Author's Note: This chapter is dedicated to the best emcee of M.C., the one, the only who apparently is able to read all fics in a single night, our own much-beloved Count -- Ed! HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Part Eighteen (I)
“Got the black powder?”
“Blah,” Rosie McGurk confirmed, grunting as he dragged the smaller of the two cannons behind him to the backstage holding area of the game show set.
“Great. Plungers?”
“Blah.”
“Extra hoops?”
“Blah.”
“Kerosene gel?”
“Blah,” McGurk sighed, pausing for breath before heading back to get the other cannon. Gonzo paced him, scanning a checklist, though McGurk had no idea who had let the Whatever use a printer around here. Or maybe Gonzo had brought the entire checklist with him when he first auditioned, which was a somewhat disturbing idea.
“And my lucky cornhusk doll?” Gonzo asked anxiously, looking around for the first gift Camilla had ever given him. Tiredly, McGurk held up the fragile, yellowed effigy of a chicken made from cornhusks and string. “Great! Then we’re all set! Just, uh, just put the other cannon over there. That should make it easier to pull up onstage.”
“Ugga bluh,” McGurk agreed wearily, trudging to the second cannon and bracing his shoulder under the rope. “Urrrrrrruuuuggghh!”
“Put your hump into it, Riff!” Gonzo chortled, in a terribly good mood. “I can’t wait for Camilla to see this! She’s just gotta vote for me tonight, right? I mean, heck, I bet everyone will, but she’s really the one whose opinion counts to me,” he confided.
“Rabba,” McGurk sighed, straining to get the cannon in place. With a groan, he dropped the rope, realizing that actually dragging it onto the stage was going to be far worse than the trip up from Dungeon No. Sixteen; they’d borrowed the pieces from the set of the pirate-themed matchmaking show ‘ARRRR of Gold!’ So far, no one had complained about the missing ten-pounder and twelve-pounder. McGurk thought disgustedly that the nomenclature of cannon was unhappily deceptive; it was the actual cannonballs which weighed only ten or twelve pounds. The guns were a great deal weightier…and Gonzo was going to have a frackle of a time keeping his trajectory level between them, as light as he was. McGurk was more than content to leave the engineering to the daredevil tonight, and only be responsible for lighting the special chain-fuses which Gonzo had devised to feed into the black-powder pans like machine gun belts, and setting up the hoops for the Whatever to zoom through on each pass between the smoking mouths of the big guns.
“Can’t you just smell the excitement?” Gonzo asked, breathing in deeply, his eyes wide and shining in the dim red lighting backstage.
“That’s Virgil,” a passing monster growled, whereupon another one smacked the first one, caving in its bulging eyeballs.
“Hey! It wasn’t me!” the attacker huffed before both of them flinched under the cane of the director.
“Quiiiet! Quiiiet on zee set! Eet is almost ze curtain time!” Pew snarled, swinging his cane in a wide circle just over his head; a trollish creature in ragged plaid and jeans grunted in surprised pain at the whack to his bullhorned skull. “Places! All performerrrs get into zee holding area! Ah need a sound zheck!”
The Frackle adjusting the mikes at the judges’ table nodded, turned to the smaller monster next to him, and solidly whacked its fat nose. “Whooonk!” it cried into the first mic. Angered, it backed away a step, and the Frackle promptly grabbed its nose and honked it next to the second mic. “Hoooonk!” Seething, the little blue monster retreated again, but before the Frackle could repeat the nose-grab, it swung a hairy fist and konked the Frackle’s chin. “Ughhh,” the Frackle groaned into the third mic, sinking to the floor. Pew nodded curtly.
“Ah need all zee mikes!” he yelled, whirling around to face backstage; off stage left, Snookie Blyer yanked his lapel mic out of range of a grabbing orange monster with green, cone-shaped horns.
“Yeah, you’ll be checking my mic when this place freezes over, buddy!” Snookie snapped at the unbalanced monster, toppling it with one shove of his hand and stepping over it as he advanced to center stage. “I’m here. Let’s get this farce underway.”
“Oh, wow! I’ve been looking forward to this all day!” B.D. said, lumbering over to his seat at the judges’ table and plopping into it with a loud thump.
“Mnngh! Mnnngh mnnnn!”
B.D. started, realizing something was squirming beneath him, and half-rose to find Shakey squashed on the seat. “Hey! Get outta my chair!” B.D. growled, tossing the flattened monster like a Frisbee; Hem caught him, eyes widening.
