So We'll Go No More A-Roving, for Fear of Furry Monsters

newsmanfan

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Fiendly little bump in the night.
Thank you...working on it, ideas bashing around in my skull...almost done with the final/third part of "Uncredited Performances" and then it's back to this!

Still waiting on a reproduction book of circa 1910s Halloween books I ordered last week. Should give some inspiration. :news:
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The Count

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Well, you know you can always contact me since I need inspiration as well for the last 40 or so souls to gather to finish off my own tally. Though I am itching to start write-ups again, unsure if the Tim Burton spooks should be concentrated within the 401-500 block or spread throughout the entirety of the numbering of all haunts. Same for the demons. :sigh:
 

Ruahnna

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Okay--the part about the goldfish is the sort of thing that happens backstage at The Muppet Show all the time--it just usually happens to Kermit or Fozzie. Nice to see it happening again, and to someone else! (Although I don't really see Scooter as the fish-owning type--he strikes me as the sort to have something soft to cuddle instead. Maybe his Uncle Grosse wouldn't allow him to have a pet....)

I have to confess that I am NOT as icky-horror sort of person, but I'm still hanging in there because the story is so good. The number of disgusting things that have been consumed--or have been consumed disgustingly--is approaching a new record, with Sweetum's breakfast wriggling at the top. I'm never going to view the Sesame Street monsters the same way again....

You actually made me go and look up the Pesties to see if I could remember what they looked like. (Also made me think of the stone faces from Labyrinth who foretold Doom and Gloom until told to hush....)

I like Rhonda's gallow's humor--or would that be "sewer's humor"--before they embark on their adventure.

Wonders idly what Sweetum's "croc" shoes would look like, and whether or not they would have Kermit and Beaker croc plugs in them....

Keep going, sweetie!
 

Ruahnna

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Whew! Finally caught up!

I like the peeks of genuine intellect from Sweetums. One always suspects that every muppet has more going on behind the surface than you actually see. I really FELT for Sweetums when both Rhonda and Newsie were pestering him--pesties, indeed!

I like that Deadly has his, er, back up about what is going on down below the city. It is about time that someone dealt with it, monster to monster. Have people actually been devoured/destroyed by the monsters? Or do they just keep, um, cycling around everyone's digestive tract? (Perhaps a good case of the flu would end everyone's problems.) I know the fungus performer was devoured, and some other monsters were devoured, but are actual people being eaten? I can't tell for certain but it is squeamish-making.

I am glad Snookie has some hope to buoy him out of the jaws of, um, despair. His own acts of valor may be needed when this all comes down, and I want him to be there for Newsie like Newsie is trying to be for him. Courage, down-trodden journalist!
 

newsmanfan

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Thanks Ru! I've always felt aspects of the Muppet monsters could be horrific if treated more seriously...perhaps it only takes a good Hitler rant to bring out the beast in them, hm? I give you...

Part Thirty-two

The sounds of whining power drills driving home screws, shouts and footsteps clanging from the grid, and heavy metal by Nine Inch Snails nearly overwhelming all else were familiar, even comforting sounds to Gina. She only looked up from her task of attaching loose-pin hinges to a series of flats when someone tapped her elbow. She pulled her finger off the trigger of her Makita, looking back – and then down, and finally saw the orange, lugubrious-looking Whatnot standing beside her. “Oh, uh, hi,” she yelled over the pounding music. “Can I help you?”

“Abernathy Bland,” the blue-haired Whatnot announced. He frowned up at the noise. “Could you turn that off?”

Gina waved her arms at the light booth until one of the other techies noticed. Gina yelled, pointed at the speakers, and made “cut” motions until the new electrician understood and turned down the sound. Gina looked back at the Whatnot. “Hi. Something I can help you with?” she asked. While people generally didn’t wander into tech builds in the middle of the day at the small theatre, it wasn’t unheard of, so she tried to be polite. A few other techies were stopping work and looking on, curious.

“I’m here to discuss the awards ceremony set-up with your production coordinator,” Bland said, removing a fat sheaf of papers from a briefcase.

“Awards...? Oh. The thing this weekend?” Gina asked, and the skinny orange Whatnot nodded. He glanced around at the other workers with what might have been distaste, or merely bafflement.

“Whom should I speak to about the lighting and sound and the stage set-up?”

Gina shot a look across the room at the theatre’s technical manager, Mike, who suddenly seemed to be very busy with part of a platform. “Hey, Mike?” Gina called. “There’s someone here to discuss the awards thing coming up. The theatre rental. Weren’t you coordinating –“

The portly, bearded man in painter’s overalls wiped his hands on his seat and waved dismissively. “Uh, nope, that one’s all yours! You know the upcoming build schedule better than I do; you’d be better at figuring out what needs to go where! Besides, uh, my kids have a dance recital that night. Can’t do it.” Flashing a grin at her, her boss sauntered towards the green room. “Hey, anyone else feel like a break?”

Gina glared after the rest of them as the space quickly emptied. She turned back to the lawyer. “I guess you’re talking with me, Mr Bland.” She studied him a moment as he nodded and looked around for someplace to set all his paperwork. “Um, you can spread your stuff out on that platform behind you. Are you...are you with that Muppet law firm?”

“Ah yes! You’ve heard of us,” Bland smiled, though it faded immediately as he realized a thin layer of sawdust coated the platform. He whisked off a spot with a pristine handkerchief, looking regretful at having to dirty it.

“You guys are handling Newsie’s discrimination case against KRAK.”

“Oh! You know the Muppet Newsman?” Gingerly, Bland seated himself on the edge of the elevated plywood. Gina dropped onto it a couple of feet away, ignoring the dustcloud she sent wafting toward the lights.

“He’s my...my partner,” Gina explained. She never knew how to refer to her beloved to other people; boyfriend seemed inadequate, and lover too clinical somehow, and love of my life too intimate for situations like this. “My...significant Muppet.”

“Ah. I see. Well, Miss...”

“Broucek.”

“Actually, if that’s the case, my partner – law partner – Mr Blander is handling the Newsman’s case, so you’d have to ask him any details concerning its status. Shall we take a look at the stage plans my administrative assistant drew up?”

“Sure,” Gina replied, a little put off by the lawyer’s careful neutrality. His stony expression when she’d explained what Newsie meant to her made her wonder whether the Whatnot personally disapproved of a Muppet being involved with a non-felted woman. I guess reverse discrimination isn’t covered by their tolerance campaign. “What were you guys wanting?”

“Well, no doubt you’ve heard we are renting your little hall here for the entire evening of the twenty-ninth, from four p.m. until midnight. There will be a formal dinner, which we’ve arranged for Johnny Fiama’s Pasta Kitchen-Without-No-More-Plays to cater, so we’ll of course need space for them to set up their warming ovens. You do use two-hundred-twenty volt outlets? Good. The tables ought to be set up here, here, here, and there; and perhaps these platforms might serve for the awards stage, assuming you can paint them bright gold, as befits –“

“Wait, hold on,” Gina interrupted, pulling the precisely-sketched diagram away from the Muppet to study it, looking from it to the actual stage space of the black-box theatre they sat in. “Uh, okay, we could pull up some of the masking curtains in the wing for the caterers to set up, I guess; and yeah, there should be room for you to set up tables along the front here; we can just move back the audience platforms, but –“

“Oh no, no; perhaps your employer hasn’t made our needs clear beforehand,” Bland said, his heavy-lidded eyes blinking slowly. “Your staff must have the tables set and ready for us at four o’clock Saturday.”

“Mr Bland, we’re not a party rental service. You bring your own tables.”

“Oh...I see,” Bland muttered, frowning. “Well, that’s a little less than we were expecting for what you’re charging.”

