As you wish, Mr the Count sir. Another Muppet appearence here, but only very, very briefly. Again, he'll be a main character, but not till Book 3 where he'll loose his...*covers mouth*
So, anyway, here's another chapter!
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Chapter 4
"Who owns this place?" Fozzie asked, turning his head to look out over the streamlined dancing the swirled, throbbed and abounded around the floor.
Rowlf tipped his mug back, finishing the dregs of his beer. "Her name is Miss Rachael Bitterman," he said, tipping the mug upside down to be sure no drips were left clinging to the rim.
"Oh really?" Fozzie said, a hint of mischief in his voice. "Judging by the Miss in her name and hat state of this club, I'd say she seems more like a bitter-'woman'," he joked, then quickly shot his eyes back towards Rowlf, checking his joke was allowed within the dog's boundaries, or whether he had just offended his new friend.
"Don't worry, I don't know her," Rowlf laughed. "But yeah, this place sure is going to the dogs, and I say that with a whole level of affection for the dogs."
Fozzie grinned. "Wahaaha. Hey, I've seen sleazy nightclubs, but this one takes the biscuit." He looked at Rowlf, and they both quipped up at the same time.
"The dog biscuit!"
Rowlf rapped the table with his knuckles and chuckled. Fozzie's smile widened, then faded. "Is she nice?" he asked.
"Do you know her?".
"Nope."
"Then no. In dog terms, she's definitely a female."
"Aah. Oh." Fozzie fell silent again.
Rowlf moved his mug aside and crossed his arms on the table, leaning forward. "Why are you here?"
"Here? In this club?"
"Nope. In this world."
Fozzie wondered if he was serious, then realised he had no reason to believe the question was a set-up. "Because…" He stopped and started again. "Because if I wasn't here, I'd be somewhere else?"
"You know, there's a whole lotta wisdom in there," Rowlf said. "Where would you be?"
"Oh, I don't know…another universe maybe? I'd probably have antennas and speak a different language, but I'd be…doing the same thing, I think, trying to move forward, sometimes slipping back. And I'd…probably have made it to big time by now."
"Why haven't you?"
"Why haven't I what?"
"Made it to big time."
"Oh…" Fozzie said. "because everything-"
"Nope," Rowlf interrupted. "Why haven't
you?"
Fozzie looked at him curiously, and then got it. He frowned. "I don't know."
"Well when you know, you will." Rowlf scratched his ear and a crinkle of pain crossed his expression for a flash second but before Fozzie noticed, it was gone. "I was kidding, though," Rowlf went on, "I meant what are you doing
here, in Club Dot. It's not your scene."
"I'm here to see Miss Bitterman."
"Better look behind you then."
*****
Long, thin, French-manicured fingers with purple nails clicked behind Fozzie's head.
Turning, his gaze moved up her hands to the blue-dyed ostrich down that fluffed from the ends of her sleeves and then looked up to the face and the smile that was no smile at all.
The curve of her flat, thick lipstick smeared lips reminded Fozzie of the grimace held by white-faced clowns, where their features are exaggerated above thickly powdered skin. He'd studied to be a clown once. He knew how it worked.
But beneath their frightening appearances, clowns were generally funny, Miss Bitterman was not. Her hooked, beak like nose flared and her white, shark-teeth snapped together. "Tell me," she demanded.
Fozzie stared.
Miss Bitterman's wide eyebrows spread further apart above milky eyes. She pursed her lips and Fozzie noticed what was either a beauty-spot or just, well, a spot on the right side of her top lip. "Go on, tell me," she ordered.
Rowlf stood up. "This, is Miss Bitterman," he said.
Miss Bitterman shook her hair and glared. "Do I look like I need an intro?"
"No."
"An intrud'e?"
"Is that a word?"
"Musical accompaniment?"
"Er, definitely not."
"Then get out of here."
Rowlf did, ducking out from behind the table and leaving just an apologetic glance behind for Fozzie.
"Now," Bitterman said. She lifted one black shoe and pressed it onto the bottom of the metal framework of Fozzie's chair. Twisting her foot quickly, she spun the chair, and Fozzie, around to face her fully. "Tell me what you want? You called me, right? Today. From a pay telephone at the train station. Yes, honey, I tracked you in case you were a stalking weirdo. I don't speak to freaks."