“Cool, delivery!” Hem muttered, immediately stuffing the third judge into his enormous black hole of a mouth.
“It’s not delivery, it’s—“ B.D. began, but Pew’s howl drowned all else out.
“QUIIIIEEEEET! Camera one, you weel pan zee judges! Ah want zee best reaczun zhots you can manage, you poor ehscuse for a lens zhockey! Camera le too, you ztay weeth zee host,” Pew shouted, pointing first at the audience, then at the judges’ hairy feet below the colorful bunting draping the table. “Ze camera tree, you must always keep zee stunt performair in ze sight, no mattair how dradful an awfeel his demise! And camera four, you altairnate from ze audience to ze performair! Do you pathetic marons all compre’end zis?” Pew finished by indicating with wild sweeps of his cane first Snookie (who ducked just in time), then the ceiling, then waggled in the direction of center stage. The four camerafrackles looked at their director, looked at each other, shrugged, and turned their lenses on whatever Pew had pointed at. “Raht! Stand by on all ze cameras! Let in ze audience! And everyone, zhut ze hail up!”
“Wow, he’s grouchy today,” Gonzo observed.
“I resent that!” grumbled Dan Rather-not as he slouched by. “He’s nowhere near mean enough to be a Grouch!”
“I thought you’d rather not be here,” Gonzo said, grinning.
The Grouch scowled at him. “Quit stealin’ my lines, kid! Oh, and – break a leg! Heh heh heh.” Chuckling nastily, the Grouch hurried offstage to find a seat down center, where he could boo the performers close enough for them to actually hear it.
“Pew, you old duffer!”
Everyone in the backstage area turned at the sound of that deep, melodious voice. A sinuous, ghastly pale dragon in a tattered tuxedo jacket approached, leading by the arm a taller man also formally dressed, but with far fewer holes in his clothing. The man had a youthful, oval face and short curly brown hair, but his eyes were obscured by stylish shades. In his free hand he gently tapped along a silver-tipped ebony cane with a dragon-head grip. “Ho ho, how delightful to find you actually gainfully employed! Long time no spook, my friend!” the dragon continued, smiling toothily, and Pew broke into a scraggly grin.
“Why by fruity Saint Marmalade, eef it isn’t mah old roomie Daidlee!” Pew exclaimed, throwing his arms wide for a hug; Uncle Deadly gently turned him to actually face him, and the two long-snouted creatures whacked each other on the back, growled, laughed, and broke into a happy chant together accompanied by a bizarre pawshake which Pew may or may not have flubbed: “Horrendos etiam cum illis congressus!”
“Ah, those were the days,” Uncle Deadly sighed, wiping a sentimental tear from one ghoulish eye. To his companion, the ghostly dragon explained, “Pew and I burned many a lantern of midnight oil together at Oxford!”
“I never knew you went to Oxford, Deadly,” the well-dressed gent murmured, impressed.
Pew chortled. “Zen he did not tell you it was ze Barsolamew Oxfaird School uff Eestrionics in Jersaiy? Hah, hah! Deed he tell you how many skirts fell for his eemprezhion uff ze Falstaff?”
“Erm, later, Pew old man,” Deadly demurred, shoving his companion forward. “I’ve brought a guest! This is my friend Count Eh– erm – let’s just call him Countie, shall we? He’s traveled far and long, from distant lands where the papaya blooms and the native girls all roll their R’s most charmingly!”
“Ahh,” Pew said, managing to shake the man’s hand on his fourth attempt, when Deadly finally grabbed both their hands and smacked them together. “Brazeel?”
“San Juan, actually,” the man said, smiling.
Pew abruptly burst into off-key song: “When ah get back to San Juan –“
Deadly proclaimed, in an oddly dramatic baritone: “I know a boat you can get on!” The two old chums chortled loudly, and Deadly said, “Ah, what memories! We had the finest all-monster production of ‘West Side Story’ ever staged!” He turned to his guest. “I was a superb Tony, naturally!”
“All-monster? Who played Maria?” Countie wondered.
“Er…”
“Wail, we were zumwhat zhort of monsters of the gentle persuasion, you see,” Pew explained. “So ah sang zat part…but enough about zat! Heh, heh, ah am certain mah old roomie has told you many sordeed tales uff how we used to raise a little heck in ze dorms and ze inzhurance rates in ze theatre!”
“Uh…no.”
“Ah! Too risqué! Zen he must haff told you all about ze time we played ze Barber of Zeville for tips to make our way through ze last zemester, no?”
