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

The Count

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<333 the chapter, mostly for Gina's inciteful reading with the asides added from the conversation between her and Gonzo.

Rats scared of what's going on in the sewer... We're not talking about resurfacings of that river of pinkish mood slime are we? :scary:
Looking forward to what, if anything, Newsie finds in his aunt Ethyl's room.
Thank you for some much needed fic enfusion. :jim:
 

newsmanfan

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Part Four

“Mm. News-man. News-man. Yip. Yip yip yip.”

Oh, not these weirdos again, Newsie groaned inwardly, turning to see the blue-furred creature stretching up on whatever passed for its tip-toes to stare at him, then jerking away when he glowered at it. He’d completely forgotten Wednesdays were one of the two Monster-Petting Therapy days here at the Long Shadows Upon the Dial Happy Home for the Dangerously Senile; it was one of the reasons he’d chosen Thursday as his regular visiting day, so he wouldn’t have to deal with the bizarre creatures. It stared wide-eyed at him; he’d yet to see them blink. He didn’t even think they had eyelids. Squiggly antennae bobbled at him curiously. “Mm. Go to Eth-el? Eth-el? Yip?”

“Yes,” he growled, and the monster immediately skidded and slid around the corner. Sighing, squaring his shoulders against the nuisance of it all, the Newsman followed the monster through the halls, a little bewildered when it took a different direction than he was accustomed to. He had to almost sprint up a set of stairs to keep the thing in sight. Well, at least this isn’t one of the big ones, he told himself. Some of the residents had apparently been assigned eight-foot beasts as their personal monsters to pet on therapy days – “Whooof!” He smacked into something orange-furred as he rounded the next corner. Putting up a hand to steady himself, he jumped back as slavering teeth and glowering eyes jutted into his face. “Ack! Uh—uh—sorry! I didn’t, er, see you there…”

“How can you see anything through those coke-bottles?” the monster cackled, shoved him aside with one clawed paw, and ceremoniously escorted a doddering old gent along the corridor. “C’mon, Bernie. Let’s go eat some squirrels.”

Newsie shuddered, and looked down the now-vacant hall. No sign anywhere of the odd creature who’d been guiding him. Hesitantly he walked along, glancing at the mostly-closed doors of residents’ rooms. Mad giggling came from beyond one; a sudden crash in another room was followed by a blue-scrub-clad nurse hurrying in, shutting the door behind her. Unnerved, Newsie quieted his footsteps, wondering if perhaps he should just come back on a different day. Suddenly a door opened just as he passed it, startling him. “Hey! Yeah, you!” the wizened old codger standing in the doorway with a chrome-painted walker pointed an accusing finger at Newsie.

“Er…me?”

“You think I don’t know? You think I don’t see you stealing my pretzels? Oh no! I see it! You only think my eyes are closed!” the old man yelled, advancing upon the befuddled newscaster.

“I haven’t taken your pretzels!” Newsie argued. “I don’t even know you!”

“Oh, I know you,” the old man sneered, nodding. Newsie backed away, wondering how to get past the walker now blocking the hallway, or whether he ought to simply go back. “See you every night on the news! Acting so above it all! But I know…I know!”

“Excuse me,” Newsie gulped, darting to one side. He squeezed past the walker, but a wrinkled claw of a hand grabbed his sleeve. “Ack! Sir, please let go!”

“Not ‘til you give me back my pretzels!” The old man’s eyes blazed, and his white hair frothed around his spotted head like stormclouds gathering. “You’re in league with them!”

Exasperated and not a little creeped out, Newsie tugged, but the fingers locked in his coat-sleeve wouldn’t unhook. “Sir, I have no idea who stole your pretzels, but I give you my word as a journalist, it was not me!”

“Then who was it? Huh? Who?”

Desperate, Newsie tried a different tack. “I don’t know, but I’ll look into it! That sounds like…like a story of imminent importance to the public!”

Suddenly content, the old man released him. “Oh, good,” he murmured, turned around, and wobbled back into his own room.

When the door shut, Newsie let out a breath, feeling his heart still thumping hard. He looked toward the end of the hall again –“Aaagh!” The blue-furred thing with googly eyes and long lips wobbled backwards, startled by his reaction to finding it abruptly in front of him again. “Don’t do that!” Newsie gasped at it.

“News-man lost. Looost. Yip-yip. Lost. Yip yip yip yip yip uh-huh.”

“I wouldn’t be if you wouldn’t run so far ahead,” Newsie complained.

The thing bobbed its head down, then up, then down again, continuing to stare right at him. He hated that. “Ru-un?” it asked, puzzled.

“Never mind,” Newsie sighed. “Just take me to my aunt.”

He stayed close behind it this time, jogging, until it swung through an open door. Its twin, the pink thing, was bouncing its head up and down while loud static squealed from an old clock-radio. “Mu-sic! Music! Yip!” it called out.

Excited, the blue monster joined it, and they shuffled and hopped and waggled their antennae, apparently overjoyed by the white noise. Irritated, Newsie shut the radio off, and they both stared at him. “I can’t hear anything over that noise!” he barked at them, and turned to greet his aunt, trying to compose himself better. “Uh…Aunt Ethel? It’s me, Aloysius…”

“Needs hear-ing aid,” a low, monotone voice came from behind him, followed by amused snorts and yips.

The Newsman ignored them. His aunt, pale and tiny, gave him a vacant smile. She reclined on her bed, the top half of the mattress tilted up, wearing a blue dress with white polka-dots; it spread like a welcoming flag across the neatly made red blanket, bringing vaguely-recalled childhood memories of Victory gardens and stars in windows back to Newsie. He reached carefully for her hand; she took it without hesitation, but he couldn’t tell if any recognition sparked in her eyes. “How are you today, Auntie?” he asked.

“Oh, very well, thank you,” she replied, but the way she continued to sit and beam at him told him she had little idea of where or when she was.

“Aunt Ethel, I came to talk to you about our family,” Newsie said, deciding launching right into the purpose of his visit might be best. “About the Bly—hey!” He whirled angrily; the monster who’d been poking a skinny hand into his jacket pocket leaped back, yipping in protest. “Stay out of my pockets!” Newsie snapped, then returned his gaze to his aunt. “About the Blyers. Can you tell me more about them?” Scolding himself, reminding himself open-ended questions tended to bring in only vague answers, he corrected, “Er…would you tell me what you remember about your family, when you were growing up?”

“Oh, yes,” Ethel said, her wrinkled face brightening. “We had a lovely farm, until the Muppabean Weevil came along in ’29…”

Newsie took out his notepad, but fumbled for his pencil stub. Looking around, he saw it being passed back and forth by the monsters, who examined it as though it were an alien artifact. “Stick? Yip. Stick. Yip yip yip…uh-uh. Not stick. Nope. Nopenopenopenope.”

The pink one took the pencil, popping it into a wide round mouth. “Hey!” Newsie said, startled and angry.

“Mmf. Car-rot?” the pink one wondered. Newsie grabbed its head; it fought wildly, but he managed to pry open its snap-trap mouth and retrieve the not-yet-swallowed pencil.

“Stop taking my things! And stay out of my pockets!” Newsie snapped.

The creatures looked at one another, shrugging. “Not car-rot.”

