Death and the Matron

[newsmanfan]

AUTHOR'S DISCLAIMER: Due to my work schedule, I will NOT be posting on this everyday, as has been my previous pattern. I will endeavor to post new chapters as fast as I can write them AND get to the library, which currently is my only online access. So, anyone who does follow this, please bear with me and be patient! I have the whole thing writ in my head...it's just a matter of available time to write it out and get it here.

Inspired in part by "Half of the Stairs Are Missing."

 

[newsmanfan]

The fangs looked as long as he was tall. Gulping reflexively, the Muppet Newsman stared up in awe at the reconstructed skeleton of the prehistoric terror, Muppetasaurus Tex. The dark-stained fossil recently unearthed in the oilfields of west Texas had been pieced together, identified (after much scientific debate) as one of the Jurassic ancestors of modern Muppet monsters, and shipped carefully to New York for this special exhibit. Newsie had of course been thrilled to be the very first reporter to be allowed access to the exhibit before it opened this coming weekend to the general public; it was the only time he’d ever been first for something this big. However, the excitement and pride and worry that touched off in him was offset at this moment by the sheer anxiety shivering in his foam, just staring up at the monstrous bones. The curators had mounted the skeleton in what may have been a typical pose for it when alive: crouched on all fours, gigantic claws splayed, tail arched up and the heavy spikes of the tail-tip gleaming, its long neck raised and its head turned. It made Newsie think of a large cat interrupted at its dinner, swishing its tail as it looked around to see what the problem was, despite the fact that its bony features seemed more reptilian than feline. Its jaws were slightly open, and he shuddered at the mental image of gore dripping from those terrible teeth. He certainly would not have disturbed its feeding for anything!

The renewed attention bestowed on the Muppets had made the Museum board decide to collect the various specimens of prehistoric and proto-Muppet species that existed around the country and bring them all together, here on the third floor of the American Museum of Natural History, for this special exhibit. Newsie turned away from the Muppasaur, nervous enough about turning his back to it to dart glances over his shoulder repeatedly, to see Museum workers on ladders affixing a banner to the entryway of this gallery. FELT AND BONES: MUPPET MILLENNIA, the banner proclaimed. Inspired, Newsie waved at Rhonda the rat as she tentatively crept around the cordoned-off base of another fossil Muppasaur. “Hey! We should do the stand-up right here!” he called to her.

The blonde-haired rat scurried a wide route around the M. Tex and stood beside Newsie, staring critically at the banner while the workers struggled to raise it. Some marketing genius had decided it ought to be made from a long, wide sheet of bright green felt, and it wasn’t cooperating too well for the hangers. “What, with the banner? Booorrr-ing. C’mon, let’s at least get a teaser shot of Fangy back there!”

The Newsman glanced back at the Muppasaur, which towered head and neck over the other fossils in the exhibit. “We can’t. The directors specifically forbade any shots of it until the exhibit opens.”

Rhonda sighed. “What if we start with the stupid sign, then you walk this way and we pan with you, and you finish right at the foot of it? They’d let us show a foot, I bet! Talk about a teaser! Claws like that, they’ll have every kid under twelve beating the doors down Saturday morning!”

Newsie considered it, trying to think objectively, although the very idea of standing anywhere near those vicious-looking toes (or were they fingers?) unnerved him. “Oh, come on,” Rhonda griped, paws on her hips as she glared up at him, “What are they gonna do, whine about it when it gets them better publicity on the six o’clock news? I doubt it!”

The Newsman nodded. As usual, the rat had a good point. Annoying though she could be, he had to admit, her instincts for setting up a story were as sharp as her teeth. “All right. Where’s Tony?” he asked, looking around for their cameraman.

