Chapter Sixty-Three
Kermit had just arrived at camp five minutes ago, and already he was having a hard time keeping a straight face while Major D. interrogated him.
“You’re
sure you didn’t take my fork, Frog?” Major D. demanded, gray eyes glittering under thick salt-and-pepper brows as he waved the fork in question at the frog’s face.
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Because I haven’t seen my fork since you ran back home, and I
know I saw you with your hand on it before you left.”
“I can’t say I recall being anywhere near your fork after—my injury, sir.”
“Yeah? And how strong were those meds you were on?”
Kermit made a face in vague recollection of how much his shoulder had hurt. “Not strong enough, sir.”
Now it was Major D. who nearly choked on his snicker, and he had to press his fist to his mouth for a moment to try to keep himself composed. “You took my fork, Frog. I’m
sure of it. I can’t find the darn thing anywhere. And I’ve looked
everywhere!” he snapped, shaking the fork at the frog again. “I’ve looked in Emerson’s stuff, and Geraldson’s stuff, and Pine’s stuff, and Casper’s stuff…”
“Have you checked
your stuff, sir?” Kermit asked.
“Now WHY in tarnation would I look THERE?” Major D. snapped, eyes twinkling.
“Just an idea, sir,” Kermit said humbly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his fellow Marines barely containing their laughter as they watched and waited to greet him. He wondered how Holt was reacting to all this.
“Well, you got any OTHER bright ideas?” Major D. towered over most of the men who served under him. He looked like a giant next to Kermit, and especially with the look on his face, any frog who didn’t know better would have been petrified.
“You could check your right hand, sir,” Kermit said politely.
Major D. swelled up with what sure looked like rage. “Why FROG, you INSOLENT little—“ The major looked at his hand and immediately calmed at the sight of the fork he’d been shoving at the frog. “Oh, would ya look at that,” he said mildly, and he and Kermit both broke into a hearty laugh. “Ah, welcome back, Frog,” Major D. said as he gave the frog a light slap on the back.
“Thank you, sir.”
“We’ll handle the serious stuff later. You’ve been traveling two and a half days, and you’ve got an eleven-hour time difference working against you. I don’t want to see you again until you’ve been fed, washed, and rested. Understand?”
“Yes sir!”
“And Holt!” Major D. turned to the cameraman and stared past the camera at the remaining visible eye. “You get yourself fed, washed, and rested too. You smell like a filthy animal.”
“Yes sir.”
“Now Frog, go say hi to the boys. They’ve missed ya,” Major D. said, pushing the frog towards the other Marines before he turned on his heel and marched away. “BECK! GET SOME FOOD IN THESE TWO!”
Kermit turned to the camera. “I should explain real quick that Major D. never really loses anything or actually accuses us of theft,” he said hastily, for the sake of Holt and the viewers alike. “But those fake interrogations are the best entertainment we’ve got around—“
“FROG!”
“Geraldson!”
Bob and Kermit exchanged something between a hug and a back-slap before Bob pulled himself back to stand at attention and salute. “
Sir.”
Kermit scrunched his face. “
Bob!”
“Sir,” the other Marines said as they hastily stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Bob and cheekily saluted the frog.
Kermit groaned. “Did you put them up to this?” he asked Bob.
“You’re up a rank now, sir,” Bob replied with a grin.
“Sheesh…”
“Frog
hates bein’ called ‘sir,’” a freckled red-head explained to the camera with a wink.
“Well—
hate is a strong word, but I’m not fond of it!” Kermit sighed and shook his head. “Guys, this is Pfc. John Holt—er—and with the camera, he’s also the at-home viewer.”
They chorused a mix of greetings for Holt and the viewer alike.
“Hey Frog? Does this mean we have to stop swearing?”
Kermit made a face. “Well, I’m sure the censors would appreciate it if you
didn’t swear, Larsen.”