“Nope. Nopenopenope.”

Disgusted, Newsie wiped off the pencil with his handkerchief, then hastily began jotting down his aunt’s words as she reminisced, oblivious to the monsters. “Even with the weevils, we might have brought in a crop that year, but the snow fell early, and too many beans froze in the fields…oh, it was a disaster. We had to move to a tiny shack. Flora and I shared a bunk, and Wilfred had the top bunk, and Ma and Pa put down a bedroll in the main room by the fire.” She paused, eyes gazing off at nothing the Newsman could see. He waited, wondering if he ought to prompt her again, but then she continued, “That was a little crowded, you can imagine! But things improved after Wilfred got a job in town…”

“Which town?” Newsie asked, pencil poised.

“Cheddarbrethe Hollow, of course,” Ethel responded, puzzled. “I thought you said you were the county registrar?”

“Uh, no. I’m your nephew, Aloysius.”

“Oh, how nice,” she nodded pleasantly at him. “I have a nephew by that same name!”

“Okay,” Newsie sighed. “Tell me more about Wilfred. What did he do in town?”

One of the creatures poked Newsie in the side, skittering back when he jerked around to glare at it. “Ched-dar?” it asked, holding out a pink eraser.

Newsie tried to snatch the eraser from the thing’s tiny claw, but it quickly tossed the item to its companion, which promptly popped it into its mouth and chewed, furry lips masticating sideways like a cow. “Mmmm! Ched-dar! Yip yip yip! Ched-dar!”

“Yip yip yipyipyipyipyip uh-huh!”

Irritated, Newsie looked back at Ethel. “Oh, well, Wilfie started as an apprentice curd-fluffer at the plant, but he worked his way up. By the time he retired, he was second assistant hole-puncher in the Swiss cheese department!” She smiled sweetly. “Such a good work ethic Wilfie had…he always made Pa proud.”

“He had a son, didn’t he?” Newsie asked, and she nodded.

“That would be Chester. Chester didn’t go into the cheese business, though…Wilfie never did understand that. Such a bright boy, you’d think he would’ve jumped at the chance to become a professional curdler like his daddy…” Ethel shook her head, smiling wistfully. “He’s a good boy, though.” She perked. “Would you like to see some pictures, Mr…what did you say your name was? I’m so sorry, my memory’s not what it used to be…”

Newsie sighed again. “Just call me Newsman, if that’s easier.”

“Oh! You’re a reporter? Well why didn’t you say so! Oh! Will this be in the Cheddarbrethe Hollow Clarion? Oh, how delightful! Won’t Pa be proud to see our name in the paper!” Ethel clapped her hands, and suddenly leapt up, throwing open the lid to a sturdy, rough-hewn oak hope chest at the foot of the bed. Nervously the yipping creatures darted around her while she rummaged.

“Yip yip! Sit! Eth-el sit! Bad! Yip yip yip!” one scolded, but she shoved it away impatiently. Newsie hurried to grab her wavering shoulder. The pink thing tried to insinuate itself between him and his aunt, bobble-wires and huge eyes suddenly pressed against his nose. “No touch! Nopenopenope! Eth-el sit!”

“Get away!” Newsie snarled, elbowing the monster. It suddenly reared up, staring down at him – he hadn’t realized they could make themselves taller – and yipping like a one-note watchdog. Its partner crowded him from behind, and though he flailed at them, the two pushed him away from Ethel. Fortunately she found what she wanted and plopped tiredly on the end of the bed.

“Oh…oh, my, these bones are so weak for some reason lately…I must not be eating enough cheese,” she murmured. Shoving his way past the monsters, Newsie took her hands in his, checking her over, worried.

“Are you all right?” he asked, while the monsters anxiously darted and hovered, mumbling to themselves.

Ethel beamed at him. “My, you’re very considerate! How nice to see the post office hiring good-mannered young men these days! You know, was a time that postmaster was such a grouch…always came in with dirt on his fur, and snarled at anyone trying to buy stamps…”

“Er…uh…is that a photo album?” Newsie asked, trying to get the conversation back on some kind of track. He was positive he’d never seen the huge, fabric-bound book before.

“Isn’t it darling? Joe helped me make it.” She smiled at Newsie. “He’ll be home from work soon! Would you like to have some tea and cookies with us? Joe loves tea and cookies after a hard day at the accounting firm.”

“Uh…sounds very nice,” Newsie managed, then tapped the book forgotten in her lap. “Can you show me a picture of Chester?”

“Chester…hmm, I don’t know if I have any photos of him in this book. Let’s see…” She began flipping the oversized pages; numerous faded black-and-white photos flew by. “Oh, look! There’s Flora at the fall dance! Didn’t she look lovely?”

Newsie felt strange viewing a picture of a much younger version of his mother posing with a bouquet of wild grasses and sunflowers, scowling deeply at the camera. Ethel continued on. “And here’s the cheese factory…there’s Wilfie standing in front of the curd vat…”

Newsie peered curiously at the stern-seeming, stout Muppet with overalls and a large rounded nose, his dark hair bowl-cut over deeply lined eyes. It occurred to him that his uncle might have still been alive when Newsie was growing up. He’d never known the man existed until a couple of months ago, and any chance to even meet his uncle was likely now lost. “Unfortunately, he got Pa’s nose, instead of Ma’s like Flora and me,” Ethel sighed. “Poor homely soul. At least Willie didn’t seem to mind. She told me once she loved how he always came home smelling like Muenster.”

“He smelled like a monster?”

“Oh, you silly! Like Muenster, the cheese. What kind of dairy farmer are you, not knowing your cheeses?”

“Uh…right. Willie…his wife?”

“That’s right. Wilhelmina. Sweet little thing she was…the green fur flu took her in ’67. Such a shame.” Ethel paused at a page showing the dour-faced, cheese-making man standing with one arm around a tiny Muppet woman with large round ears sticking straight out, and an almost nonexistent chin. Her eyes, however, looked kind, with doe-like lids giving her whole face a demure expression. The woman cradled an infant in her arms, bundled up so tightly all Newsie could see of its features was the large round nose sticking out of the blanket. “Didn’t they make a lovely family?” She lingered a moment more, then flipped the page. Newsie started at the candid shot of himself, perhaps age two, running across a lawn bawling, trying to hold up a diaper which seemed to be coming untied. “Oh, that’s my nephew Aloysius! Such a doll!”

“Er,” Newsie stammered, and reached over to turn the page back. “Uh…tell me more about your brother’s family. You said Chester didn’t go into the cheese business. What does he do for a living?”

“Chester? Oh, well, I’m sure you know him. He’s famous now! Such a good boy; I always knew he’d be in show business, the way he used to put on funny skits for the cows…”

“Show business?” Newsie was positive he’d never heard of a Chester Blyer acting in anything. Then again, he rarely bothered with entertainment fluff, preferring hard news stories. He was willing to make an exception to that rule for Kermit or Miss Piggy, naturally, or the other Muppets, but typically he was smugly pleased when he didn’t know a single name of any of the reality-TV psuedo-celebrities being bantered about around the water-cooler at KRAK. Suddenly a pink furry head shoved between him and the photo album.