Rhonda blew out an exasperated breath. “I keep telling you, his name’s Tommy! Sheesh! You really have had way too many things dropped on your head…”

“Sorry,” Newsie grumbled, fishing out the notes he’d made in his small spiral notebook for the story. “I keep confusing him with an old roommate…”

A large, three-toed sloth Muppet ambled over, his digital videocamera perched somehow upon one rounded shoulder. “I’m here,” he yawned. “What’re we shooting?” Then he slowly noticed the M. Tex towering behind him. “Like, wow, dude…that’s a really big jungle gym. Why’s it in the Museum?”

“Point over here, at Pretty in Plaid, Tommy, okay?” Rhonda snapped, and then tugged on Newsie’s elbow to get him lined up in front of the workers still struggling with the banner for the opening shot. The Newsman scowled at her, though he was by now used to her frequent demeaning sobriquets. “I swear, it’s always 4:20 to him… Okay. That’s good. Start there.” She squeaked loudly at the workers, “Hey guys, can ya hold it up a little so we can actually read it, huh? – Yeah. That’s good. Now hold it, and smile for the news! Tommy? Roll it in four, three, two…”

The Newsman straightened up a bit, clearing his throat, looking right into the lens as the camerasloth began taping. “This is your Muppet Newsman with a special report! This Saturday, a new exhibit opens at the American Musuem of Natural History which purports to shed some light on an historically murky subject: Muppet evolution.” He looked over his shoulder once, gesturing with the hand holding his notes at the workers on ladders, both straining to hold their smiles and the ends of the heavy banner. “Which came first, the felt or the bones? Well, science is still debating that question; it is an issue which has been hotly debated for decades, after the first few prehistoric Muppet creatures were dragged from the tar pits at the original site of Madison Square Gardens here in Manhattan!” Behind him as he spoke, the workmen groaned quietly. One of them finally tumbled off his ladder with a crash, and the banner flopped down over him. Irritated at the noise, Newsie glanced at Rhonda, about to ask for another take, but his producer shook her tiny head, gesturing for him to continue. Thrown off a bit, Newsie checked his notes.

“Er…ahem. The world of archaeology and Muppetology was further thrown off balance just last year, with the discovery of a group of mummies in a deep cave in Indonesia. The mummies were proven to indeed belong to a previously unknown subgroup, Muppeti quidquid, and arguments over where exactly they fall in the line of Muppet evolution are still fiercely raging!” He walked slowly as he delivered the last sentence, the camera tracking him, until he stood before a clear case with one of the mummies laying inside. The weird burial goods beside the mummy puzzled him: a cup with two handles, a pair of staring eyeballs made of jade and ivory, and a fragile-looking piece of parchment flattened in protective plastic, presumably some ceremonial text fragment. He had interviews scheduled with a couple of scientists tomorrow; no doubt they’d explain the items to him. However, the mummy itself really, deeply creeped him out, and Newsie only glanced at it before moving on. The wrinkled gray felt over the shrunken foam body was at once horrific and oddly familiar, an unpleasant combination; Newsie didn’t even want to look at it again. Disturbed, he checked his notes once more. He knew Rhonda hated it when he had to rely on them, but honestly, he was no science geek…and that thing in the case was genuinely freakish. Even if it was a Muppet. A dead, mummified Muppet… With a shudder, the Newsman tried to regain some sense of professionalism.

“Muppets and Muppet artifacts will all be featured, most of them for the first time ever, anywhere, in this amazing exhibit, which spans the millennia going back to the age of the Muppasaurs! Curator Dr Phil Van Neuter promises something to teach and tantalize every age group, from children to the elderly, from Muppets to mice. We’ll have more about this astounding new collection in tomorrow’s special report! For now, from the Museum, I’m the Newsman, for KRAK.” His long stroll ended up right next to the back foot of the M. Tex, and he forced himself to stay still and direct his close at the camera, even though every instinct in his body urged him to flee, so near to those horrendous claws. Rhonda gestured for a cut, and Newsie immediately stepped away from the fossil, looking up at it. Its head was still turned up and over its back, not down at the smaller, much more human-looking Muppet in a blue-and-green plaid check sports coat.