“We don’t have buffet tables, Mr Bland. We do have an assortment of prop furniture in storage, but I’m guessing you weren’t really wanting a cast-iron ice-cream-parlor table next to a midcentury modern coffee table.” Gina frowned right back, inwardly cursing Mike. She had enough to deal with, trying to get the build for two separate shows done in the next few days so that rehearsals for both could begin while paint and lighting commenced immediately after Halloween! Just because she was serving as tech director and designer for next month’s shows didn’t mean she had time or patience to take on this kind of silly customer service! She pushed the floorplan back at Bland. “Tell you what. If you get the tables here by four, I’ll have a couple of our guys help your guys set ‘em up. Now, the platforms: yes you can use them, but there won’t be time to paint them gold or anything else. I suggest you bring a couple of dropcloths to drape over them. We have some you can use, but they’re all grey. Now if that’s acceptable, we can have those in place by Saturday.”

“Grey? But this is an awards ceremony for our biggest MADL donors!”

Oh, wonderful, Gina thought. Newsie had told her of his run-ins at the Occupy camp with some of the MADL reps. Lucky him; he’ll be at his theatre that night for the usual show. “Well, Mr Bland,” she sighed, “This is really short notice. Your choices are: let us put down some plain cloths for you, or bring your own, or leave the stage platforms bare wood.” She thumped the one they sat on for emphasis. Bland looked glumly at it, then shrugged.

“Very well...grey. We needn’t spend too much on overhead, you understand, Ms Broucek, since this is supposed to be a fundraiser as much as a ceremony to recognize those Muppets who’ve contributed the most to the cause this year. Ahem.” He checked his rider – no, list of demands, Gina corrected herself, suppressing a smile. “Now, as to music...”

The negotiations continued another hour; work resumed around them, although people tried to drill or hammer quietly. Gina ignored the noise; this was work which needed to proceed to make their production schedule, and the stuffy lawyer could just suck it up and deal. Bland, though discomfited, went through every item on his long list of requirements. Finally he repacked his briefcase, and handed Gina a duplicate copy of the list and the groundplan. Gina sat adding up the number of employees they’d absolutely need, thinking that as much as he obviously wished non-involvement, Mike was still going to have to approve all of this and pick the crew to work that night. “Okay...so this is a four-person crew, minimum. You do realize most of our crew are IATSE, right?”

“They’re what?”

“Theatre techies’ union. Which means certain pay rates are going to be in effect.”

“Oh,” Bland said, twitching his thick mustache with well-groomed felt fingers. “Well. Perhaps some of our members could volunteer instead...”

“They can usher if they want. That’s about it.” Gina stood, retying her hair back with a skull-bejeweled scrunchie, enjoying the uneasy look on the Whatnot’s face. “Sorry. Rules and laws and so on. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Bland murmured. “Well...perhaps we don’t really need a spotlight...”

“I’m sure the awards will be just as impressive without it.”

“Very well. Please finalize the crew list today so we can make identification badges for them. We wouldn’t want any of the wrong element sneaking in to disrupt the festivities, you see,” Bland said, unaffected by Gina’s look of surprise.

“Today? Mr Bland, that may be impossible; my supervisor will have to be the one to organize that, and as you can see he’s very bus...” Gina looked around to see absolutely no sign of Mike. She let out a harsh sigh. “Nowhere to be found, probably went home. Look, we’ll send you a personnel list as soon as we can, all right?”

“Very well,” Bland sniffed. “I’m prepared to be lenient. After all, I understand the non-felted are often not quite as efficient or speedy as we are. That’s perfectly understandable, given your slower metabolisms.”

Gina gave him an incredulous look, then shook her head, biting her tongue. Good lord. Wait’ll Newsie hears all this. He might want to go to a different law firm! “We’ll be in touch, Mr Bland. Um, when you see your partner, would you please tell him my live-in, very much felted and efficient partner would like to speak with him as soon as he has some information about Newsie’s case?”

Bland, already five steps away, paused and looked back. “Er...I assumed he was already working closely with the Newsman?”

“Uh, we haven’t heard from him since the party this past Saturday.”

“But...” Bland suddenly appeared something other than haughty or bored: he looked worried. “I...I haven’t heard from him in days either! I assumed he must be busy with that case...he hasn’t even checked into the office.”

“I don’t know where he is,” Gina said, annoyed. “He didn’t ride back home with us. I had the distinct impression he had something against rats. Or maybe you both have something against non-Muppets, period.”

“I am sure you’re not accusing the prestigious firm of Bland and Blander of anything like species discrimination,” the Whatnot muttered low. He shook his head. “I’ll...I’ll see if perhaps his assistant can track him down. I know he was very excited about the Newsman’s case; it stands to be a groundbreaker. And for the record, Ms Broucek: we at Bland and Blander support every Muppet’s right to pursue the lifestyle they wish...even those who seem to favor, ahem, more untraditional ones. Good day.”

What is this, Nineteen-sixty? I bet they only recently removed the water fountain in their office labeled ‘nonfelted only’, Gina thought, shaking her head in amazed contempt. She glared around at the techies giving her frankly curious stares. “Allll right, nothing to see here, move it along,” she yelled at them in her best faux brogue. A few of them chuckled, and most bent back to their tasks of building platforms, stretching flats, or rigging backdrop canvases. However, as Gina resumed the project she’d been tackling before the lawyer dropped by, she wondered, Who DID Blander ride back to the city with, anyway? She thought hard about Fozzie’s party; she vaguely remembered the blue Whatnot in his silly bird costume hanging around the dinner buffet boring a group of chickens with a discourse on better benefits for feathered creatures under a new Muppet-animal agreement before the state legislature...but was he at the bonfire? Where had he bunked in the farmhouse? Was he even there at that point? Did anyone else leave early? I thought maybe he rode with Sam, they seemed to hit it off...but why hasn’t he called Newsie since then? Why hasn’t he talked to his own office?

The scent of fresh sawdust, never a favorite of hers, but something she regarded as a necessary evil for work around here, didn’t perturb her as much as the growing recognition of something much fouler smelling about the whole situation.


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Uncle Deadly moved silent and unseen through the rough-hewn corridors far below the Chinatown streets, all he observed proving more strange than enlightening thus far. He’d watched an angry-seeming, birdlike monster with pink wings growling unintelligibly as it hosted something about monsters driving big rigs from coast to coast. He’d listened in on a meeting between a long-snouted doglike reptile and a group of frightened-seeming Frackles, concerning whom might be taking over host duties for some of the other employees after what they kept referring to as “Dark Ascension Night”; the Frackles’ enthusiasm for the proposed assignments seemed to Deadly to be rather forced, but the doglizard thing appeared satisfied. And now, as he moved slowly through the shadows, a canned growl throughout the corridors from some sort of public address system announced, “Monster Rally in the Great Hall in five minutes! Everyone assemble for the Rally! Secure all hosts and contestants in holding cells for the duration of the Rally!”

What the blazes is that? Deadly wondered. He’d seen, and felt rather disturbed by, the holding cells on the level above this one and below the show-taping studios. Since when did respectable fiends lock up Muppets, Whatnots, cute furry animals, and even young women? Certainly, he’d carted off a squealing soprano or three in his day...it was the natural impulse of every virile young monster to do so, preferably while laughing maniacally, but one always allowed them to go free once they passed out. It was the getting, not the having, wherein lay the sport of it! Why these monsters would cage anyone was beyond Deadly’s ken... Perhaps this ‘Rally’ will address the issue? Perhaps they’ll have hot dogs and cheerleaders, too...hmm. Worth a look, I suppose. He watched a number of monsters of all ilk hurrying along an adjacent tunnel, and fell in behind them, certain that his dragonly good looks would protect him from discovery.

Everyone hastened into an enormous cave dripping with ragged stalactites and reeking of wet, unwashed fur and things left too long mouldering in dark corners. Deadly breathed deeply, pleased at the overall atmosphere. “This is delightful,” he murmured to himself, as he took up a perch behind a stumpy, broken stalagmite in a niche near the back. “I wonder if I could persuade the frog to build me something like, perhaps just off that basement hallway...”