“Eth-el. Lunch. Yip yip. Lunch. Brrrrrrring! Lunch.”

Newsie was on the verge of really going after the intrusive monster when a loud bell rang, echoing through the halls of the asylum. He heard doors opening, and patients shuffled and mumbled along the hall. A nurse entered the room. “Hello, Ethel! Time for num-nums! We have tapioca today!”

“Ooh, I love tapioca,” Ethel said, smiling up at the woman in bright floral scrubs. She looked at Newsie. “Will you be joining us, Mr Donaldson?”

Taken aback, Newsie fumbled for a response. The nurse gave him a thin smile. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come back another time, sir. We don’t allow patients to have visitors during lunch; it tends to agitate them too much.”

“But – but I wasn’t done asking –“

“The monsters will see you out,” the nurse stated firmly, helping his aunt into a wheelchair and swiftly taking her out of the room. The pink thing crowded him, its head jerking from side to side to peer around his nose. Irritated, he pushed it away from his face.

“Just a minute,” he growled. “At least let me put her book away.” He glared at both of them, wary of them shuffling around with odd ripples of their footless bodies, and with a grunt raised the heavy lid of the hope chest. Good grief, she must be strong; this thing weighs ten pounds! He carefully lowered the photo album into the chest, but stopped when he saw another album, bound in plain blue vinyl, beneath it. He exchanged the albums, opening the blue one, amazed to find the first few pages contained nothing but newspaper clippings of himself. MUPPET NEWSMAN BURSTS ONTO CITY NEWS SCENE! the first one announced, accompanied by a grainy photo of the exact instant he had been blown up by Crazy Harry on the steps of the Stock Exchange building during an on-the-spot report about trading exploding that day. Ergh…I didn’t know anyone had shot that! he thought, wincing. Another was a front-page review of the Muppet Show which focused on Kermit, Piggy, and Gonzo’s oatmeal-snorkeling-while-bagpipe-playing act. Far into the article, on a third clipping which had been buried on page eighteen, a single mention had been outlined in dark marker: “Also notable: the recurring comedy act of one Muppet trying to present absurd ‘news’ stories but falling victim to the report every time. Don’t miss the falling cow bit!”

Embarrassed, Newsie flipped the page. The blue monster nudged him. “Go. Now. Go now. Yip yip yip. Gooooooo!”

“Go. Go go. Yip yip yip yip uh-huh!”

“Knock it off!” Newsie said, trying to push them away as they crowded him uncomfortably. The pink thing grabbed the scrapbook in its wide mouth, lurching away with it. “Hey! Give that back!”

“Nooope. Nope nope nope. Yip.”

He yanked it out of the clamped furry lips only by bracing his heels and pulling with all his strength; the monster let go at the last instant, sending Newsie sprawling on his rear. “Go. News-man go. Yip yip yip.”

“Yiiiiiip yip yipyipyipyip go! uh-huh,” the other one chimed in, its movements growing even more aggressive, the two of them circling him. He wasn’t sure they wouldn’t bite him. Granted, he didn’t see any teeth, but if they both latched on and pulled in opposite directions… He snatched up the scrapbook, fallen on the floor in his tumble, and his eye suddenly noted a different picture, someone definitely not him, but dressed in the same brown plaid sports coat he had favored for so long. Backing toward the door, Newsie glanced between the advancing creatures and the clipping pasted on the page: ‘SWIFT WITS’ CAPTIVATES AFTERNOON AUDIENCE. The publicity photo depicted a Muppet who clearly hosted the show in question, standing with his back to a large title logo. The host had a large round nose, round ears sticking out from his head, a shock of dark sleek hair, and bright, doe-lidded eyes.

“Make go,” the pink thing muttered, and its partner agreed with an ominous yip. They closed in on the Newsman, their voices monotonous, threatening: “Yip, yip, yip yip yip yipyipyipyip…”

Hugging the album to his chest, Newsie fled, stumbling down the corridor. Mr You-stole-my-pretzels lurched into his path; Newsie put out one hand and vaulted the walker, albeit ungracefully, landing hard but picking himself up and pounding around the corner and down the stairs. He didn’t slow until he’d reached the parking lot. Looking back, he saw the twin monsters staring at him from the flowerbed at the side of the asylum, but they didn’t seem inclined to pursue him past the front gate. Relieved, he flashed his visitor’s badge at the guard and was allowed out.

I have to remember NOT to be here when they are, he thought, panting. Why they even allow those freaks on the grounds is beyond all reason! How can encouraging monsters on the premises be GOOD for the inmates? Dear sainted Murrow…wait. Why ARE they even here? It’s supposed to be “petting therapy,” but I have yet to see anyone petting them…not that any of them would allow that, I bet. Wonder if any of the inmates have gone missing on monster days? He walked along the tree-lined drive, musing, his heart slowing gradually. He checked his watch, and saw he had plenty of time to catch the train back to the city and meet Rhonda; his reports producer had reluctantly agreed to go with him to ConEd to try and track down the workers who’d complained of strange things sighted belowground. In the meantime… Newsie parked himself on a low bench, polished his glasses, and reopened the scrapbook.

It made him feel odd to know that his aunt, who didn’t even recognize him now, had saved all these clippings of him, all these chronicles, flattering or not (mostly not) of his career. He’d never known. His mother had certainly never had a kind word about his choice of livelihood; she had never even mentioned him appearing in a review. Not once. But Aunt Ethel… Swallowing dryly, Newsie forced himself to go past his clippings to the page with the unfamiliar face. He read through the article. The fluff piece praised “the witty banter, the charming veteran monster Carl, and above all, the mercifully short length of the program.” He tried to dredge up any memory of the show, but failed; game shows simply held no interest for him. After all, trivia was not news. He looked at the picture closely. That nose…didn’t it resemble his uncle’s? Weren’t those ears the same as his late aunt Wilhelmina’s? Could this Muppet be…?

Then he saw the host’s name, in tiny print under the photo: “‘Swift Wits’ features Carl the Big Mean Bunny, darling of afternoon television; also the current host, Snookie Blyer.”

Blyer! His heart skittered. Eagerly, Newsie skimmed through a dozen more photos and articles, each focusing on an enormous monster with what looked like costume bunny ears (he suddenly had a disturbing vision of this thing crashing one of Hef’s parties – “Hello! Ahhh nom nom nom! Thank you!”), but each at least mentioning the host in passing. The last used page in the scrapbook had one final photo, this one in color, of the game show host standing off by himself, with a distant look on his face, while other Muppets with either large round or large pointed noses, all yellow-felted, laughed and drank and mingled convivially around a laden picnic table. This one hadn’t been pasted in; Newsie carefully detached the brads holding it in place and flipped it over. Written in Aunt Ethel’s graceful hand on the back were the words, “Blyer Family Reunion, 1990. Chester’s last visit.”