“At least you waited ‘til the cut to freak out,” Rhonda complained at him, already making the sloth turn the camera viewscreen down so she could watch the playback. “It ain’t gonna bite you, Newsie!”

“Never trust a monster,” he snapped back at her, adjusting his tie and his dignity a bit.

“Yeah, yeah. Did you happen to miss the fact that it’s dead?” she squeaked back.

“Are you sure that makes a difference?” Newsie grumbled, walking over to see the footage for himself. “I don’t suppose you ever noticed that weird creature hanging around the Muppet Theatre, that blue dragon thing…”

“Who, Uncle Deadly? He’s cool. At least he knows how to deliver a performance in a cool and collected fashion!”

The Newsman gave her a deep scowl. Ignoring him, Rhonda patted the sloth’s arm. “Yeah, yeah, that’s great, Tommy. Let’s wrap it up. I gotta dinner date with a hedgehog on Wall Street.”

Momentarily taken aback, Newsie stared at her as the rat checked her delicate diamond-studded watch, pulled a hairbrush from her purse, and quickly teased her perm. “You…you’re dating a hedgehog?” he asked.

“So? You’re dating a human,” the rat pointed out.

Newsie shook his head. “No, I wasn’t judging! I’m just…well…you? With something that timid?” Relationships continued to mystify the Newsman, despite recent success in his own love life; he’d been living with Gina for a few months now, but her continued interest in him amazed the still-shy Muppet.

Rhonda shrugged. “It was an online-dating match. We’ll see how it goes. He’s a broker in a trading firm downtown, though, so I’m letting him pay for dinner!”

“A stockbroker?” Newsie tried to picture a suit overlaid on all those little prickles. “Er…what does he specialize in?”

“Hedge funds, what else?”

Newsie stared at her, then silently shook his head. Rhonda didn’t notice, checking her own appearance briskly in a compact mirror and dabbing some rouge on her cheeks before striding confidently toward the exit. “Tommy, make sure that gets there before the broadcast starts, willya? See you both tomorrow. Hey Golden Boy, don’t forget to wear the light blue shirt, okay? It’ll stand out better against all the beige around here without being so darned loud! ‘Night!”

Was she suggesting his coat was too garish for the screen? Irritated, Newsie yelled after her, “Well, don’t you forget to brief the interviewees on our time format! I don’t want another grandstanding academic taking up my whole report!” He was still annoyed about the tech forum he’d covered last month, in which a Muppet competitor to Gates and Jobs had taken what was supposed to be a two-minute comment segment about Muppet-owned small computer businesses and turned it into a soapbox for himself. They’d wound up with a largely unusable half-hour of the strange pale man with wires coming out of his body ranting about no one ever appreciating virtual spaghetti, the Dangermouse cartoon, or androids who worked their shiny metal butts off without adequate recognition of their many talents.

As Tony the sloth – no, wait, Tommy – slouched off after Rhonda, presumably heading for the exit and the KRAK van parked outside, Newsie sighed. Although he’d ridden over from the station with the camerasloth, it would probably be faster if he simply went out to the subway stop and caught the next train. He remembered he was supposed to be bringing dinner home, as Gina had been working all afternoon at the Sosilly Theatre, hanging lights in preparation for a charity show this weekend to benefit a city summer program for children in poor neighborhoods. The show would feature songs, dance numbers, a comedian, a stage magician, and a local troupe of acrobats. Gina had offered to light it all, and she and her techie friends had spent the last two days putting together the final plans for scenery and lighting. A pro costumer had volunteered stock costumes for the song and dance numbers, and the other performers would bring their own paraphenalia along. Newsie was impressed with how quickly the show had come together, and was looking forward to attending it with Gina on Friday night. It had been a slow news week, but that didn’t bother him as much as it used to; he had settled back into his News Flash job at the rebuilt Muppet Theatre fairly easily, and was able to spend as much time with his new love as her schedule permitted. Life, in short, was actually enjoyable.