“Sorry, no,” Countie apologized, and added before Pew could further reminisce: “Actually, he’s never mentioned you, but it’s very nice to meet you anyw—“
“Ho ho, such a kidder!” Deadly laughed loudly, clapping Countie on the back so hard he began coughing. “Would you terribly mind, old bean, if we stayed to watch your skillful direction of this varietal venue of vagrants? It’s his first trip to New York, and I’m showing him the sights the tourist brochures would never, ever mention.”
“Uff course!” Pew said, straightening his hunched back a bit proudly. “Mah show is now in ze top ten of ze ratings, deed you know?”
“Astounding, truly,” Deadly agreed, dodging back a step when Pew swung around to yell randomly:
“You! Ah saw zat! Put zat back whair you found it!”
The judges looked perplexedly at one another; Hem stifled a somewhat guilty burp. Everyone else shrugged and went back to what they’d been doing, as the audience crowded in. Deadly spotted the Great Gonzo among the anxiously shuffling contestants and their monster handlers down in a large pen behind the stage. “Aha! Countie, my friend, now’s the time to get out your autograph tablet!”
“Uff course! Ah would be delighted to sign mah illustrious name for—“ Pew began, but Snookie, noticing the trio as he paced the stage, interrupted.
“We’re not adding a new contestant, are we?” he called down, indicating the visitor.
“Eef I zhoose to add anothair worthless piece of cannon foddair to zis mix, what concern is it uff yours, you wash-éd up Guy Smiley impostair?” Pew snapped in reply.
“Fine, whatever. Just make sure I get the right cue cards this time, you sightless cine-hack!” Snookie retorted.
Angrily, Pew grabbed their visitor by the head, mumbled a quick apology, and moved his claws down to the man’s shoulder. “Ah see as well as any monstair here, even zis strangely furless, oddly tall creatchair! Ah am not sightless, ah am a veezhonairy!”
“That figures,” Snookie muttered, coming closer to give the stranger a once-over. “Hey, uh, can you, uh…actually see anything? –Not you, pipecleaner-nose,” he stopped Pew before the director could argue.
“Not much,” Countie admitted, with a wry smile. It softened his serious face, and Snookie abruptly felt sorry for the man. Snookie crouched at the edge of the stage, impressed when the visitor oriented on the sound of his movements and gingerly approached him. “You must be the show host,” Countie said.
Snookie nodded, stopped in self-annoyance, and spoke aloud, “That’s right, pathetic though it is. Guess you could say it’s a living, though even that’s stretching it. Snookie Blyer, kid.” He leaned closer to whisper, “Believe me, you won’t miss anything tonight that you’d actually want to see.”
“Snookie…hey! Weren’t you on Swift Wits years ago?” Countie asked, brightening.
Snookie winced. “Still am, thanks for the memory.” He was about to make some polite parting comment when the visitor, with an open, earnest expression which made his handicap seem irrelevant, reached a hand up, something flat and gray in his palm.
“Could I have your autograph?”
Snookie blinked, startled. “My…you want my…” He peered down at the thing the stranger offered and realized it was a thin clay tablet in plastic wrap; Countie fished a wooden stylus out of a pocket and handed that up as well. Touched, Snookie scratched his name deeply into the damp clay and gave it carefully back. He watched as the man brushed his fingertips over the ingrained signature and smiled.
“Thanks,” Countie said. Uncle Deadly shook his head, but with a tolerant smile.
“Hey, back at ya,” Snookie said, trying to sound nonchalant, as though he gave out autographs to groupies all day long, the feeling of gratitude abruptly unwelcome as the circumstances of his life all crashed back when Pew yelled again for places, walked into the fence corralling the performers, and cursed loud and long in Mock French. Snookie took a deep breath, dusting off his knees. “Enjoy the show, kiddies.”
Deadly cast a baleful eye on the host as he strode off. “Kiddies! That upstart wasn’t even a bit of felt in his father’s coat when I was gracing the boards…”
“I think the show’s starting,” Countie said, taking Deadly’s arm again. “We should probably find a seat.”
“Good point,” Deadly agreed, “Before all the good ones are eaten!” Together they hurried around the stage to the audience rows, managing the steps far better than Pew as the director shoved a soundfrackle aside, tripped over the cord the monster had been trying to tape down, and berated a post for the offense.
