    And then Guy saw it. Four buglike humanoids, dressed in smart gray coats with short mop-topped haircuts and antennai growing out of their heads. The carry-on keyboard was piping a light yet haunting tune, something similar to either Letter B or Yesterday.
    Guy approached the band. "Hello?" he spoke unsure of what was happening. The leader of the Beetles turned around slowly and greeted the TV host. "Oh hello Mr. Smiley, didn't know you were there." Guy: "So... What's going on?"
    The lead Beetle then explained what had happened in their home back in Londontown. And how the world was mourning the loss of lives over in England. "Such a shame we can't be there to liven their spirits a little with our music" another of the Beetles quietly quipped.

    "But why..." Guy failed to even finish his question before feeling the full impact of the situation. Now the TV show pailed in importance with those who either lost their lives in the blasts or those still unaccounted for.

    The subway station was heavily guarded by Bruno, Oscar's bodyguard and trashcan handler, along with a few other tough-looking Muppets. "Tickets please" came the command from one of the gray-capped guards. "We need to make sure that you're cleared to board this train Mr. Smiley" they answered after Guy showed them his pass. Once aboard, the subway shuttled the Muppets to the next station along the New York commute.
    Count: "This is the kind of counting I do not look forward to. Yes, I love things that are numeric in nature and a bit grim, but ewen this is too much for me."
    His words vanished in the wind as he began his duties sorting out the bodies at the site. Owing to the fact that he was a high-ranking European aristocrat, he had been invited to England by some relatives. The house in Carthax Abbey was stocked with all the essentials for a batty vampire from the old country. When the bomb blasts occured, he had been called to help sort out the details for the news services, given his numeric prowess. Though he really didn't want to face this gory sight, he sucked it up and tried to do his best to help out in whatever he could.

    Count: "Vell, the dead are all totaled up. You'll have my report in a few minutes." After that, he'd have to go and help at the hospitals with the number of wounded. This wouldn't be as ghastly as the survey conducted at the center of the explosions, but his heart was already low enough to crack.

    Once at the hospital, he'd sort people's names with what information he could gather and man the phones. He noticed there was a certain green frog on the television set asking for everyone to do their part not to let the terrorists win. His mind whirled back to that horrid poster of Mr. Benladin, or however it was his name was spelled, hugging Bert a few years back. "No, we von't let them vin Kermit" was his response, noticing he said it mostly to himself than to anyone in particular.

    "Vhat? Is that who I think it vas?" The Count perked up after spotting a pair of ears in the hospital's reception area staring at the TV from the wings.

    (For Bo to continue as he thinks best.)
     
  15. Beauregard

    Beauregard Well-Known Member

    Thanks for your contribution, Count., It is lovely, and at the same time, heart breaking.

    If you like, I shall finish up the Count/Miss Piggy line, and I'll let you complete the Beetles. It was lovely to see an appearence from Guy Smilie!!!
     
  16. TogetherAgain

    TogetherAgain Well-Known Member

    <looks down>

    The Count von Count... counting... b...

    I can't say it. But that... that is a very powerful image there. Very powerful.
     
  17. The Count

    The Count Moderator Staff Member

    As you think best Bo. Just hoping to help.
     
  18. Beauregard

    Beauregard Well-Known Member

    Yup, and indeed helping. I was just saying, since I have Miss Piggy and you have Count there, I'll write him a cameo appearence in my next (last?) part and then you can finish your Count story after that. 'k?
     
  19. The Count

    The Count Moderator Staff Member

    Hmmm? Refering to Numbers o'the Night? Well, let's see. And just feel free to post when ready, we'll understand.
     
  20. redBoobergurl

    redBoobergurl Well-Known Member

    Wow, what a great addition Ed. (Although, given the circumstances, I guess "great" isn't the best word, but you know what I mean). I really like how you tied back to Beau's story with "No we von't let them vin, Kermit" and also found it interesting that you used Guy Smiley and the Beetles since we haven't seen much of them in years. I really liked it.
     

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