Walking down the broad flight of stairs, the Newsman’s attention immediately darted to the tiny green creature hopping up the steps. Robin the Frog recognized the journalist and broke into a big green smile. “Hi there, Newsman! Did you get to see the Muppasaurs? Are they really big? Are they scary? How many of them are there? Did you touch any of them? Will they come alive after sunset?”

Unable to keep from smiling back, Newsie crouched and held out his hands for the tiny peeper to hop into, and raised him gently up to talk with him. “Hi, Robin. Yes, I saw them. Yes, they’re pretty big. Er…no, they’re not scary, not so much,” he lied. “And you know that was just a movie, right? The Museum doesn’t actually come to life when everyone leaves.” He looked around, puzzled. “Where’s your uncle?”

“Oh, I’m here with my friend Ribsy,” Robin told him, flipping himself around to wave at another tiny amphibian hopping slowly up the marble steps, followed closely by a worried-seeming, overweight toad. “Hey Ribsy! Look who’s here! Newsie says the Muppasaurs are HUGE!”

“Cooooool!” the tiny toad croaked in reply.

“Robin? Robin, get back here! Your aunt will kill me if anything happens to you…” the older toad groaned, levering himself up one more step before stopping, panting.

“Oh it’s okay, Mr Ribbot! He works for my Uncle Kermit!” Robin chirped happily, then did another about-face to pepper Newsie with more questions. “So is it true the Muppasaurus Tex is in it? Is it bigger than you? Does it have really big teeth like a monster? Is it a monster or a lizard? Ribsy thinks it’s a lizard, but I think it’s a monster! Can I see it? Can you let us in? Will you tell?”

“Wait, wait, Robin!” Newsie said gruffly, trying to stem the endless flow of chatter. The toads had caught up and were sitting at his feet, Mr Ribbot giving him a suspicious stare, and little Ribsy bouncing slightly on his flippers, too eager for the answers to wait; as soon as Robin fell silent a moment, the junior toad jumped in.

“Everyone knows Muppasaurus Tex is the largest known Muppet lizard fossil! Does it have a long tail? Did they show off its teeth? How big are the claws? Did it weigh five tons or six? Could it eat a Muppet if it were alive today? Could it eat you? You’re pretty tall for a Muppet, aren’t you?”

The boys’ questions were not helping the Newsman’s anxiety about the deadly-looking fossil in the least. “Er…”

“You work for Kermit the Frog? Don’t you work for one of those news shows? Do you often talk to small boys in public places?” Mr Ribbot glumphed, waddling around Newsie’s saddle shoes, giving them disdainful looks.

Newsie gently set Robin down, and held up his hands, feeling a bit defensive. “Sir, yes, I do happen to work part-time for Mr the Frog, and yes, I also am a reporter for KRAK, and no, I do not often talk to small boys in public – or anyone else for that matter, unless I’m in pursuit of a news story!” He pushed his glasses up his nose and matched the toad’s glare.

“So can we go in? Can we go in?” Robin asked, hopping in place.

“Uhm…I believe the exhibit is not officially open to the public yet, Robin. I don’t have the authority to let you in. I’m sorry,” Newsie said to the boy, trying to be gentle.

Ribsy nudged his friend. “Told you.”

“You boys are coming on Saturday with the whole Frog Scout troop, anyway,” Mr Ribbot said. “Now come along! Let’s go look at the Amphibians and Reptiles wing.” Ponderously, the large toad half-hopped, half-waddled past the curtained-off gallery where the Muppet exhibit stood awaiting its grand opening, towards the nearby permanent exhibit for crawling, slithering things.

“Aww…okay,” Robin sighed. He waved goodbye to the Newsman, and Newsie gave him a small wave back. Ribsy the little toad, however, sniffed contemptuously as he followed his friend.