Newsie turned the photo over again, studying the image with deeply mixed emotions. This guy Snookie is Chester? My cousin? A family reunion? Why wasn’t I invited? Am I not…not considered family? He swallowed down the hurt, trying to refocus. His last visit? And there aren’t any more articles…so where’s he been for the past twenty-one years? Did he quit show business? Was he fired? At least now he had a face to put with the name, and a possible lead. Tonight, he’d start research into the show, and find out when it was canceled, and what network it ran on. Perhaps an inquiry to that station could help him track down the missing Blyer. It counted as progress, anyway. He’d copy all the articles about this Snookie guy and return the scrapbook to his aunt the next time he visited. Telling himself this was a good discovery, the Newsman stood and tucked the scrapbook under his arm, walking unhurriedly toward the entrance to the asylum’s spacious outer grounds, questions tumbling through his head as he went.

The yipyips watched him go. The pink one turned to the blue one. “Mn. Bad. Yip. Bad man.”

“Mm,” the other bobbed its head in agreement. “Should tell. Bad. Mm. Yip yip yip.”

“Yip yip,” the first one added. Together they half-bounced, half-slid across the neatly trimmed grass to a storm drain. Exchanging another look, they both shook themselves rapidly from side to side, humming a low note, and melted like laundry soap down the drain opening.

“Such odd boys,” Ethel said, staring at the vanishing monsters from her table in the garden. She blinked up at her nurse, and automatically accepted the spoonful of tapioca being offered her. Around the mouthful, she commented, “I can never recall whose boys they are. Must be Homer’s…he was a black sheep, my cousin Homer, you know.” The nurse nodded patiently, scooping another spoonful into the old lady’s mouth, dabbing her with a napkin. “Yes, I think they must be Homer’s. He moved to Minnesota, of all places, swore off cheese, and started rooting for the Vikings! Can you imagine?” She shook her head, and gummed another spoonful with a smile. “Mmm. The creamed corn’s tasty today, isn’t it?”
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The Count

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Yay Newsie! You've made progress in that you now know it's 'Snookie' Blyer. You've got a face to the name and a definite lead to chase down like the determined journalist you are. And I love how the Martians were involved in this chapter. Their descending down into the underground lair might not bode well. But Gina did warn him he'd have to go through some sort of humiliation in his quest. Thanks as always. :smile:
 

Ruahnna

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Oooh! Halloween approaches! And now, a quote from one of my OTHER favorite shows:
"In the Old Religion they call it Samhain. It's a night when the walls between the worlds grow thin, and spirits of the Underworld walk the earth. A night of masks and balefires, when anything is possible and nothing is quite as it seems. Your city has its own magic as well."
Newsie, Gonzo and Rizzo (not to mention the YipYips) seem destined to roam between worlds very soon, but hopefully with the successful goal of setting dreams and friends and family free from a half-life of uncertainty and imprisonment.
I love that Gonzo--who believes at least 17 impossible things before breakfast each day--is skeptical of the tarot reading.
I am anxious for Gonzo to GET A CLUE about his relationship with Camilla. Poor things....
Scooter being his usual efficient scheduler is always a treat. He'll probably be selling chances to sponsor him on Ebay....
I enjoyed the competitive discussion between Rizzo and Pepe--a little machismo (a very little) goes a long way!
I am oddly distressed at the thought of the YipYips being sinister!
And a little creeped out by the monsters eating the, um, soup on stage.
Keep it coming!
 

newsmanfan

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Oh, well if THAT creeped you out, you might want to skip the next chapter... heh, heh, heh....

More soon. Thanks for the input, guys! And a word to all you lurkers: you will be found and tagged with iridescent paint to forever mark you if you do not chime in. Positive OR negative...just tell me what you think, okay? :news:
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newsmanfan

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Part Five

The lights swirled wildly, the music flubbered to a wet-sounding crescendo of tubas and gargling octopi, and Snookie yelled out the intro: “Want a tremulous trout? How about a splendiferous salmon, or a charming char? These and more could be yours if you’re picked to play – You Win a Fish!”

The audience slapped their fins, tentacles, and tails loudly against their benches or each other as the greenish studio lights brightened and the smiling, jovial host paddled the inflatable boat into the center of the gigantic holding tank. Rumor held the network had purchased the eleventy-thousand-gallon tank from a defunct Octo-World sea life park, but Snookie was positive he’d never seen any branch of Octo-World which had anything comparable to this. At least he didn’t have to get wet. He tossed his tiny anchor overboard with a splash to keep himself roughly in the center of the tank and waved to the audience filling the half-submerged bleachers on three sides. “Hey! Are you ready to play?”

The squid, octopi, sharks, and unidentifiable deep-water predators all gurbled enthusiastically at him. “All right then! Let’s bring out our current champion! With a five-week winning streak totaling three hundred and twenty-two fish,” he paused a moment for the cheering and applause, “heeeeeere’s Goompah Gobrobbler!” As the portly Great White shark lumbered into the tank, doing fin-pumps for his cheering fans and showing every one of his five hundred reticulated teeth, Snookie continued, not even needing his waterproofed cue card to recite the shark’s accomplishments after five weeks of cringing away from him every workday: “As you all know, Goompah is a six-year-old resident of the Great Barrier Reef who arrived at our studio by hitching a lift on the back of a nuclear submarine – with his teeth!” Too bad they didn’t assume he was another sub and fire a warning torpedo at him, Snookie thought. “He’s proven himself quite the fish professor around here, he weighs four hundred and twenty-two pounds soaking wet” (audience laughter) “and ladies, he’s single! Now, let’s meet our challenger today!” Snookie glanced at the cue card, his brows briefly creasing as he realized the contender wasn’t another shark, polar bear, alligator, or Marianas Trench Squid. “O-kay! Well, here’s a surprise! Our contestant today is a Muppet! He has a degree in plumbing technology from Cal State, he likes peanut butter and caviar – together, and he says he’s never met a fish he didn’t like! Let’s give it up for…Lew Zealand!”

“Ooookaaay! Wuh-huh-huh! Hi, Snookie! Wow, this is exciting!” A rounded man with wide fat bobble-eyes and a fluted collar swam out into the tank. He waved at the crowd while treading water. “Hi, everybody!”

Goompah the shark snarled, but Snookie held up a hand. “Hey, now! No eating until the game is over or you forfeit all your winnings so far! Heh heh!” Deeply relieved when the shark decided to obey the rules, Snookie checked to make sure Lew was headed for his side of the tank while the shark cruised on the opposite side. “Everybody in place? Fan-tastic! Let’s play!”

The audience hushed. The strobes sparkled in sequence over the water, and the computer-controlled lights all swung down and inward at once to focus on Snookie, Goompah, and Lew, the rest of the tank dark. “All right players, your first question, for one brown trout minnow, is: name the Mesopotamian fish god whose followers sometimes threw sacrifices into the sea!”

Both players shook their cuttlefish; both cuttlefish pulsed vibrant electric blue, but Lew’s was a split second quicker, and Snookie called on him. “Well, that’s an easy one! Dagon!”

“Correct! Next question, for one farm-raised catfish: what prehistoric fish was confirmed not extinct in the 1930s?”

Again, Lew beat Goompah to the buzzer…so to speak; the cuttlefish didn’t actually buzz. Snookie had always felt the show would make more sense if they did. Well…as much sense as something this bizarre could make, at least. “Ah, that would be the coelacanth, Snookie!”

“Correct again!” Snookie proclaimed, as the scoring basket above Lew’s head now had two flopping fish dripping down on the delighted contestant. Goompah shook his cuttlefish, which turned three different shades in protest.