"Alright, men, clear out!" a big booming voice said as the man attached brandished his way past Kermit, Holt, and the smug line of Marines with two trays of food in his hands. "I have SPECIFIC orders to FEED these two, and you're all blocking the table!"
They laughed as Kermit and Holt found themselves being herded to the table after the big man. "Gee, I missed you too, Beck," the frog teased.
"Yeah, yeah, just eat," Beck muttered as he plopped the two trays down. "I'll
bet you missed me. I've seen that crazed chef you got back home." He lightly slapped the frog's shoulder and tried to pretend he wasn't grinning.
"You've seen him. Try eating his food," Kermit chuckled, eagerly digging in. He glanced to his side. "Holt, put the camera down and eat."
"Yes sir." Holt made quick work of his food while the others discussed how the presence of the camera might change their day-to-day interactions. By the time they'd stopped laughing about limiting their swearing, Holt had the camera back in hand.
"So what's it like back home, Frog?" Larsen asked, folding his arms on the table. "Is it as bad as Geraldson says?"
"What, don't you trust me?" Bob said, feigning offense.
"I trust Frog more," Larsen said frankly, and he turned back to Kermit. "So?"
Kermit nodded and swallowed a bite of his food. "It's bad," he said. "That's the whole reason for this show—this whole channel. Try to get more support."
"It should work. I think it will," Bob said, rubbing the back of his neck.
"We're not askin'
you, Bob," Emerson said, elbowing Geraldson in the ribs. "We
know what you think."
Bob ruffled the freckled red-head's red head and sighed. "Alright, Frog.
You tell 'em how much the home front
thinks they know."
Kermit stabbed his fork at his food. "Well, let's start with the fact that they think the Child's Corps is only in Baghdad," he said quietly.
The men silently watched him chew and swallow his bite. “…You’re serious?” Emerson said quietly.
“Eddy, how many poker games do you have to win before you figure out Frog’s a terrible liar?” Bob was quiet, his arms folded across his chest.
Emerson sighed and rubbed his forehead. “So you’re telling me the American public honestly thinks that all these terrorists are taking the time and money to kidnap these kids, brainwash ‘em, and train ‘em, and not bother send ‘em any further than Baghdad?”
“I don’t think they realize the Child’s Corps is actually
sent anywhere at all,” Bob said. “Unless anything’s changed in the past month—“ he glanced at Kermit to check, “—all they ever see is the outside of the CC ‘training facility,’ a.k.a. prison.”
“Except for when we tried to shut the facility
down,” Kermit quietly continued. “Then they saw—the aftermath. On
their side. Not ours. They call that the CCC—Child Corps Charge. To them, that’s all there
is of the Child’s Corps.”
“No concept at all that they’re trained
killers, like any other solider,” Bob said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t think they know about the brainwashing.”
“How would they?” Kermit said. “The only reason
we know is from taking POWs, and as far as
they’re concerned, those couldn’t possibly even exist, because the entire CC is holed up in one building we can’t break into.”
They were silent as all of this settled in. Kermit’s fork pushed around the food on his plate, but he’d lost his appetite somewhere in the conversation.
“Frog—lemme ask you something,” Larsen said, leaning forward on the table. “The whole idea behind this show is to inform the public so they’ll support us, right?”
Kermit nodded. “Pretty much.”
“And the main reason public support is down the crapper is that they think we’re shootin’ up cute little kids in Baghdad, right?”
The frog shifted his weight. “Well—that
is a good chunk of it, yeah.”
“So if we tell them that we have to shoot at these kids no matter
where we fight,” Larsen said, his palms up as he spread his hands, “How is that going to
gain support?”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Craig Rivers had never been one to put much faith into the weather report. He was more in favor of looking out the window and sticking an arm out the door to determine how warmly he needed to dress. He didn’t expect that to change, and so he didn’t pay attention to the weather report.
The latter part of that would have to change now.
“So how’s the weather, Stan?” the news anchor said.