“Tool of the establishment,” the toadlet muttered, eyeing the Newsman in much the same manner as his father had. “Figures.”

Taken aback, then insulted, Newsie glowered after the little group a moment. Called a name by a child! A TOAD child! Don’t parents teach their kids manners anymore? Irritated, he started to walk off, pulling out his handkerchief to clean his glasses. Robin’s eager queries had managed to get a little bit of froggie spit on them. He knew it wasn’t intentional, and cleaned off the thick lenses without complaint. Tucking the hankie away, he felt a rustling from his inside coat pocket. Curious, he tugged out the brochure the curator had given him, a special program with many photos detailing the new exhibit. Suddenly realizing what a treasure it might be to a young boy, he called out, “Robin! Wait!” and hurried after the frog.

A few minutes later, pleased at the grateful look he’d been given by his boss’ nephew for the advance peek (on paper, at least), Newsie stepped out into late-August heat and walked briskly past the Planetarium toward the subway entrance. As a Muppet, of course, he didn’t sweat, and it would be unseemly to pant openly, so there was little he could do about the sweltering temperature. Underground proved much cooler, and by the time he disembarked at 50th Street he felt fortified for the walk of a few blocks to Gina’s apartment on the edge of the Theater District, stopping once along the way at Kubla Khan’s House of Stir-Fry and Mangoes (formerly, “and Bananas,” before this summer’s banana-boat tarantula health scare) to order takeout. He wasn’t inside the apartment for five minutes before Gina arrived home.

“Hi, cutie,” she said, bending over to give Newsie a kiss. He met her lips happily, and quickly gestured at the little white cartons piled on the dining room table.

“Hi! I brought you Orange Mango Shrimp, and Mango Hunan…I couldn’t decide which you might like better,” he offered.

“Thoughtful man,” she murmured, stroking his hair back. He beamed at her, blushing. “It all sounds good…but I want to wash this scrum off first.” She pushed back her own long hair from her forehead, and Newsie saw the dark spots on her skin. “I got into a fight with an older light, and it tried to toss back the WD-40 I was using on it.”

“Are – are you all right?” Newsie asked, examining the stains.

Gina laughed. “Yeah – I won. But I’d love to get it off me now.” She took a few steps down the hall, then looked over her shoulder at him with a suggestive smile. “Are you coming?”

“Er…”

He was repeatedly amazed at how she turned the simple chores of living into seductive situations. He didn’t actually need a shower – he never left the apartment before ascertaining he was as clean and neat as possible – but standing under the warm water with this tall, shapely young woman always thrilled him, always caused a pink flush to steal over his entire person as he dared glances at her unclothed form. Gina took every occasion to tease him mercilessly, although if the truth had to be told, he didn’t mind that as much as he pretended to, for decency’s sake… This time, she managed to drop the soap no less than three times, bending over to retrieve it various ways so that he couldn’t help but view her…uhm…features…from different angles, all provocative. Sometimes, she only wanted to wash, and to taunt him a little; tonight she was in no hurry, and she leaned against the tiled wall of the tub enclosure, murmuring his praises, her fingers twined in his soaked hair.

Things became even more involved after that, and it was quite some time before they returned to the now-cold food.

As Gina took charge of warming it all back up, Newsie finished setting the table, lighting an assortment of candles of various shapes and heights, all colored a relaxing green, and arranging them among and around a small tropical bonsai in its long pot on the table. Gina had suggested he take up the botanical hobby as a way to calm his nerves after stressful news days (or especially painful Muppet News Flashes), and he’d found he rather enjoyed the meticulousness of it. This one, a berry bush of some kind, he’d been carefully pruning and shaping for only a month, but already he could appreciate his efforts with it, as it slowly grew into a windswept-seeming form. Gina smiled at him, bringing the steaming food to the table. “Looking good,” she commented.

Newsie shot her a smile. “Do you think so? I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

“Oh, well, sure; the plant’s cute too,” she returned, and he chuckled and pulled her down for a kiss.