Gonzo sighed, looking around at his competitors. “Guess that guy was a VIP or something. That looked like Uncle Deadly with him, but I thought he couldn’t leave the theatre…”
“Habba pagga,” McGurk explained.
“Monster hall pass? Oh, okay. Hey, did you remember to grease the cannon barrels?”
McGurk nodded; it had made the guns almost impossible to maneuver, but for some reason Gonzo had wanted them slippery. “Faraggabba buh.”
The Whatever nodded, then froze, eyes shooting open wide. “You…what? No! I meant the insides!”
“Ulp,” McGurk said, then tried to get out of the pen, but a very large purple-furred thing with sharp teeth beat him back. “Mugabba frah buggah!” he complained, but his voice was drowned out by the opening theme, loudly if somewhat raggedly played by the Mutations.
The audience roared. Ropelights chased across the stage edge and around the judges’ table, and Snookie, with his widest smile, stepped into the spotlight. “Gird your loins, grab your Dramamine, and go find your TV remote, folks! That’s right, it’s time for the next ipecac of an episode of the scariest stunt contest anywhere – it’s – Break a Leg!” he shouted the intro, and what sounded like two or three hundred monsters yelled the title along with him. “Tonight, for the first time, we’ll be taking votes from you, the viewers! After each performer survives, assuming they do, we’ll show you the number to call to vote for them, and tomorrow night in a special show the lowest-ranking contestant will be exterm—er, eliminated! All local taxes surcharges and fees for gullibility from your phone company will apply.” He kept smiling through the wild cheering and snarling and yipping coming from the vast sea of fur and claws and teeth just beyond the bright lights, strictly holding in his urge to flee screaming from so many ravenous monsters. At least they were more interested in the show than him, he thought, deeply glad Muppets couldn’t sweat; that camera closeup on him would’ve shown a host dripping with nervous perspiration otherwise.
He checked his cue cards. “Your contestants tonight, culled from the auditions and the first round of burnups, blowouts, and bombs, are…” He paused dramatically before each name in order to give the camera ops a chance to actually zoom in on the daredevils. “The magnificent mystery of the Near East, the presumably lovely and definitely dangerous Jasmine Fatwah!”
“Frahhhh,” McGurk sighed, his screwup with the cannons forgotten as all eyes turned to the veiled and otherwise scantily clad sword-swallower. In contrast to the other performers crowded into the pen, she had no one stepping on her toes, her brandished blades keeping everyone easily at bay. Her fierce eyes glared at the camera.
“The Muppet with a thousand lives, the Great Gonzo!”
Gonzo beamed and waved, thinking, Right here, chickie! Hope you’re watching!
Surprised, Countie turned to his guide for the evening. “Gonzo’s here? In this…reality…stunt…whatever show this is?”
“I was going to advise you to get his autograph,” Deadly sighed.
“Maybe we can catch him after the show,” Countie mused hopefully.
“I don’t think dead Muppets are able to employ their best penmanship…”
Snookie continued onstage: “The man with the bronzed tongue –earplugs now, folks – Jimmy Joe Bob Fred Ebeneezer McCoy!”
The rustic Muppet removed his chaw a moment to warble tunelessly, “Oh, th’ suuuun shiiiines bright, on my ol’ Kentucky boooones…melanoma on my neck, I do feeeelll…” The small brown goblin assigned care of that particular stunt singer didn’t even get a chance to groan when a shoe hurled at the thrumming throat flattened the smaller creature instead. The other performers protested the hail of objects and screaming rats raining from the audience into the holding pen; Gonzo ducked under one of the taller monsters, and the sword dancer cleared a swath toward the karaoke mangler.
Snookie checked to make sure the sword now at the nose of the singer was actually persuading him to shut up, and carefully removed the thick wads of cotton from his ears. “Make sure your remote has a mute feature for that one! Also back with us, the most disturbing thing I’ve seen since someone thought Hasselhoff’s judgment skills rated high enough to host anything, the master of self-immolation, Mungus Mumfrey the Finnish fungus!”
Shifting, bouncing masses of whitish cells piled up into an armlike appendage which waved at the camera. Gonzo shook his head, drawing McGurk closer. “He’s good, but I still think we’re better! After all, when he catches fire, he puts it out!” Gonzo told his assistant smugly. McGurk thought of his bet with the other monsters, and sighed. He’d actually started to enjoy the company of the odd little curly-nosed thing…
“The rambunctious rodent who…who…” Snookie paused, frowning. “Actually, we have yet to see what Montrose the Mouse actually does…”
“Watch it, bigears!” a voice squeaked, though the camera was having difficulty pinpointing it. “You just wait! My act will tear ‘em all up!”