The little green light on Craig’s camera turned on, meaning his was the one the viewers at home were now watching from, and Stan the Meteorologist started talking about warm fronts and cold fronts as he gestured in front of the green screen.
Operating the camera meant that Craig only saw the green screen, with no handy little graphics, and so had no idea what Stan was pointing to. It made the whole thing rather entertaining.
But this wasn’t just any news-and-weather program. This was the local Memphis station of Military Television—MilTel, for short. That meant that when Stan was done rambling about what was supposedly in store for Memphis, he also had to give a quick overview of the upcoming weather wherever anyone was fighting in World War III—primarily the Middle East, but fighting had a way of spreading. Especially with the Navy involved, potential storms in the Indian Ocean were just as important as those in Baghdad.
Stan talked about numbers—temperatures, humidity, barometric pressure—whatever
that was.
Craig stood behind the camera and tried to convince himself that this was enough for him to feel like he was actually
doing something to help win this war.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“The following program is graphic in nature and may not be suitable for all audiences. Viewer discretion is advised.” Kermit gave the line directly to the camera in a rather mild tone of voice, standing in front of a tent ‘wall’ that would give no indication of their location.
Holt pushed a button and lowered the camera. “Got it, sir.”
“Oh good. I guess we get to do that again at the end of every week.”
“Yes sir.” Holt sat down and hooked the camera up to a computer. “Seems a little strange.”
“I’m used to strange,” Kermit said with a shrug. “I suppose how I look when I say it could be an indication of what kind of week it’s been. That might help some viewers with their discretion… or something like that.”
“If it’s especially bad, you could add something then, sir,” Holt said quietly. “Not everyone listens to those ‘viewer discretion’ things.”
The frog nodded thoughtfully. “It’s supposed to air late enough that most kids should be in bed, but… I know Robin will watch, anyway. He might not be the only one.”
“People don’t always watch shows when they air anymore, sir. DVRs and online stuff…”
Kermit nodded. “That too.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
On Thursday night, the Muppets gathered in front of the television and tuned in to MilTel. It was past Robin’s bedtime, but of course he was allowed to watch. No one wanted to miss a chance to glimpse their beloved Frog.
They crowded on the couch and the chairs and the floor with bags and bowls and plates of popcorn and chips and comfort food, and after the first few cries of delight at seeing Kermit’s face and hearing Kermit’s voice, they fell strangely silent and hung on every word. For once, they only dared to talk during commercial breaks, even if it was only to ask someone to pass the food.
In Memphis, Craig had pulled a kitchen chair up close to the television in the den. Betty Sue crept forward and put a hand on his shoulder as they watched. Sally was working late and had called to assure them she was watching from her office. Their father was… out.
In New York, the adults of Sesame Street huddled around a small television in Hooper’s Store. All the kids were safely tucked away in bed.
Elsewhere in the city, Mrs. Geraldson sat alone on her couch with her phone in her hand, eyes fastened to the television. Dinner had been a chicken potpie—Bob’s favorite, especially when she added a little ground beef, like she had tonight. Even after their worst fights, the smell of it had always drawn him out of his room and straight to the kitchen table.
At once together and apart, they watched as Kermit advised viewer discretion and bid his final farewells to his friends, fiancé, and nephew. They watched as the Muppets said goodbye and sang as he walked away. They watched him take several kinds of transportation until he arrived at his unit’s current camp in an undisclosed location, where he was welcomed with a faux-interrogation and tried to explain to his fellow Marines how this show would raise support for the war.
They watched as he struggled to convince them that learning the full extent of the Child’s Corps would persuade the American public that this war desperately needed to be won.
They watched as, between commercials in the middle of the show, one lucky Marine got the camera all to himself to say hello to his loved ones back home in what promised to be a heartfelt weekly segment.
And while they watched, the protesters rallied and the terrorists planned.
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And yes, I also spent the past few days rereading it. Felt a bit nostalgic, and now that you're posting again, I feel a bit of that old MC fanfic magic comin' back!