Fozzie grabbed at his scarf and started wiping sweat off his chin, out of his fur. "I…were you the lady with the funny voice?"
Damp eyelids slid together venomously. "Who did you mention that to?!"
"No one."
"Did you tell Rowlf I answered the phone with a silly voice, did you? " She pointed a finger in his face, prodding at his forehead above his eyes. "Did you?"
"No!"
"Oh, well, good then!" She flopped down into Rowlf's empty seat and propped her feet on the arm of Fozzie's chair. "Let's talk business. You want something from me, I don't want to give you anything, QED you will have to be very convincing. Oh!" She shook her wrists and looked at a slender silver watch. "And very fast, I have an appointment with a therapist three hours ago which I don't intend attending at all, but it makes for a great excuse, don't you think?"
Fozzie said yes, and then no, and then yes again, and then wondered if the question had been entirely rhetorical in the first place. He swallowed. "I need a stage," he said. "I'm a…a…" He stammered. "…a…"
"I think we've established that you are an 'A'," Biterman swept. "Anything else to add?"
"I'm a performer." There, he said it. "Stand-up."
"Excuse me. You did not just order me to stand up."
"No…aaaah…you're funny…stand up comedy. Jokes. Stories. Songs."
Miss Bitterman licked her teeth. "Jokes? Stories? Let me get this straight, you want a stage in my night club where you can tell stories and sing songs?"
"And make jokes," Fozzie added.
"And that, obviously. What do I get?"
Fozzie was growing damper by the minute. His fur tickled with trickling sweat. "I don't…er…free passes to the show?"
Miss Bitterman planted her palms on the table. "Free tickets to my own night club?"
Fozzie attempted a smile but it came out wonky. He gave up and tried a serious face. It failed and he was lost once more.
"No. Not happening. Try again. Sorry, honey, the cheque goes to the other contestant, you've been bamboozled." She lent in close. "Have a nice evening." She nodded and a dart whizzed towards her from across the club, shooting past to fast and so close that it split one of the brown hairs that hung down in front of her eyes.
"Get down!" Fozzie screamed, leaping at Miss Bitterman's chest and throwing her sprawling onto the floor. Another dart smashed Fozzie's drink glass, splashing fake mineral water all over the table. Fozzie's chair crashed backwards and clattered down.
"Get off me!"
"Stay down!"
The dancers on the dance floor danced. Commotion or no commotion, they'd paid to get in and they were too far gone in the night to let a little gunfire disturb their body-spinning, head-banging, arm-waving mass of movement. Within the pack, one body was not moving.
The muscled figure dressed all in black stood solitary in the group, like a rock in a stream and they all just flowed on round him. His hand, wrapped in a black leather glove, cradled a dart gun which he aimed to fire a third time.
Miss Bitterman slapped at Fozzie in unmuted panic. Water dripped off the table into her face. "Stay down," Fozzie said again as he rolled off her and dove towards the crowd.
The man's aim followed Fozzie's dash for the doors, but he knew that firing right now would be pointless. His poison would hit a random raver, like that blue eagle with the glow sticks. He tucked the gun into a holster and walked towards the back exit, a silver crossbow bouncing against his black jacket.
*****
Rough fingers turned the black doorknob and pushed, but deadbolts and chains held it the door firm. A moustache pressed against the mahogany wood. A brown eye peered through a smashed crack in the door. Sure, the break had been boarded up on the inside, but not well. There were still gaps.
He could still watch the pig sleep whenever he chose.
The man adjusted his position and stared harder. That couldn't be right. The pig was there, alright, laying stretched out on her sofa, but there was someone else, sat beside the sofa on the floor with his back to the pig. Someone blue with a hooked nose.
The man blinked and pulled away from the door.
Miss Piggy. How dare she!
She'd regret taking a man home with her. Oh yes she would. He smiled. She was his.
Yes, yes, yes.
He walked away, his footsteps echoing on the hard carpet.
To be continued...
Coming next...an invitation, a warm bed, and a fridge and the contents thereof...
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