“Issss everyone here?” that same lizardy canine thing shouted over the rumble and growl of hundreds of monsters jostling for the few actual seats in the cavern. “Attention, all of you wormsss! Your mossst disssgussting lord and massster ssspeaksss!”

“That crawling, flea-bitten blackguard is their leader?” Deadly asked, surprised.

A small orange Frackle with so many teeth it couldn’t close its mouth all the way muttered at him, “Mo, foopid! Daf fuft da boffef wight-hand monfah!” It nodded in awe at the enormous flatscreen which winked into life at the far end of the cavern, where two red beams of eyeballs shot out from the darkness which shifted and settled. “Daf da boff!” The Frackle quieted immediately; a hush fell over all the assemblage.

“My dear little minions,” a deep, flowing voice crooned, amplified so that it reverberated painfully off the cave formations; one of the smaller stalactites fell to the floor with a high tinkling sound. “We now have only six more nights before the event which you all await with baited breath...and some with actual bait,” the voice chuckled, “The Grand Dark Ascension! It is meet that at this time we take a moment to reflect upon what this will mean for us all...

“It means no more sunshine,” the voice continued; a happy murmur rose and subsided in the crowd. Every monster, Deadly noticed, from a giant furry bulk which made Sweetums look tiny to a darting yellow mosquito-thing with teeth, trembled and shied away from those lasers of red light sweeping the audience from the screen, even though all of them hung eagerly on every word. “It means no more blue skies, only black clouds, and howling wind, and driving rain, and grime spread through the city streets evermore! It means the end of all happiness for all the men and Muppets living above us, insensitive to our needs, our wishes, our appetites! It means all the screams and shrieks and sobbing in terror you could ever wish to season your prey before you gulp it down still kicking and flailing!”

Deadly looked around, startled, at the yells and growls of approval which went up at that pronouncement. What the Saint Olivier is all this? Concerned, he drew back behind the lump of calcium carbonate sheltering him as the whole room trembled. Several more pointed daggers of stone crashed to the floor; the yelps and squeaks of those caught under the missiles went largely unregarded in the general roar.

“Yes, my fellow denizens of the deep, my brotherly bugbears and sisterly spiderkin! Yes! Oh, you cannot with your tiny brains even imagine the glory which awaits us, the true inheritors of the earth, when we have finally subjugated the nice, the good, the cute and the happy morons who traipse streets above us which rightfully should be ours! When I am arrayed in my full might and power, I will return to the world above which so mocked and scorned me, and I shall open wide the sewers and the drains for all of you, and the city will fall into a darkness and bleakness so profound as to know no end, no relief – a darkness, my horrible ones, brought about by your teeth, your claws, your halitosis!” The monsters roared loudly, and another few dozen stalactites crashed. On the giant screen, darkness moved in darkness, and the outline of heavy hands upraised in fervent joy could barely be seen as those red eyes roved the room.

“Obey me, all of you, and reap the reward of your loyalty – I shall give you more frightened little people than you could eat in fifty years! This city has millions of foolish creatures, my frightening children, millions of soft bodies to swallow, millions of flittering little hearts to beat in terror as you chase them through the endless maze of buildings above! Can you feel their fear? Can you taste their terror, my children? Can you?”

“Yeeeeesss!” the crowd howled, pounding the floor, leaping and laughing. The rest of the ceiling fell in chunks, and the monsters howled louder, fists upraised. Deadly stared at them, horrified.

What absurd nonsense is this? Don’t they know that can never happen? What good is terrifying people if it becomes the standard, not the surprise? What fun is a dark corner if there is no sunlight to make people think they can escape? How is this lunatic planning on bringing all this about – or is he only stringing these fools along? Deadly shook his head, staying well out of sight, as the monsters continued to cheer. The black figure on the black screen gestured for silence, red eyes sweeping the crowd, and slowly they quieted once more.

“But none of this wondrous change will take place if you do not follow me, my dear dungeon-dwellers! Only I can make this city a paradise for monsters! Remember I am not just your leader, I am the paragon of monsterdom: I am the darkness, I am the one who sees into the hearts of men and Muppets alike and knows how best to terrify them, how to undermine their whole society to bring about this new, horrible era of the Rule of Monsters! Heed not any who say these lesser creatures bleed like us, eat like us, feel like us! They do not! Only the Glorious Monster Race will be permitted to exist in the coming age of supreme darkness! Keep your thoughts pure and focused on this! Allow no doubt in your miniscule brains, no pity for them in your cold little hearts! Only the true monsters will triumph! Only us!” The voice raged, echoes making creatures wince and cringe throughout the room, but then all of them cheered, ragged voices raised in a cacophony of screeches and growls.

“This is madness,” Deadly muttered, astonished. The monsters chanted, their voices louder and louder: Un-der-lord! Un-der-lord! “Madness!” Deadly whispered, backing away.

Suddenly those lasers of crimson sliced through him; startled, he looked down at the beams disturbing his ethereal body...and then realized everyone had turned to look as well. “Er, ahh...heh heh...salutations, fellow ghouls!” Deadly said heartily, lifting one hand in a vague wave.

“Does this one not work with the Muppets?” the dark lord murmured. A chill flew through the room. Shivering despite himself, Deadly backed away another step.

“Er...not so much with them,” Deadly said. “I haunt the Muppet Theatre, ‘tis true; but I assure you, I take much joy in scaring them out of their tiny little wits on a weekly basis...”

“Daidlee? Iz zat you?” Blind Pew cried out, staggering into the clearing rapidly forming around Deadly; no one wanted to appear to be standing next to the phantom dragon right now. “Mon ami! Ah can vouch for him, mah despicable oogliness: Daidlee has always been one scareee monstair!”

“Quite so, old bean, quite so,” Deadly murmured, feeling distinctly unwelcome; the crowd edged forward, eyes narrowing, claws glinting in the eerie green glow suffusing the room.

“That remains to be determined,” the dark figure on the screen said, its voice low and silky.

“Oh, come on, I can tell by your diction you’ve done some stage work,” Deadly protested. “Haven’t you heard of acting? Really, do you think I’d associate with those...those...Muppets? Heh heh...when I so clearly am horns and whiskers above their ilk in talent and sheer charm and presence!” Silence fell; the monsters looked back at the screen for guidance.

“Get him,” the voice said simply. Three or four hundred monsters surged at Deadly.

“You fools! Beeeewaaaare!” Deadly cried, spreading the wings of his cloak wide; the leading edge of malfeasants fell back, startled. Deadly bolted. Phantom or no, he didn’t like the smell of this anymore. Not one whiff.

He ran, desperately trying to recall which corridors he’d come through, which turns led to what tunnels, wishing he had the ability like some spooks to simply think himself back to his final resting-place. He remembered to vanish, but then tripped over an abandoned cart of spider eggs in a dark tunnel, and shouts of pursuit began to catch up to him. Suddenly he emerged through a jagged great hole in a wall into a brick-lined tunnel, some vestige of the first subways from the turn of the last century. He leaped forward, intending to jump a gap in the floor – and crashed back down, stunned, in a heap of tattered eveningwear. He sat up slowly, feeling as though he’d run face-first into an invisible wall, and then heard the soft trickle of water. Oh NO! You must be joking! he thought, staring down in horror at the tiny rivulet of filthy water flowing along the bottom of the floor. Had he been alive, it would have presented absolutely no problem, but being a ghost wasn’t always a plus...

Running water! “Oh, come on, that can’t possibly count!” he cried aloud, realized he was visible, and whirled. A crowd of ugly, snarling monsters, fangs bared and compound eyes glittering, poured from the hole in the tunnel wall, advancing on him.

Deadly remembered a story the legendary Phantom of the Opera had told him early one morning while they shared a coffee break during the last film shoot. “The living are gullible, no matter what the species,” the Phantom had advised the dragon. “Why, once, when I was cornered in the catacombs of Paris...”