“Sure it will,” Snookie responded, his smile registering a ten on the insincerity scale. “And wrapping things up, we’ll see the legendary street fighter—“
“Yo. That’s sheepfighter, short, yellow and plaid-tastic,” rumbled a deep voice; Gonzo looked around to see a large-horned ram with pierced ears and gang symbols carved into his charcoal-hued wool.
“Lamb!” Snookie said, a little awed despite himself. This guy was indeed a legend, a blast from the past; he recalled seeing sheepsploitation films in Times Square theatres years ago, and this ram had been in quite a few. “Well! John Lamb!”
“Man, that Lamb is one baaaaa…” began B.D., also impressed at having a celebrity on the show.
“Shut your mouth!” Hem growled.
A wet, shivering Shakey offered tentatively, “H-he’s just talking about Lamb…”
“We most certainly can dig it,” Snookie chimed in, and the crowd cheered as the ram flexed his considerable hooves for their admiration. “Okay! Well everyone, tonight it is on! no matter how much we wish we could turn it off. Now, time to say hi to our judges…”
“Whaaaat abouuuuut meeee?” asked a snail as it began the slow trek across the stage.
Snookie gave it a dubious look; the snail sported a gunbelt with two six-shooters and a two-gallon hat perched behind its eyestalks. “Uh, and you are?”
“Wyyyyyatt Sluuurrrp, the wooooorrld’s faaaastest snaaaiil, maaaster of the quiick draaaww,” the snail replied. “Iiiis thiiis where I auditiooon foooor Breaaaak aaa Leeeeg?”
Snookie shook his head. “The auditions were over a week ago!”
“Awwww, nuuuts,” Wyatt muttered. “Aaaand I leeeeft the hooouuse eeaarly, toooo!”
Snookie tossed an incredulous look at the judges, then at Pew, but the director was busy ranting at the folding chair which according to him had failed to put two creams in his coffee. B.D. and Hem looked at one another, ignoring Shakey until the tiny red creature spoke up: “C-can you actually sh-shoot those things?” Interested, the other monsters stared at the snail.
Wyatt wiggled his eyestalks, paused, then suddenly a blur of movement swirled around his shell, which seemed to remain stationary. Snookie flinched as the shot pinged and panged off the trusses overhead, bringing down a shower of sparks along with one of the smaller lights; a second and third shot bounced the light midair over the judges’ table and then flipped it to land precisely at Snookie’s feet. He took a shaky step away from the smoking, dented instrument. When he stared at the snail, the creature seemed not to have budged an inch. It blinked slowly at him, blew the haze of black powder away from the muzzle of the gun, and took another full minute to reholster the weapon.
“Sure, why not?” Hem said, and the audience muttered and clapped.
B.D. shrugged. One of the stagehand monsters guided the snail offstage, and Snookie tried to resume his intro. “Well, looks like a late entry will be accepted, frog help him… Your judges, whom we just can’t get enough of or away from, are the usual offenders: the irascible Beautiful Day!” B.D. grunted, picking his teeth, frowning at the glob of green sludge on the end of his toothpick. Snookie didn’t comment; didn’t want to know… “The gourmet of limited taste and unlimited appetite, Behemoth!” Hem paused in the act of slathering mint jelly on Shakey to wave and grin. “And, briefly, Shakey San—oh, never mind, he’s gone. We’ll also pretend to enjoy a musical performance by the Good Clean Kids! Now have your phones standing by, and remember, the fees associated with every call-in vote will go directly to the charity supporting a goop kitchen for homeless monsters! One living creature will feed a monster for every ten dollars in call-ins, so keep tapping that ‘call’ key as though anyone really cares which of these numbskulls you prefer!” Snookie paused for a breath, never letting up on his wide smile. “We’ll be right back after these messages from our sponsors! Run now while you still can! It’s voter night, right here on Break a Leg!”
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“So, uh, ladies! How nice you’re all looking toni—oh hey, popcorn!” Rizzo exclaimed as though he’d only just noticed the bags and bowls of freshly-popped, fake-butter-saturated stuff.
Camilla gave him the evil eye, and Rizzo’s friendly smile faltered a bit. “Uh…c’mon, you girls ain’t gonna eat all dat, are ya? C’mon, give a starving rat a break!” he begged, and the chicken relented.
“Bawwwk buh-buh-bok bok,” she ordered him, and Rizzo shrugged.