“Hey, I don’t think my buzzer is working!” the shark growled. A technician in a wetsuit hurriedly swam over and pulled the tentacles, squeezed its eyeballs, tickled its beak, and finally handed it back to the shark.

“Well, the tech guys say it’s working fine, Goompah, so why don’t we continue the game?” Snookie asked, growing a little nervous. “The third question, for one fat blowfish: what river is the black-skirt tetra found in?”

Determinedly the shark slammed his cuttlefish into the wall of the tank, making it fluoresce brighter than Lew’s. Snookie looked at him expectantly. “The Chattahoochee!” the shark shouted.

“Uh – no! Lew, do you have the answer?” Snookie asked, wincing as the shark’s beady black eyes widened in disbelief.

Lew laughed. “Huh-huh! That’s a trick question, Snookie! All tetras come from the Amazon or one of its branch rivers!”

“Correct! So as we head to the break, that’s three fish for challenger Lew Zealand, and one strike for reigning champion Goompah Gobrobbler! Stay with us for this unexpected heat on You Win a Fish!” The cameras went to commercial standby, and Snookie nervously sleeked his hair down with one hand. Half the audience was rooting loudly for the shark; the other half booed Lew, but the clueless Muppet only smiled and waved at them. Oh, frog. What is this guy doing? Doesn’t he know after the first bite the blood in the water will draw every shark in the northern Atlantic? He wished he could say something to Zealand, but interfering with either of the players was grounds for immediate devourment if he was caught. The scaly orange monster who directed this show snapped his finny fingers, getting Snookie’s attention; commercial almost over. Snookie took a deep breath and presented his widest smile for the camera. “O-kay! So, let’s find out a little more about our players! Lew, it says here that you throw fish?”

“Oh, not just any fish, Snookie! I throw boomerang fish! You see, I throw the fish away…” He produced a very smelly dead fish from inside his strange Elizabethan doublet and threw it at Snookie; the host ducked, and the fish bounced off Goompah’s nose before flying back to Lew. “Heh-heh-heh! And it comes back to me!”

“Weh-heh-ellll, that certainly is an interesting hobby, Lew! Now, Goompah –“

“Oh, it’s not a hobby, Snookie! I do it for a living!”

Snookie paused, dubious. “You actually make money at that?”

“Well…not so far, but—“

“So, Goompah! I understand you have a special fan in the studio today?” Snookie continued with the fluff questions, the shark’s scowl an incentive to move things along.

Goompah nodded, pointing with one sharp fin at a small blue shark bobbing in the front row of the audience. “That’s right, Snookie. Smitty here is a very special young shark. Y’see, Smitty was born with only one set of teeth.” A low murmur of pity ran through the assembled sea creatures. Goompah nodded firmly. “He swam all the way here with his family to see me compete in person after watching me on the show! I was so inspired by his story that I’m gonna give half my winnings today to the Make-a-Fang Foundation, which helps kids like Smitty catch fat boaters and other easy-to-digest prey!”

“Ooo-kay,” Snookie responded, keeping the smile frozen on his lips, though he shuddered inside. “Are you both ready to play?”

“Wuh-huh-huh! Sure!”

“Bring it.”

“Let’s play!” Again, a hush fell with the darkness around the ring of the tank. “Gentlemen, your next question, with a red snapper on the line: what fictional pirate named his ship after an ancient denizen of the deepwater with a hard, circular shell?”

Lew won the buzzer. “That would be Captain Nemo!”

“Correct! Next question –“

“A nautilus isn’t really a fish,” Goompah objected. “Is that question fair?”

Snookie glanced past the tank wall to the control booth. He saw the director nodding his orange, glistening head, gills flexing. “I’m sorry, but yes, that does fall within the range of questions allowed! Moving on, fellas: in which waters can you locate the Portuguese Man-o’War?”

Goompah slammed his cuttlefish nearly insensible to win the tossup. “Indian Ocean!”

Snookie tried to speak as quickly as possible in the hope it might take the shark longer to react: “No I’m sorry Lew do you know the correct answer?”

“Of course! Those are found mostly in the Gulf of Mexico!”

“That’s right! A flat sunfish for Lew and a second strike for Goompah on that one! Uh-oh, our shark champion is dangerously close to striking out of the game! And we’ll be right back.” Snookie flinched when a large fin suddenly flashed in front of him and the shark reared up next to his tiny rubber boat. “Uh, heh-heh, Goompah, buddy! You know the rules say you have to stay in your corner until the game is settled!”

“I’m winning this game, you scrawny plaid appetizer. Get that?” the shark snarled.

“Hey, sharkie! Wanna see my boomerang yellow-and-black mackerel? Go get ‘em, Prince Charlie!”

Snookie ducked again when a very floppy fish sailed low across the tank. The shark reached up with giant teeth, snapping once. “Heyyy! That was my mackerel!” Lew protested.

“Aaaand we’re back! In case you’re just tuning in, there seems to be an upset in the making –“

“You could say I’m upset, yeah!” Goompah shouted. Snookie did his best to keep smiling, laughing off the implicit threat for the camera’s benefit.

“Now, now, Goompah! Let’s get on with the game, shall we? Next question, for the staggering amount of one kingfish,” Snookie said, going marginally slower so the lights could dim and the enormous, struggling, sail-finned trophy fish could be swung into position over the tank for everyone to see, “is…what country is depleting the Pacific shark population for a tasty soup?”

“What!” Goompah yelled. “Are you kidding me?”

Lew buzzed his cuttlefish. “That would be Japan, Snookie!”

“Right you are! And Goompah, please remember if you have the answer, you must use your buzzer to –“

“That is an insult! You’re deliberately offending me! I am so degraded!” Goompah yelled, charging the rubber boat. With a shriek, Snookie jumped straight up, his shoes kicking the angry shark in the nose as those powerful jaws snapped shut right where he’d been; the boat deflated with a loud pop and hiss. “You’ff piffed off da wong fark! Come back heuh!” Goompah bellowed around the rubber now shredding all over his teeth. Snookie scrambled over the shark’s slippery head, desperately diving and winding up involuntarily crowd-surfing over the yelling, roiling audience.

“Hey, Snookie! I’ll throw you a fish! You catch it and it’ll bring you back here!” Lew called out, tossing fish after fish at the host, although most of them were caught and eaten by the audience, and one slapped Snookie square in the nose.

Carl the Big Mean Chef stormed into the control booth. “Hey! What’s goin’ on here? That was a stupid question! Who writes this stuff?”

Beautiful Day Monster chortled, halfway raising a hand. Carl scowled. “Figures! Lemme guess – you’ve entered the cookoff too?” B.D. shrugged, grinning. “Well go get him outta there! He’s my prime ingredient! Get that shark off him!”

Some growling and posturing ensued, but in the end, B.D. waded into the pool and grudgingly extricated the terrified, ragged-clothed host from the jaws of death before he could become Goompah’s donation to Make-a-Fang.

--------------------------
“Hey, uh, Frog of my Heart,” Fozzie began tentatively. Kermit gave him a curious look, reminding himself not to smile; Fozzie usually only wrung his hat like that when what he was about to say or do would prove unintentionally comic.

“What is it, Fozzie?”