Deadly took a deep breath, narrowed his eyes down to pinpricks of evil green, and built up a truly menacing chuckle. “Mwah ha ha, ha ha ha... mmmwwooooaaahh ha ha ha ha ha!” Raising his cloak high over his head, teeth all exposed in his wide-laughing snout, Deadly took a step toward the crowd. Uncertainly, they fell back. Still laughing crazily, the Phantom of the Muppet Theatre took another step toward them, menacing; and another, and another. Confused, the monsters scrambled back, tripping over one another...until a tiny blue Frackle yelped.

“You guys – anybody got a spectral net? He’s only a ghost!”

Although the Frackle was instantly squashed by the misstep of a hefty furred thing with long spiraling horns, the crowd muttered and looked at one another. Deadly paused, his laugh dying in his throat, his eyes flicking from side to side, but he could see no way around the crowd. A monster near the back called out in a low, puzzled voice, “Uh, yeah...I do! But...what good’s that?”

“You idiot,” a goblin snarled, snatching the filmy silver net from the dullard. He turned back toward Deadly, holding the one item guaranteed to trap a ghost which didn’t involve splitting plasma beams. Slowly the goblin grinned.

“Now wait just a—“ Deadly said.

The crowd fell on him.


-------------------
Newsie and Rhonda sat on a mostly-unstuffed sofa in the green room, staring intently at the laptop screen on the wooden bench before them. “I’ve never seen so many monsters in one place,” Newsie muttered nervously.

“Sweetums, what are they all doing down there?” Rhonda asked.

The puzzled troll scratched his head. “Uhhh...makin’ TV shows, I guess? They seemed like really nice guys. See there, that guy gave me his hamsterburger! Haw haw haw!” His enormous finger pointed out the intimidated-looking Frackle handing a wriggling thing between sesame-seed buns up to the troll, captured on the hidden camera.

“Eeesh,” Newsie shuddered.

“Uh...yeah. I see that. So they, uh, they didn’t tell you why they’re doing all this?” Rhonda tried again. Newsie stared at the Frackle onscreen, surprised to find he sympathized with the frightened look the small monster was giving the troll.

Sweetums shrugged. “Uh, that one guy, I think his name was Harry, he took me down to some kinda office and asked me to sign somethin’. I told him I, uh, I didn’t get that far in kindergarten, though, so he just made an ‘X’ for me. Somethin’ about Santa...no, Klaus...yeah, that was it. Some kinda clause, I think he said; but I didn’t understand what that had to do with cons.” His eyes widened. “Uh, hey! Aren’t cons like criminals? I’m not a criminal!”

“No, big guy, you’re not,” Rhonda assured him. “A...a confidentiality clause?”

“Yeah! That was it!” Sweetums chuckled and rolled his eyes, abashed. “Huh huh...you called me ‘big’ again.”

“What did they ask you to keep secret?” Newsie asked, looking up, ducking quickly as the troll’s huge tongue slurped his triple-dozen-scoop ice cream cone and another scoop of it fell to the floor; this one looked like Rainwater Runoff Ripple. Newsie scooted his laptop a little farther from the corner of the bench where Green Pistachio Goo and Peanut Tarantula made sloppy dissolving puddles.

“Oh! Uh...well if I told you about the monsters taking over the city on Halloween night, it wouldn’t be a secret, right?” Sweetums rumbled, happily licking his ice cream cone.

“Yeahh...gotcha,” Rhonda said. “Did they say how?”

“How what?”

“How they’re planning on taking over the city!” Newsie barked, worried. He glanced at his producer, who looked, for once, just as concerned. I was RIGHT! he thought, but this brought him no sense of personal triumph.

“Oh, uh...hey! How’d you guys know about that?” Sweetums demanded, frowning.

“It’s okay, Sweetums. You can trust us. We bought ya ice cream, remember?” Rhonda sighed.

“Huh huh...’course I remember! This stuff is great! Hey, uh...can we go on another underground expedition again tomorrow?”

“Er...maybe soon,” Newsie offered. “Please, Sweetums, this is really important! What exactly did they say the plan was?” They’d been through the footage thoroughly once already, but in places the troll’s fur had clogged the small mic of the camera and garbled the sound.

“Oh, uh...somethin’ about, ‘elevatin’ the dark underlord to Supreme Monsterdom an’ sacrificin’ all the Muppets who stand in the way of pure unhappiness sweepin’ over the city forevermore.’” At the stunned looks on his friends’ faces, Sweetums bent over and whispered loudly, “Between you an’ me, though, I’m pretty sure he was speakin’ semaphorically.”

“Erg,” Newsie choked, eyes wide.

Rhonda recovered first, and patted the ankle of the shaggy troll. “Uh...okay. Thanks, big guy. Go enjoy your ice cream.”

“’Big guy,’” Sweetums rumbled, grinning. With a pleased shake of his head, he lumbered off, a crowd of rats eagerly trailing after him with tiny spoons, scooping up the melting debris in his wake.

“R-rhonda?” Newsie stammered.

“This ain’t good,” the rat murmured. “All right, look. Let’s post this online right away. I’ll do a fast edit tying it into the Nofrisko footage and the...the bug-thing. You start working on writing a voiceover, and let’s get the word out! At the very least it’ll warn people there’s something nasty going on!”

“I told you it was all a monsterish plot,” Newsie muttered. “I told you!”

“Fine. Have you got all the I-told-you-sos out of your system yet? In case you haven’t noticed, this is a serious news story, and we have no broadcast anymore! The best we can hope for is a podcast, which my friend at the Times has reluctantly agreed to link to from their ‘Happenings Around Town’ page!”

“What?” Newsie started, then scowled. “But this is serious! This isn’t some socialite giving a karaoke appearance at an uptown bar, this is a warning about monsters planning the city’s total takeover from a secret base under the sewers!”

“You and I know that, but we’ve lost our journalistic standing,” Rhonda griped. “Check your email; I got a notice that Blanke’s revoked our press badges!”

“What?” Newsie blanched. “He—he can’t do that!”

“Unfortunately, he can. You know they only hand those things out to legit reporters working for legit media outlets, and since we’re suspended and probably gonna get fired –“

“But this is awful!” Newsie pulled his prized badge from his wallet and stared at it longingly; he’d worked so hard just to earn one of these, the ultimate status symbol for any newsman working in the biggest news center on earth! It was the next best thing to a Pulitzer...well, at least, as close as he was likely to ever get...

“Tell me about it, Sunshine,” Rhonda sighed. “Now I’ll never find a parking place again! But look; we gotta move on this, and I mean yesterday. So you sequester yourself in your little closet over there or whatever you gotta do to get those journalistic juices flowing in your foam and write me a kick-butt, five-minute V.O. for this story while I get all the film spliced together, okay?”

“O-okay,” Newsie gulped, trying to gather his wits. Halloween night, monsters plan to take over the city? Sacrificing Muppets? Is the theatre safe? We should warn Kermit...cut off the drains completely...post guards...why us? So it’s true monsters think we’re delicious? Shivering, he remembered the pills Dr Honeydew had compounded for him, and dug the bottle out of his coat pocket. The plaid had ripped slightly at one seam when he’d wrested it free of the rusted subway rail finally, but at least he hadn’t lost his phone or this... He took one of the capsules, washing it down with a swig of coffee, wincing at the taste. “Gaaahhh...why does this taste like shrimp?”

“Jou say somethin’, pointy-head?” Pepe snapped, glaring momentarily as he trotted by with a towel slung around his neck, showing off his new Speedos to the room at large. “Hey, Chef, jou gots my hot tub ready yet?”

Newsie stared after him. Rhonda sighed. “Fine. Duck around the corner and grab us both cups of something drinkable, why doncha?” She poured her untouched cup into a wastebucket nearby, and focused her attention on the screen, claws clicking across the keyboard. “What if we start with a shot of the bug-thing?” she muttered to herself. “Hmm. Too jarring? Nah...that commercial for Al’s Chicken-Suit Costume Barn is scarier, and they show that every danged hour on KRAS...”