“Yeah, sure, I’ll vote for the fearless freak…hey, wait! Vote for him for what?”
“Popcorns! Why did jou not tell me there was popcorns?” Pepe demanded.
“It ain’t mine, kelpbreath! Da girls have alla it, but maybe if ya ask nice, they’ll let ya have a bite,” Rizzo shot back, then started snickering. “Popcorn shrimp…”
“Who is jou calling shrimp?!”
Camilla’s stern cluck silenced them both, and both glared at one another but then gave the chicken grudging nods and settled in among the plump feathery showgirls all staring at the television. “So what is this, movie nights?” Pepe asked. Velma the chicken shushed him, and he mumbled an annoyed apology: “Sorry, okay? Jou could clue a guy in once in a whiles, though.”
“Eh, it’s somethin’ about Gonzo,” Rizzo said, but just then, the commercial for Joe Ho’s Gerbil Hoagie House ended and a yellow-felted Muppet in a brown plaid sports coat filled the screen with his grin, making the rat, the prawn, and a few of the chickens cringe away in surprise.
“Welcome back to Break a Leg! Up first tonight, the mistress of the mystic, the woman who makes beds of nails look comfy, the seductive and seditious Jasmine Fatwah!” the host barked at the camera.
“I would not ever have guessed dat someone else could wear da Newsgeek’s coat even worse dan he does!” Rizzo said, and Pepe nodded emphatically.
“For seriously, okay! What the holy camerones is this show?” But then, as the lights onstage dimmed and two followspots centered upon a vision in Middle Eastern veils, both boys’ jaws dropped. “Ai hot mama!”
“You said it!” Rizzo murmured, all petty disagreements abandoned. Camilla sighed, claws tapping. When would they get past these other amateurs so she could see her daring Whatever? On the screen, Jasmine Fatwah began an intricate dance using an enormous scimitar as a partner, whirling with it, rising on tiptoe so gracefully and leaping so airily she seemed more a sylph of the smoke than any earthbound creature. As the sweet tune lent itself to romantic, dangerous whirls of the sword all around her barely-covered, lithe form, the performer began to sing, her voice throaty and smokily seductive.
“Pachalafaka, pachalafaka…they whisper it all over Turkey; pachalafaka, pachalafaka…it sounds so romantic and quirky…” Fatwah threw the sword in the air, suddenly fell in a back-bending dip so that the falling blade thunked into the stage directly between her legs and in the next instant she whipped her entire body forward to yank it free and twirl it before sending it skyward again. “Oh, I know that phrase will make me thrill always, for it reminds me of you, my sweet! Just the mention of, that tender word of love…” The sword chunked into the stage again, vibrating, as Fatwah paused, her garments swirling gently around her, to pat her barely-hidden bosom. “Gives my heart a jerkish, Turkish beat!”
“Holy cow!” Rizzo gasped, clutching at his own chest.
“Jou said it, amigo!” Pepe breathed.
Camilla rolled her eyes, annoyed; this contestant wasn’t really all that impressive. It’s all about made-up eyes and a fluttery outfit, and they all fall down drooling, she thought, disgusted. Hope the judges can see past their hormones and save their praise for some genuine talent! All the same, she worried; the audience both here in the green room and there at the TV studio was loudly cheering, and she knew how competitive Gonzo would be if he thought someone else was being unfairly favored. What could he do to follow on the heels of the Triple Lindy Sushi Roll? Won’t he go MORE dangerous? But what could be more…oh no! Not the cannons! She drew down into her feathers, realizing that would be extremely likely, not happy in the least. The cannon act had never gone off without a hitch! But if she knew Gonzo, something involving large muzzles and explosives was almost certainly on the menu tonight…
Deeply worried, Camilla set down her bowl of popcorn and tried to keep her wings from trembling. She noticed Velma and Cherie giving her sympathetic glances, and tried to hold her head up while the exotic dancer on the screen continued to prance around with that ridiculously symbolic blade. Tawdry, she thought with a cluck. Rizzo and Pepe, however, saw a number flashed on the screen to vote for the dancer, and pulled out their cell phones, and only an angry bawk from Camilla reminded them why they’d been allowed a share of the popcorn in the first place. Both at least had the grace to look sheepish, but Camilla felt even more alone; these two were so easily bought, and the other birds were only here because Piggy had told them to sit with Camilla.
The chicken sighed. Was she the only one here who hadn’t forgotten Gonzo?
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