“Um, I know you and Miss Piggy are, uh, busy and everything, but, um…well I was wondering if you could…I mean, if you’re not busy…”

“Fozzie, spit it out! What is it?”

“Oh, right! Right! Uh…” The bear gulped, and asked in a shaky voice, “Could you come to my Ma’s Halloween party?”

Kermit took an extra beat to allow that to sink in. “Your mother’s throwing a party? When is it?” And why is Fozzie acting so nervous about it? Despite having to keep half his attention on the usual backstage pre-show chaos, Kermit was intrigued.

“It’s next week. Saturday da twenty-second. At her farm.” He stared so earnestly at the frog that Kermit became suspicious. “Do you…do you think you guys can come?”

“I’ll check, Fozzie.”

“Okay,” the bear mumbled, turning to go.

“Fozzie – why is this such a worrisome thing?”

“Who said I’m worried?”

“Fozzie,” Kermit said, growing impatient. He could hear Animal shouting Pen-guin! Pen-guin! somewhere below in the green room, and hesitated to even visualize what that could be all about.

Fozzie groaned all in a rush: “Kerrrmiiiit…it’s just dat Ma wants me to come up dere and see Dora and I didn’t think I could do it all by myself so could you please just come to da party? Pleeeeease?”

Kermit frowned. “Dora? I thought that was a kids’ show.”

“No, no, no, not dat Dora! Dora Bruin! She and I kinda grew up together, and…and da last time I saw her I made a total fool of myself with all dat Wormwood Soames stuff, and…and…” Desperately he grabbed Kermit’s arm. “Look, Frog, can you just say yes you’ll be dere?”

Kermit sighed. “Fine. As long as it doesn’t interfere with location scouting, yes, I’ll be there. Piggy too.”

“Oh thank you Kermit! Thankyouthankyou—“

“Okay, sheesh,” Kermit said, shaking free of the bear hug to go yell at the scientists inexplicably dragging a llama through the wings. “Bunsen! What have I told you guys about bringing walking rugs in here!”

Elated, Fozzie stopped the janitor as he ambled by, mop in hand. “Oh hey, hey Beauregard! Wanna come to a Halloween party? It’s gonna be at my Ma’s farm a week from Saturday!”

Beau blinked slowly. “Me? A party?”

“Yeah! It’s gonna be great! There’ll be pumpkin-picking, and apple-bobbing, and everyone can wear a costume! Whaddaya say?”

“Uh, I don’t know, Fozzie,” Beau mused. “I don’t think I even have a pumpkin pick.” He brightened. “Would an ice-pick do?” He frowned again. “But what will I use for the apples?”

“Just be there! Saturday after this one! Okay?” Fozzie hurried to a group of chickens preening atop a stack of crates, waiting for their opening number, a feather-fan dance to the tune of “Anything Goes.” “Hey, you chickens! Wanna come to a party?”

“Dat’s so sweet of him to toot his ma’s horn,” Johnny Fiama murmured respectfully. “Hey Sal. Make a note. We’ll need five dozen pumpkin cannolis, Sattiday after next.” He shot the ape a significant look. “Make sure it’s Ma’s recipe!”

“Uh, sure t’ing, Johnny,” Sal agreed at once, though he immediately remembered all the other preparations for Johnny’s own Halloween bash he was supposed to be coordinating already. “So dat would be anuddah five dozen? ‘Cause you already ordered dat many for your party on da same night…”

“Whaddayou now, an accountant? Eh, a dozen here, half a dozen dere, who cares? Commie see, commie saw, like dey say, ya know? Just make it happen, Sal!”

“Uh…but your party is da same night, Johnny…you want we should invite Fozzie, like, as a return gesture?”

“Whaddayou, nuts? My party’s only for people in show biz! I can’t have bears droppin’ in!” Johnny lowered his voice, leaning close to his trusty flunky. “Besides…I’m tryin’ ta get dat Cal-bert guy to interview me on his show, and he’s on my guest list, capiche? You know how he is about bears.”

Camilla clucked affirmatively at Fozzie, and he bounded off to the next Muppet in his line of sight, apparently frantic to get everyone possible involved. The chicken smoothed down her lovely wings with her beak, pleased by the idea of an old-fashioned autumn harvest theme for the party; she’d offered to bring along real candied corn. She never spoke of her chickhood to anyone but Gonzo, but the truth was, she did sometimes look back upon those innocent farm days with nostalgia. She’d immediately liked the practical Emily Bear when they’d met years ago at a Christmas celebration at the farmhouse, and seeing the country in all its autumn splendor appealed strongly to her as well. She’d suggested a bonfire to Fozzie, and he’d agreed enthusiastically, perhaps forgetting the necessity of keeping certain members of the Muppet company away from large open flames… The chicken’s glance slid speculatively over to Beaker, who was meeping in loud protest and growing panic when the llama refused to stop chewing his hair.

The Newsman was surprised when the bear suddenly jumped in front of him. “Newsie! Hey Newsie! Are you free Saturday after this one?”

“Er…” A quick, confused review of his mental calendar didn’t bring up any conflicts, but he was wary about agreeing to anything around here without further investigation. “I’m not sure. Why?”

“Oh! See, my Ma is throwing a Halloween party, and I want everyone to come! Uh, and…and…” The bear appeared sheepish. “Uh, can you bring Gina?”

Pleased but still cautious, Newsie gave him a careful nod. “Uh, I’m not sure if she’s scheduled at her theatre that night, but I’ll ask…”

“Oh great! Uh – uh – and can you, um…can you ask her to be da entertainment?”

“What?”

“Well, um, I saw her out front earlier, doing dem card tricks…I asked her if she’d teach ‘em to me and she said it was a special Gypsy card trick thing. So, uh, could she bring dose cards to da party?”

The Newsman started to smile, then saw how absolutely in earnest the bear was, and suppressed it. “Well, er, you realize I can’t speak for her, Fozzie. But yes, I think she’d be happy to attend as long as she doesn’t have a schedule conflict. Count us both in.”

Fozzie gave him a quizzical look. “You can’t speak for her? I thought married people could do dat!”

“Shhhhh!” Newsie clamped a hand over the bear’s mouth, glancing around worriedly, but then relaxed; Gina had left the backstage area a few minutes ago and should be sitting out in the house by now to watch the show, as she had almost every night since the two of them had started dating earlier this year. “Don’t ever, ever,” he cautioned Fozzie, “EVER use that word around her!”

“But I thought – she was wearing dat ring you gave her –“

“It’s a matter of semantics,” Newsie explained, sighing. “Yes, as far as I know we’ll be happy to come to the party, Fozzie. Sorry…I need to get ready…” Bewildered, Fozzie nodded, and with a nod back, the Newsman hurried downstairs to his dressing-room.

Fozzie scratched his head. “Semantics,” he repeated, confused. “Huh…someone should tell him not all of us have learned Gypsy language like him…”

“I speak Urdu, Bawkbawk, and a little Yiddish,” Gonzo commented, overhearing him. “But I think that was more the language of compromise than anything else.”