Turning away, Newsie brought out his phone, thinking, I should call Gina again, make sure she’s okay... Although she hadn’t mentioned anything odd happening at the Sosilly, he wanted to hear her voice right now, just to soothe his nerves. Before he could even scroll through his contact directory, the cell phone rang, startling him. He managed not to drop it. “Er...hello? Muppet Newsman!”

“Um...hello...this is Nurse Susan at Blucher Memorial...” In the background, Newsie could have sworn he heard a horse neighing for a second.

“Oh. Yes, is...is my aunt...” He swallowed a dry throat, anxiety of a different cause rising.

“She...uh...”

“Just...just tell me. Did she...did she feel any pain?” Newsie asked, his voice rough, eyes closing, bracing himself for the news.

“She’s awake, Mr Crimp,” the nurse said.

“She...what?”

“She’s awake. And she’s asking for you.”

Newsie stood stock-still, frozen, disbelieving, several seconds. The nurse asked, “Uh...Mr Crimp? Are you there?”

“I’ll be right there,” Newsie said. He hung up, and somehow found the energy to start moving his feet.

“Whaddaya think about putting the shot of the Nofrisko building right after the running shot of the monster tunnels, Goldie?” Rhonda asked. When he didn’t reply, she looked up, frowning. “Goldie?”

The short, golden-yellow-felted reporter had vanished from the Muppet Theatre green room. The rat sighed, shaking her head. “Him and his French-press coffee. I swear, that woman’s spoiled him.” Grumbling, she returned to her task, skimming through files of footage, trying to determine what combination of images would best make this city sit up and take notice, and take heed before the hour grew too late.
--------------------
 

The Count

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Good update. And yes, I've been up all through the night reading another rivetting fanfic elsewheres. That's the thing about my weird schedule, if I've got something that's gotten a hold of my interest and a workload to power through...

Anyway. *Jots down the flavors of Sweetums's 36-scoop cone for future use.
Ethyl? Ethyl awake? Yip yip yip yip yip, uh-huh.
Gina's starting to put two and two together after interference from the Bland half of the law firm.
Good references to the spectral catchers' movies what with the subway train and the crossing of the beams. I especially appreciated the flashbacky image of Deadly chatting with Eric under the Parisian pavement. Not afraid for Deadly as he can always disperse crowds thanks to the blue lightning blasts he can discharge unnaturally from his clawed palms. But know this... And consider it as an ominous warning... If any harm befalls my roommate, you shall be faced with my unleashing the vampire king from within my core. No, not my other roommate, rather the true darkness itself who commands Deadly's boss as it's servant. *Evil glare.
:batty: You can do that?
Sure. If Kelly's the heir to the Labyrinth then I can equally claim to be the master of monsters. Heck, my friend calls me that all the time.
:Batty: *quietly, Fright.
 

newsmanfan

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Part Thirty-Three

It took him a moment to argue his way past a drowsy Bobo, but then the Newsman burst into his aunt’s hospital room, out of breath, heart slamming. “Is she all right? What happened?” he cried. A doctor, a nurse, and his distant cousin Fred all turned to stare at him...although in Fred’s case it was more of a glare. “She’s conscious?” Newsie pressed, heading for the bed.

The doctor stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “She’s...she’s conscious, yes, but you shouldn’t expect too much, Mr Crimp. We removed her breathing tube because she insisted on speaking...but her pulse is erratic, and it was her wish not to be revived if...”

“I know,” Newsie gulped, trying to regain his composure. “I understand.” He looked up at Fred, but the taller man merely turned back to Ethel, watching the frail old lady wheezing, her pale hands clutching the sheets. Newsie stepped up to the bed, barely able to peer over the rail. “Aunt Ethel? It...it’s me, Aloysius...”

Her unfocused gaze trailed around the ceiling. The nurse pushed a chair closer to the bed, and Newsie gave her a thankful nod and climbed up to better see his failing aunt. He took one of her hands in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “A-aunt Ethel? I’m here...”

Her eyes slid over to him, and she squinted. “Tell...tell my nephew to come...I have to talk to him...” she whispered.

Newsie swallowed back rising grief. He gave her a nod, trying to appear confident. “I’m...I’m trying to locate him, Auntie. I’ll bring Chester to you as soon as –“

“Not Chester,” the old woman spat with startling strength. She leaned forward, wheezing hard. “Aloysius! He works for a newspaper! You have to tell him!”

Newspaper? I haven’t been with a paper since...since before the Muppet Show hired me... Realizing his aunt still wasn’t in the present moment, Newsie simply nodded at her, trying to reassure; the nurse gently coaxed her to lay back down, and her breathing eased slightly. “What should I tell him?” Newsie asked, his throat feeling thick, his voice hoarse.

She gazed, unfocused, around the room. Fred paced slowly by the foot of the bed, listening but remaining silent. The doctor murmured something to the nurse and left the room. “Aunt Ethel? What did you need to tell Aloysius?” Newsie prompted.

“Aloysius?” she asked, appearing confused.

Eagerly he grasped her hand tighter. “Yes, Auntie...I’m here.”

She shot him a very focused glare suddenly, and jerked her hand back with a gasp. “You let go of me, you vulture! I’m not dead yet! You’ll get your money soon enough!”

Shaken, Newsie cringed back, at a loss as to what to say. “N-no, I...Aunt Ethel...”

“I have to talk to Aloysius!” she yelled, her creaky voice far from the melodious tone he recalled from childhood. “They’re all under the city! They’re evil! He has to warn everyone! Get me Aloysius!”

“Ethel,” Fred said, his tone sharp enough that she paused and looked at him. Fred placed a hand on Newsie’s shoulder. “This Muppet will make sure Aloysius gets your message. That’s what he’s here for. Tell him.”

“Oh,” Ethel said, her voice fading again, her scowl smoothing out. “Oh, how nice. Thank you, Fred.” Fred nodded, backing off again. Newsie looked at him, startled, but then his aunt’s faltering fingers took his hand, and she smiled tentatively at him. “You...you know my nephew?”

“Yes,” Newsie managed to croak out.

“Then...you have to tell him,” Ethel whispered, glancing furtively around. “This is very important!”

“Yes?” Newsie leaned in close, tamping down his fear and his dismay, doing his best to be what she needed him to be.

“There...are...monsters under the city!” Ethel hissed. When he stared at her, she nodded, looking grim. “Oh, yes! Horrible things! Don’t ever ride the last train of the night! I saw them! I saw them...take an old man right off that train! They dragged him down into the tunnels!”

“They did?” The disappearances ARE because of the monsters! I knew it!

“Oh yes! They live...down there...they hide, they plot, they’re after all of us,” Ethel assured him, her voice barely a breath. “I saw them! He wasn’t anyone, you know...one of those crazy people who live on the street.” She gave Newsie a deeply serious stare. “Someone whom no one would miss, you see? But they won’t stop at that, oh no...it takes thirty-one lives, you see. They have to have thirty-one for it to work.”

“Thirty-one lives?” Newsie blinked at her. “I...I don’t understand.”

She grabbed his hand tightly, squeezing surprisingly hard. “It won’t work without the thirty-one! That’s why they’re doing it! You have to tell Aloysius so he can warn everyone! He’s a reporter! He’ll make them listen!”

“Warn...warn people that monsters are kidnapping –“

“Warn them about the storm!” Ethel shouted, startling everyone. “It starts with a storm! Blinding white! Freakish, like them! They’ll start it then! They’ll kill everyone! You tell him! You tell him what they’re doing before it’s too late!”

She choked, coughed, and fell back against the pillow. Her monitor was beeping loudly. The nurse pushed Newsie aside, checking the readouts, then resettled Ethel’s head on her pillow. Newsie clung to the back of the plastic chair, stunned, staring at the nearly-beige, weary face sinking into the whiteness of the bed. A storm? A freak storm? What does that have to do with...how could she even know...

“Is there anyone else we should call?” the nurse asked quietly. Newsie stared at her. Fred paused, then shook his head.

“My sister and her husband have all the kids right now. They know it won’t be long. No point in them rushing over,” Fred replied.

Newsie swallowed back tears, and with a shaking hand picked up Ethel’s once more; all the strength had left her fingers. He stroked her hand softly. “Aunt Ethel? I’ll...I’ll tell Aloysius...but...how...how do you know any of what the monsters are planning?”

She fluttered her eyes at him, seeming groggy. “Hmm?”

“How do you know about the thirty-one lives?” he asked, trying to keep her attention. “And what do you mean, a storm? What kind of storm?”

“The kind that hides everything,” Ethel whispered. She seemed to be drifting off, her breathing shallow, her eyes barely open.

“But how do you know?” Newsie insisted.

She smiled sleepily at him. “I caught one of them. Tied him up and pulled his nose hairs until he confessed, silly! That’s what you do with their kind.” Satisfied, she sighed. “Joe, I want to sleep now. You stop worrying over that account and come to bed.”

Newsie remained crouched, half-atop the bed, utterly overwhelmed, his aunt’s limp fingers still grasped loosely in his. Fred leaned over the bed, placing a hand on Ethel’s shoulder. “Grandma Ethel...”

“Oh...yes dear?” She blinked up at him, smiling.

“Is there anything we can get you, Grandma?”

“No, thank you, dear. I’m all right. Oh...if you see Homer’s boys, tell them not to go down to the lake today; it looks as though it might rain,” she murmured. Fred gave Newsie a questioning look; Newsie shrugged helplessly, shaking his head. Ethel sighed again; the nurse shut off the heart monitor, and the silence once the alarm was stilled sent goosebumps over Newsie’s felt.

He stroked his aunt’s hand, noting how pale, how frail her own felt appeared; he could see faint veins of cerulean underneath, like a tracery of lines on an old map. “I...I love you, Aunt Ethel,” he muttered, unable to find any strength for his own voice.

“Love you too, dear,” she murmured. “Give your mother a kiss for me. And if you see Aloysius...tell him he’s a good boy.” She smiled, eyes closed. “Always such a good boy...he’ll like living at the lake. He was always so happy there.”

Newsie felt tears coursing down his cheeks, but didn’t want to let go of her hand to wipe them away. The soft pulse and hiss of the oxygen line was the only sound in the room. Fred watched Ethel; Newsie couldn’t see anymore. The nurse gently checked the side of Ethel’s thin neck for several seconds. She tried another spot. She carefully removed the oxygen line from Ethel’s nose, and turned off the pump. Its soft, dying hiss sounded so final, so evocative of the unheard last breath, that Newsie felt fresh grief welling. He couldn’t let go of Ethel’s hand. A heavy weight settled on his shoulder; he blinked up and realized it was Fred’s hand. Ethel’s step-grandson gazed down at her, his expression tight and controlled. Trembling, Newsie released his grip enough to bring one hand up to his shoulder, and fuzzy skin touched tough flesh a moment. Fred swallowed visibly, let go of Newsie, and turned away.

“I’ll just give you a few minutes,” the nurse murmured, slipping from the room.

Newsie rubbed the water from his eyes fiercely, blinking hard as he readjusted his glasses. She found out. She really did know. How the hey did she manage to capture one of them? No wonder they wanted her dead! Anger swelled in his chest. They did this! They had to! Those...those stringy things! They put her here – they did this! “They did this!” he said aloud. Fred turned back to him, surprised. Newsie nodded hard, his voice gaining strength, depth. “She knew! She knew what they were planning – that’s why they hurt her! They’re responsible for this!”

“Who?” Fred demanded.

“The monsters!” Newsie gestured at the still, sunken body in the bed. “You heard her!”

“Aloysius...Ethel was crazy. She had dementia. For God’s sake, she didn’t even know who you were! You can’t believe anything she –“

“She wasn’t crazy!” Newsie argued. “So what if she didn’t recognize me? She – she knew what the monsters were planning – are planning! They d—d near killed her for it before she could tell anyone!”

Fred grabbed his shoulder roughly, nearly unbalancing him in the chair. “Listen to yourself! You know, I thought, as naive as you are, even you had some sense of reality! Monsters? Killing? Get a grip, Muppet!” Angrily, he shoved Newsie back; the shorter Muppet grabbed the back of the chair, glaring through blurry eyes.

“She was telling the truth! There are monsters underneath the city; I’ve seen them myself! You – you just watch my report tonight! It’ll be online, with a link on the New York Times!” he shouted. “She wasn’t crazy! She was right, and that’s why she’s dead!”

“Are you insane? Does the phrase natural causes mean anything to you?” Fred shot back. “You know, I really can’t – Get out of here. Just get out of here! I don’t want to hear any more of this outrageous insanity! Show a little respect, for God’s sake!”

Inflamed, Newsie jumped from the chair, advancing on Fred. “No! She wasn’t crazy! The monsters had her killed!” When Fred began to protest again, Newsie shoved him back a step. “No! I’m her blood relation! You’re the one being disrespectful by not believing her! You get out!”

Breathless, they glared at one another a second. Fred straightened his shirtsleeves, and lowered his voice. “Fine. Fine.” Without another word, he strode from the room.

Newsie gulped, reining in the sobs which threatened to come pouring out of his throat. The nurse returned, concerned. “Is...is anything wrong?”

No, why would anything be wrong? Newsie thought, feeling dizzy. My aunt found out what the monsters were doing, and they tried to kill her, and now she’s dead, and I have no idea what she meant, and I’m supposed to warn the whole city, and I have no broadcast, and no one believes me except Gina and Rhonda...no, all of that’s perfectly peachy keen... “I...I’m fine,” he answered as calmly as he could. “Everything is...is fine. She’s...she’s fine now...” He glanced back at his motionless aunt, a tiny shell of lifeless felt and foam where once merriment had twinkled in bright eyes, where once song had lifted his spirits from her well-tuned voice, where once he’d been given an inkling of what parental love might feel like when she would sneak him a cookie from the kitchen, or listen to his hesitant ideas about his own future, or show him how to fly a kite in the clean, light air above the lake...

The nurse nodded slowly, her eyes sympathetic. “Can I...can I call anyone for you?”

Newsie wrested his tears back, digging out his handkerchief and wiping his nose. “No...thank you...I’ll...I have my phone. Thank you.” The nurse watched him a moment longer, then with a soft sigh, gently lifted the sheet and drew it over Ethel’s face. She offered to bring him a glass of water, and when she’d left again, Newsie backed away from the bed, clambering awkwardly onto a low recliner in a corner of the room. He stared at his cell phone a long while, giving up the idea of keeping his vision focused. Finally he called Gina.

“Sweetie? Hi!”

“I...” he gulped, choked, unable to speak. He tried again. “I... A-aunt...”

Silence a moment. Then Gina said, “Stay there. I’m on my way.”

He nodded, and hung up. He sat there, crying with as little sound as he could manage. The room seemed empty now.


--------------------
“Come along, come along,” said the skinny Whatnot with the large round head, strolling toward the formerly-impressive entry to the crumbling, condemned hotel. Suspicious eyes peered from narrow doorways hung with paper lanterns and plastic souvenirs of NYC made in Taiwan. Rizzo grunted as he hefted another box out of the trunk of the taxi.

Below him at the curb, Pepe urged, “Move it already. The faster we get this done, the faster we gets back to the kitchen, no?”

“I’m going – ungh – as fast as I – errrgh! – can!” Rizzo panted. He shoved the heavy box over the edge of the trunk. “Catch!”

“Wait, I did not say I was –“ THUMP. “...ready...” Pepe groaned.

Rizzo cackled. “Move it or lose it, chump!”