“Oh, hi, Gonzo! Hey, my Ma is throwing a party…”

Camilla noticed Fozzie chatting up Gonzo. She felt deeply regretful about having to turn down her darling Whatever’s latest crazy attempt at stardom…especially when he looked so smart in that fall-colored outfit. She knew exactly what snuggling against that soft sweater would feel like… A pang of loneliness caught her by surprise. She envisioned Gonzo holding her tight next to a smoky bonfire, sharing a cup of fresh cider, gazing up at the stars on a crisp rural night… Slowly, she walked over to where the stylish but overeager daredevil was listening to Fozzie expounding the attractions of a celebration in the countryside.

“So dress up as whatever you want, and come join us! It’ll be a bla…” Fozzie caught himself in time, disappointing Crazy Harry, whom he caught listening in over the balcony. “Uh…it’ll be great! And Ma would love ta see you again!”

“Eh…I dunno, Fozzie. I mean, sure, it sounds wonderful…but I’m auditioning for a new show tomorrow, and I’m sure to get the part, and I don’t know when the show will be shooting!”

“Oh,” Fozzie said, taken aback. “A…a new show? You mean like…not dis one?”

Gonzo sighed. “Well…you know I love you guys, Fozzie. You’re family! But…but I need room to grow as an artist, and, well…this other show wants insanely dangerous stunts! I mean, it’s exactly what I’ve always dreamed of!” He patted the crestfallen bear on the arm. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be there if I can! Hey, who would turn down the chance to walk through a bonfire in their bare feet, right?”

“Uh…okay,” Fozzie said.

Camilla stopped. Her feathers drooped a moment. Then she turned around, straightened her neck up, and trotted back to the other girls fussing with their beaded costumes before Gonzo could notice her. Sighing inwardly, she cast an unhappy look at the daydreaming daredevil as he hustled down to the canteen, then responded to a clucked question from one of the other hens, keeping her tone light, pretending she didn’t mind at all that Gonzo was choosing a new act over what he might have held onto here.

She kept her head high, her demeanor professional, when the chickens danced out onstage, and her voice didn’t waver one bit as she took up the song: “Bawk bu-gawk buh-bawk-bawk bok bok buk bawk buk…buk-kawk-kaw baaawwwk!”

Not one little bit.

Beau stuck a large spike with a handle in front of a startled Fozzie. “Do you think this will work for the pumpkins? I found a pickaxe too…”

----------------------------
Carl leaned over the shorter monster, his enormous pink nose wrinkling in distaste. “Well, he can do the intro voiceover thingy later when I’m done! I got dibs!”

“Dibs! When did you call dibs? He’s scheduled to be here for this thing right now!”

Snookie cautiously poked his head into the sound booth. “Uh…heh heh…I thought I was supposed to be doing a voiceover for…” He glanced at the paper in his hand, and adjusted his grey tie nervously. “Uh, American Sidle – the hit show where everybody slinks sideways for cash?” he read the show’s promo blurb aloud. Oh, frog. Am I at the wrong soundstage? The monster crew tended not to be understanding about schedule confusion, even though they frequently changed details at the last minute, and finding his way around this warren of studios and show sets was worse than navigating the Atlanta airport during the holidays.

Carl shoved the smaller monster, a greenish frackle, roughly aside, squashing its mouth all the way up to its furry ears against the sound mixing board in the cramped booth, which settled the argument. The Big Mean Chef grabbed Snookie by the collar of his jacket, grinning toothlessly at him. “Not right now you’re not! I have a cooking contest to win, and I need a taste test!”

“You…you want me to taste something for your cooking contest?” Snookie wondered, utterly floored. Oh heck no, that can’t be good. What is it, eels flambé again? Maybe bugs in a light cream sauce? He shivered, immediately gagging.

Carl chortled, dragging him down the hallway. “Don’t be silly! I need to taste-test you! Now, do you think you’d go better with more cumin, or more paprika? I can’t decide.”

“Eeegh!” Snookie tried to wriggle out of his jacket, but Carl grabbed his arm as well, propelling him unwillingly toward the cooking studio. Another conflict awaited the gourmand monster, however. Beautiful Day yanked open the door just as Carl was reaching for the knob, having tucked Snookie’s head under his hairy arm so the host wouldn’t escape.

“Hey! No fair trying to peek at my recipe!” Carl snarled.

“Who says I care about your stupid loser barbeque? I’m gonna win it with my triple-slathered slime-glazed walrus!” B.D. claimed, holding up a quite slimy Fawningham Offawump. Snookie was gasping too hard to even appreciate his threat to the annoying walrus had come true.

“Whatever! But get outta that studio! I have it reserved from six to eight!”

“Oh yeah? Says who?”

“Says so right there!” Carl pointed to the room’s signup sheet, posted clearly on the dreary, dripping wall next to the door.

B.D. promptly ate the sheet. “Bwah hah hah! Now scram! I gotta practice my presentation for the judges!”

Incensed, Carl the Big Mean Diva roused himself from a growl to a howl: “Your presentation? As if! You’ll be choking on your own fur when the judges taste this spicy morsel, you fat slob! You couldn’t cook your way out of a tinfoil drainpipe!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!”

Monster disagreements usually involved a great deal of posturing and threats, very seldom actual clawing, biting, or swallowing one’s opponent whole – at least, not when the monsters were more or less evenly matched. It then became an issue of bravado, Snookie had observed, and the best response was always to sneak away unseen if he could. Carl’s grip on him had indeed loosened a little, and if this argument over use of the fully-equipped, gas-fired, soundproofed-against-screaming-main-dishes studio continued much longer, Snookie had no doubt he and the walrus would be ignored while the monsters squared off and tried to force the other one to back down. However, something they kept repeating troubled him deeply enough he finally croaked out, “Uh, guys? Guys!”

Surprised an entrée would interrupt, both monsters stared at him. “What?” Carl grumped.

Fawningham was staring round-eyed at Snookie in pure shock. Snookie swallowed down a flash of fear, and asked, “Uh…you keep using the word judges, plural…how…how exactly is that going to work? I mean, heh heh, I thought you guys didn’t like to share!” The idea of being included in a cooking contest was horrible enough, but he had been devoured whole by several of these numbskulls before; often enough to be able to close his eyes, hold his breath, and go to his happy place while enduring the stink of monster digestive tracts. But being eaten multiple times? No, he didn’t think he could handle that. Not more than one trip through the alimentary canal, thank you…not to mention the intestines…

Carl actually gave him a straight answer. “Well, it wouldn’t be a very fair contest if there was only one judge, now would it? Any idiot can buy off one other monster!”

“The judges all hate each other,” B.D. chipped in. “So it’ll be totally fair…and of course that means my dish will win!”

“All? Wha---what do you mean all? How – how many times are they going to…to…” Snookie couldn’t finish the question, shuddering.

Carl snorted. “Once each! Well, okay, they each get a piece, of course! Duh! Don’t you ever watch Iron Chef?”

“A piece?” Panicking, Snookie struggled, but Carl clenched his arm around the host’s neck. Snookie choked out, “You…you can’t tear me in pieces! That goes against my contract!”

“Does not! I’ve read your contract!” Carl the Big Mean Lawyer produced a briefcase out of some huge hidden pocket of fur, flipping it roughly open and yanking a long roll of paper from it, which he snapped in Snookie’s face. “See? Right there it says, ‘The Host may be subjected to any action required for any show by any monster, pursuant to article X.13’!”