Pepe complained at the avocado-felted young man with the triangular olive-felted nose, “So where is this party with foods and womens jou promised, amigo? All I see is a dirty street with lots of people giving me the...the seafood eye, okay.” Shuddering, he looked around once, certain he could smell five-spice seasoning...and the way a large man with a cleaver was staring at him from the window of a nearby noodle house was frankly disturbing.

“The party is this Saturday, at an off-off-Broadway locale,” the bored-sounding Whatnot explained. “As I’ve already told you, help set up the decor for the charity walk, and I’ll personally issue you both passes to help clean up after the caterers.”

“Eh, least it’ll be catered,” Rizzo grumbled, pushing one side of the box while Pepe dragged the other, inching toward the broken steps to the hotel. He paused to look up at the façade. Once-festive moldings above the windows had largely crumbled; specks of the whitewash made the stone pockmarked with bulletholes seem even more ancient than its actual hundred years. “Ya know, though, I kinda doubt any amount of banners is gonna make dis place look cheerful.”

“I see spiderwebs, okay,” Pepe noted, searching the half-smashed windows with nervous eyes. “Do spiders eat prawns? Because I am not liking the looks of this place already!”

“Nah, I don’t t’ink so,” Rizzo replied. “Besides, dey probably prefer stuff wit’ a little meat on ‘em.”

“What are jou saying? I work out!”

“Er...gentlemen, please,” the Whatnot called, checking his watch. “A little due diligence would be much appreciated!”

“Listen at dis guy,” Rizzo growled low, huffing as he shoved the box slowly closer to the stairs. “Who’s he t’ink he is anyway, Mr Harvard?”

“Well he isn’t talking at jou okay,” Pepe snickered. “I see only one gentlemans around here!”

They continued to bicker as they moved the box all the way to the stairs; although he seemed impatient, the Whatnot never took a step to help them. He pushed open the door to the hotel lobby. “Through here, please.”

Rat and shrimp stopped and stared at the seven steps leading up to the door. “Aw no,” Rizzo said, hands on his hips. “Dis is where my achin’ back overtakes my salivatin’ tongue! No way am I luggin’ dis t’ing up all them steps! Do it yourself, Boredish!”

“The name’s Blandish,” the Whatnot chided, frowning. “Miles Blandish, attorney-at-law, junior partner with the prestigious firm of Bland and –“

“And too-lazy-to-carry-a-box-already,” Pepe sniffed, agreeing with Rizzo. He stood next to his diminutive colleague, folding four arms over his puffed-out chest. “Jou wants our help, jou take the heavy box inside! What the madre de los camerones is in this thing anyway?”

The lawyer sighed, and reluctantly removed his tailored grey jacket and tucked his silk tie within his crisp white shirt. “Very well...but only because this is for a good cause...”

“Yeah, uh, what cause would dat be again?” Rizzo wondered as the three of them trooped inside the hotel. Dusty cobwebs festooned every high corner and lifeless wall-lamp, dirt and a crunch of dead leaves evoked distaste wherever their feet fell on the cracked marble floor, and the standing worklight which the lawyer switched on only made the shadows atop the long formal stairway seem deeper.

“The charity walk will raise money for the Muppet Anti-Discrimination League,” Blandish reminded them crossly. He set the box on the old check-in counter; some of the wooden molding there immediately flumphed into a pile of dust. “Now, make sure you use all the decorations; we paid a ridiculous amount to have it all customized, and the cameras should pick up every last banner and sign.”

“Wait, wait, okay,” Pepe said, peering into the box gingerly from a tiptoe stance atop the counter. He pulled a fat roll of crepe paper from the box. “Hold on, I thought jou said this walking thing was going to be on la Dia de los Muertos en Nuevo York, okay?”

“What is he saying?” Blandish muttered aside to Rizzo.

The rat shrugged, scrambling up to take a look inside the box for himself. “Eh, I nevah know half a’ what he says. Hey, I thought dis t’ing was gonna be on Halloween? What’s wit’ da blue and green streamers?”

Pepe gestured at the ceiling in annoyance. “That’s what I was just saying, okay...”

“Shouldn’t ya have used orange and black or somethin’?”

Blandish frowned mildly. “Whyever would we do that? Clearly you both are ignorant of the official colors of Nofrisko! They’re the major sponsors for the walk, you know.”

“Oh, wait – ain’t dey da ones who make dose tasty Goat Chips?” Rizzo asked, drawing a large plastic sign emblazoned with both the Nofrisko and MADL logos out of the box. “I like them.” He studied the sign a moment. “Dey really coulda picked a more exciting name for dis t’ing. Come on: ‘da Nofrisko Spook Walk for MADL’? Totally lame!”

“Goat Chips? What is this mier—“

“Dey make prawn crackers too, I hear,” Rizzo taunted.

Pepe sniffed, antennae pointing at the chandelier haughtily. “Now jou is just messing with me.”

“Remember, gentlemen, hang all of it! Make sure it’s all at eye level so the cameras will catch it!” Blandish admonished, and fell to polishing his fingers with a dainty hankie. “My goodness, just look how dusty I’ve become! I really wish they’d chosen some other, less dirty venue...”

Rizzo grunted, hefting the sign up and smacking a couple of thumbtacks into it to attach it to the wall behind the counter. “So why didja choose dis old wreck?”

Blandish sighed. “Well, I was only allowed a half-vote, as I’m only a junior partner. The senior partners Mr Bland and Mr Blander were asking around the community, and Nofrisko volunteered the use of this old place for the whole month! Terribly generous of them. They said, according to Mr Blander, that they were excited about working with so many Muppets all in one place on Halloween night.” He glanced around at the half-cracked mirrors which threw back cloudy shadows of movement instead of actual reflections. “I must admit, I’ve no idea what they intend to do with the property. I suppose it would make sense to demolish it and erect a Chinatown outlet store for MoHos or something. I understand the Orientals do love their silly-named snack cakes.”

“Like da Prawn Puffyumi?” Rizzo asked innocently. He chortled and ducked when Pepe flung a roll of crepe at him; the tissue unwound, drifting lazily over an old coatrack. “Hey, good idea! Let’s roll da place!”

Pepe muttered something unprintable under his breath. Rizzo scurried across to the stairway balustrade and began tossing a roll of green crepe over the banister, catching it each time as he darted under the rail to toss it up again, winding it up the stairs. When he reached the halfway point, beyond which the light below only picked out faint shimmers of cobwebs, he paused, reconsidered, and simply tossed the roll the rest of the way up. Trotting back down the stairs, he asked, “So, what, da snack company is underwritin’ da charity walk? Whadda they get out of it?” He jumped, startled, when the crepe roll came bouncing back down past him. With a frown, he retrieved it and lobbed it upstairs again.

“Well, good publicity, I would imagine,” Blandish replied. “It’s quite an honor to have one’s name associated with our cause, you know!”

“Jou mean that cause nobody outside of you has heard of?” Pepe snorted. He clung to a tattered curtain with three limbs, using the others to position and tack up another sign over the boards inside a once-grand window.

“Hey, t’row me another roll a’ that tissue stuff,” Rizzo said. Blandish absently tossed a roll of blue crepe at him. Rizzo jumped again when his original green roll bumped him in the back as he was set to catch the blue. “Hey, what gives?”

Pepe snickered at him. “Jou never heard of gravitys?”

Irritated, Rizzo hauled back his arm and threw the green crepe roll as hard as he could up the stairs. Turning back to the blue roll, he looked around for a good place to start it, intending to drape it from frame to frame on the rotted, indistinguishable canvases still hanging on the lobby walls. A soft weight thumped the back of his skull, toppling him. “Ow! Hey!”

“Don’t just focus on the stairway,” Blandish sighed impatiently. “Get the streamers going from wall to wall! And don’t forget the dining room!”

“Okay, okay already,” Pepe grumbled. “Rizzo, give me a hand with this cada...paper,” he amended quickly, panting from a struggle, having somehow managed to tangle all six limbs while wrapping a green roll and a blue together for a streamer.