“You can’t tear me up!” Snookie gasped, fighting as hard as he could, but the headlock didn’t budge an inch.

“Maybe you better ask the boss,” B.D. muttered, looking a little doubtful.

“I’m not bothering the boss with this!” Carl growled, but then perked up. “Hey! Get the vet down here! Vet! One’a the critters is whining! Hey vet!” he bellowed.

Within a few seconds, a tall Muppet in a stained lab coat bounded into the corridor, irritably pushing a pair of large goggles up his long forehead. “What? What? Who called?”

“Hey, Doc. This troublemaker says we can’t rip him in pieces for our cooking contest,” Carl snorted, shaking Snookie like a ragdoll.

The vet looked Snookie over dismissively. “So? Call a lawyer! Not my problem!”

Carl rolled his eyes. “Well, look, we do need him for other stuff. He’s…” Carl leaned over to whisper roughly, “He’s the boss’ favorite, so we can’t actually turn him into pulled jerky if it’s gonna ruin his career.”

“Hmm, I see your problem,” the vet said. Thoughtfully he tugged Snookie’s hands, pulled his ears, and flopped one of Snookie’s legs up and down while the show host stared at him in shock.

“Hey, you’re…you’re a Muppet!” Snookie gurgled around the headlock, recognizing the strange doctor from the KMUP station both had worked for years ago.

The vet sniffed. “Well, isn’t he the obvious one!” He waved his hands in a shooing motion at Carl. “Yes, yes, you can rip him limb from limb if you want, he’ll be fine! I can always stitch him back up good as new! Well, almost. Probably. I think.”

Fawningham groaned and drooped in a faint, irritating B.D.

“No! No! I will not be fine! NO!” Snookie shouted. “No! If you do this, I’ll – I’ll – I’ll rig every game! I’ll cheat every contest! I’ll – I’ll –“ Desperate to find some kind of trump card, he fortunately thought of one thing he knew they’d hate. “I’ll make you eat me every show!” When Carl stared at him, one tooth sticking up from his lower jaw in utter bewilderment, Snookie continued breathlessly, “Every show! In a week it’ll be old shtick! Boring! Ratings will plummet like the production standards around here!” Panting in triumph, he stared wide-eyed up at the monsters. “You think the boss will like that? Huh? Ratings dropping? Think he’ll be happy with you guys?”

Uncomfortably, Carl shifted from one enormous green foot to the other. B.D. shook his head, muttering curses. The vet chuckled. “Well! Looks like you don’t need me after all! It’s not as though I was in the middle of anything important, like, oh, I don’t know…splicing tomatoes with piranha glands?” He glared at the monsters. “Next time, figure it out yourselves! I have work to do!”

As the tall, strangely floppy-limbed Muppet sauntered smugly off, B.D. yelled after him, “You’re only allowed lab space ‘cause you work for the boss, same as us, stringy-hair!”

“Ah, forget him,” Carl grumbled. He shoved past B.D. into the cooking studio, hauling a weak-kneed Snookie after him. “Now butt out, Ugly Day! I got a dry rub to perfect!”

“Dry rubs are so last year!” B.D. rumbled. “Who’s gonna tell them we can only have one judge?”

“You are! I’m busy!” Carl snapped, slamming the door in the other monster’s face. B.D. growled and grunted, but dragged the unconscious walrus off by the tail to take the unhappy news to the producers. Snookie could only catch his breath, his heart still pounding and his head still reeling, when Carl released him long enough to fire up the ten-yard-burner gas grill.

Oh frog. Oh frog. Shivering all over at how close he’d come to being an unwilling yellow felt pull-apart bread roll, Snookie clung to the prep counter’s edge, too shaky to move. He looked up worriedly when Carl turned around and grinned at him.

“Hi! For my recipe, I’d like to draw on the rich post-nuclear monster cuisine tradition, but with a twist! First, we coat the foam all over in my special secret spices…”

Snookie had just enough presence of mind to shut his eyes before the giant-sized sack of chili powder, cumin, parsley, and fine-ground Belgian cocoa flumphed over him in a cloud of sneeze-inducing dry powder.

----------------------------------
 

The Count

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Huh? Dunno... For some reason it felt like there should have been just a wee bit more to end the chapter. But at least this cliffhanger does work its way around one objection I kinda thought of. If all the monsters were going to use game show host as their secret ingredient, there'd be noone to judge the cook-off. But since the judges, er judge, will be one of the monsters' own I see no problem. Although live edibles is something even my palatte wouldn't venture to taste.
Great cameo by Dr. Neuter

As for the main Muppets... There seems to be some misunderstandings and misgivings around Fozzie's Ma's Halloween party.
Was "Cal-Bert" intentional?
Also, why does Fozzie have an accentuated speech making him sound like Rizzo?
Wonder if the party will leave room for both the daredevil show and the walk through the staged haunted house.

The installment of You Win a Fish... Funny and great to see Lew dethrone the reigning champ. With enough momentum in the fish thrown, he probably could tip that great white over to catch and toss away boomerang-style.

Enjoyed this update with all the foodsie references, the confrontation between Carl and BD, and watching what happens next, as it made my night. Hope for more when possible.
*Leaves choc-popcorn clusters for :news:
 

Ruahnna

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In a word....Ewwwwwwwyuck! Great addition to the story. I'm glad you explained about the indigestible nature of the muppet host. I was getting a little worried. And I'm glad Camilla's keeping her, um, beak up. You can't love Gonzo and be faint of heart.

And I am TOO going to finish my Halloween story before, um, before Halloween!
Gonzo: You notice she didn't say what year.
Ru: Gonzo! Whose side are you on?
Gonzo: Who's got the peanut-butter and sardine sandwiches?
Ru: Um, I've got stale peeps and hot tea?
Gonzo: Neato! I'm in!
 

The Count

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:oops: He's in what?
Good question.

BTW: Wouldn't Mabel have that kind of sandwich combination?
:shifty: Mabel's here?!

Dunno, ask Aunt Ru.

:batty: You don't suppose Gorgon Heap vill be the judge do you?
Well, he is known for being the world's best eater. Although that title could just as easily apply to Cookie.
:insatiable: Someone say me name?
Eh, c'mon guys, let's knock off for the night and leave Kris to write more fic.
*Pushes the button.
 

newsmanfan

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Thank you, Frank. :wink:

As far as accents go...representing Fozzie's unique patois is a little tough for me. Apologies if it doesn't come across quite right. :embarrassed:

(Johnny: Cal-Bert! Sheesh! Don't these wiseguys ever watch his show? He's da best variety show host around!
Sal: Uh, Johnny...you're right of course but...uh...ain't he more like a news show guy? And ain't his name actually --
Johnny: EH, news, variety, whaddayagonna do. Dey're all da same ain't dey? Now go press my shirts!)

The party is before Halloween...go check your calendar. Dates are this month. :concern: And as for the daredevil show...well, stay tuned... And I am SO finishing this before Ru does hers. Nyah, nyah, noonan, noonan! Writing more tonight since I have TWO, TWO glorious days off in a row! :batty: Ah ah ah! *Boom, crack*

More soon! Thanks for reading!
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