Feeling skittish now, Rizzo hurried away from the stairs gladly, casting many a nervous look over his shoulder. The fat end of the crepe roll sat still at the bottom of the staircase. He let it lie.


--------------------
“Fascinating,” Van Neuter murmured, poking the neutronically-charged end of the plasma-wand through the force-field. The dragon ghost snarled, but wasn’t foolish enough to swat it away, having been shocked several times already. The cryptoveterinarian pulled at his rubbery lower lip, thinking; he started to tap the wand against his own arm, and Thatch leaped forward, grabbing it before the absent-minded scientist could shock himself. The monster received the full voltage instead, and his teeth ground together, his feathers jittering so hard a couple of them dislodged and swooped away. Van Neuter snatched back the wand, glaring. “Thatch! Stop that! That’s the third time I’ve had to ask you not to play with my wand!”

“Graaaahhhh,” McGurk muttered, fainting.

“Hmm, now...I wonder what would happen if...” Curious, the vet looked from his ghostly captive to his broad-spectrum mitochondrial photosynthetic globule splitter. The spectral form with glowing green eyes merely glowered at him. Van Neuter began tossing aside delicate pipettes left over from his biological cesium distillation and the remains of a club sandwich on stale baguette, hunting for the ectoplasmic sample grabbers he’d received as a birthday gift last year from Bunnie. “If I can just get a nice chunk of phantasmic flesh off you, I might be able to synthesize a coagulant which would allow me to manipulate your ghostly DNA, heh heh, so to speak!” Frustrated at the mess, he stood up straight and set his broad gloved hands on his nonexistent hips. “How can I be expected to transmogrify spectral specimens without that dratted sample grabber? Ah – there it is!” His temporary triumph, holding aloft the plastic alligator-head-on-a-stick, was sidelined by the chill voice on the intercom:

“When will I be seeing your report on the transmutation process in our guests, Doctor?”

“Wha! Oh! Uh...” Van Neuter jumped, fumbling; he stared sadly at the grabber plunging somewhere back into the jumble of objects on the floor. Thatch groaned, coming around with an even worse hornache than before. The monster wondered with a wince whether there was a point of diminishing return on these shock treatments. Van Neuter swung around to smile up at the camera the security Frackles had installed after the Nofrisko break-in. “Hello! Welcome to the lab, your dark underthing!”

He sensed a pause in the other end of the line; apparently the boss was considering the epithet. Perhaps judging it immaterial for the moment, the dark, cool voice continued, “Doctor. While it is always amusing to observe you playing with your pets, I must know whether your experiments on the human subjects have brought forth any promising results yet.”

“Experiments on...oh those experiments! Ha ha...yes of course...uhhh...” Van Neuter smiled, frowned, fumbled in his coat pockets, and finally produced a small notepad. “Here, let me see... Uh, Subjects number one through six responded to the transmogrification serum...unfavorably.” He adjusted his goggles and blinked up at the camera. “They, er, have been turned over to the game shows for prizes.”

“Very well...I shall remind the hosts not to allow contestants to devour them unless they swallow them whole. We’ll need anything with human blood for the big night...which, I ought not to have to tell you, draws ever closer, Van Neuter.”

“Well, I’m still working on it,” Van Neuter said. “The last one broke out into thorns. Gave Thatch here a rash.”

“A...rash?”

“Razza frazza!” McGurk agreed, rolling up his fur on his left arm to show the camera the blotchy turquoise spots on his lavender skin.

“That doesn’t look so pretty,” the underlord mused. “I would not be averse to thorns.”

Van Neuter shook his head. “But I was trying for coarse prickly fur! It’s just not working well enough yet...the outcome is wildly unpredictable, and you did say you wanted a thousand legs and claws and quivering drippy antennae and –“

“Yeeeuurgh,” McGurk gulped, turning pale.

“Keep trying! Do whatever you have to do! I must be ready to ascend at the conjunction of the Scorpion and the Destroyer of Stars! This is imperative!” Van Neuter waited, wringing his hands at that horrible voice; Thatch edged behind him. The voice calmed, though its abrupt return to silky hollowness was even more unnerving than the bellow. “Focus on extracts of the milliworms, Doctor. I wish my glorious new form to be one guaranteed to strike terror into the simpletons walking the surface! Get on it!”

“Right away!” Van Neuter gulped. He heard the soft click of the intercom disconnecting. With a sigh, the vet turned to his cringing assistant. “Honestly...what does he think I’ve been doing?”

“Plazza wuh drabba,” Thatch replied, pointing at the spectral entity watching them from his faintly glowing cell.

“Determining whether or not a ghost has DNA which can be twisted is not play, I’ll have you know! It’s a very difficult, detailed undertaking which – oh! Undertaking! That was a good one! Ha ha ha!” Grinning, the vet elbowed his monster. Thatch merely narrowed all three eyes at him. Van Neuter sniffed. “Hmf! No sense of humor, either of you, I see. Fine. Let’s just grab the next contestant for ‘I Married a Monster!’”

Leaving the lab, they paused just outside so Van Neuter could lock the faded green-painted door before heading downstairs into the warren of tunnels occupied by slimier things. Van Neuter greeted one of the giant centipede-things cheerfully: “Well hello gorgeous! My, aren’t we looking wonderfully crawly today!”

The insectoid monster stared at him with wide compound eyes, then with a squeak it shot up the wall to the ceiling and booked away as fast as its hundreds of tiny legs could carry it. Van Neuter frowned, and turned his glare on Thatch. “Another one running away! Thatch, were you making that scary face at it again?”

------------------
 

The Count

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Okay... Another filling slice of fanfic.

Ethyl passing away... Reminds me of my paternal grandmother, those last few visits, *sniff.
But she's right, there's got to be a freakish storm heralding the awful arrival. Or some event of great raging power or emotion that allows the hibernating evil to awaken.

Blandish... Where do these Whatnots keep popping out from? The only senior partners in the firm are Bland and Blander right? Would hate to think someone from that law firm out in LA infiltrated their ranks.

Methinks :rolleyes: has his holidays mixed-up. Halloween's on Oct 31, Día de los Muertos is usually November 1 or 2.

Corporate colors, sheesh.

Deadly in a force-bubble. And Van Neuter having to track down some of those large centipede weebabeast thingies. All good stuff. *Contacts the boss to tell him the phantom will have to take some off-time, though it's not like the reaper doesn't know where his employee's currently held up at.

Post when you can. *Leaves cinnamon pecan muffin.
 

Ruahnna

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Oh. I'm so sorry to see that Ethel passed away. I thought she might come out of this story still kicking. At least Gina is coming to comfort him. Newsie--so sorry for your loss, Sweetie.

I've worked with a lot of lawyers over the years, but allow me to say that the "Bland of Brothers" gives me the total creeps.

Um, there was a stray thought out in the alley, and you know how I like to feed hungry critters...anyway, it followed me home and here it is. Wouldn't Gonzo be considered an honorary monster? I mean, he's very clearly never actually aligned with the monsters, or considered himself to be very monsterish, but still...weird nose, blue fur, strange eating habits? Shouldn't he get a pass on ascension night?

Pleeeeassssse let something bad happen to Van Neuter. I don't like him at all.

More, please!
 

The Count

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*Stage whispering: :concern: will get a pass to Ascention Night, that's what winning the Underthing's favor got him. But we can't let on the competition's rigged for his weirdo's success, oh no.
And Van Neuter's in character... That's why I loved his sketches on Muppets Tonight, though there weren't enough for my liking, making a suitable parodical monster scientist horror host. Besides, he did make friends with the lab rats in MFS, getting them marshmallows for the big bonfire on the beaches of Cape Doom helping light the way for Ubergonzo's ship to land safely. But you've got your own opinion and we welcomely talk it out here Aunt Ru.
*Dispenses with a pecan muffin in hopes of getting some fic before booking for the night.
 
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