Newsie sighed happily, looking around the room a moment as Gina slid into her seat next to him. The apartment felt comfortably cool; the candles provided just the right amount of soft light in the otherwise darkening room, with sunset’s last pink rays painting the buildings outside the living room windows; the tiny black-and-electric-blue fish schooled in their aquarium, lending a little movement to the peaceful scene. He turned back to his Gypsy beloved, admiring for the thousandth time her light grey eyes and silky auburn tresses, her small straight nose and well-defined cheeks. He’d never understand why she found him attractive, but her own charms were evident to all the world, he thought, and he could only thank whatever fates had smiled on him.

Gina gave him a quizzical look. “Do I have something on my nose? I haven’t even dug into the mango sauce yet.”

Newsie blushed. “Uh…no. Sorry. I was just…just…”

She grinned. “Admiring the view?”

He cleared his throat, unable to come up with a good response, and Gina giggled. “Fine by me. Same here.” He smiled, and she reached over to stroke his long cheek. “You are so cute in t-shirts. I wish you’d go casual more often.”

“Er…um. Well. I really couldn’t, anywhere else,” he stammered, glancing down at the Solid Foam World Tour t-shirt he’d picked from her dresser drawer-ful of strange shirts to wear after the shower. All he had on at the moment was that and a new pair of boxers, dark blue with tiny yellow lightning bolts printed all over, which Gina had bought for him. Gina had opted for even less, and he found it hard to focus on the food while seeing quite a bit of her around the pink tank top and matching short-shorts she’d decided to wear to the table. He reflected that her idea of pajamas and his were miles apart…not that this was a bad thing.

She giggled again, passing him a carton of rice, and started a more neutral conversation. “So, how’d the report on the exhibit go? Does it look cool?”

Newsie told her all about the Muppet natural history displays, how large and intimidating the Muppasaurs were, how odd the mummy appeared, how he’d run into Robin after the first report filming wrapped tonight. “I can’t wait to see it all!” Gina said, grinning at him. “You did score free passes, right?”

“They’re already on your desk,” he replied, and she leaned over to kiss his nose.

“Fantastic! A charity revue Friday night, and a cool exhibit on Saturday! Sounds like a great weekend, Newsie.” He nodded, pleased.

“What about your show? Does everyone seem ready?”

“Ohhh…yeah, basically, except for that stage magician. I haven’t seen the guy yet at all, though Paul keeps saying not to worry.” She grimaced. “I’m supposed to be tech director as well as lighting designer and master electrician for this thing, and I don’t have a clue what the magic guy wants for his act yet, and we open in two nights! You’d think a performer would want to make sure he’s at least lit well.”

They continued to eat and talk, interested in one another’s work, for a while until both admitted to being full and a little sleepy. Gina would have to leave early in the morning for an all-day tech run-through; Newsie already had her favorite iced scones in the pantry to warm up for breakfast, and planned to be up before her in order to have coffee ready, though he himself wasn’t needed anywhere else until the afternoon. Comfortably they snuggled together on the sofa, watching a detective show rerun, and when that was over, both prepared for bed in an easy routine they’d settled into months ago. Gina lit a stick of the amber-spice incense she preferred; Newsie had at first found it too exotic, disconcerting and bohemian. Now he was accustomed to the rich Arabian perfume, and inhaled it deeply as he pulled the light coverlet up. Sated in more ways than one, both woman and Muppet were content merely to hold each other tonight. Gina liked to fall asleep holding Newsie, her arm over him as she curled her body around his shorter form, and he was all too happy to relax into her, his nose half-buried in his pillow, his hand over hers on his stomach, a smile lingering on his face as they both drifted into secure slumber.

His watch alarm awoke him at six, and Newsie gently pulled free of Gina’s arms, slipping out of bed and padding to the kitchen while she continued to sleep. By now he was expert with the French coffee press, and peered groggily at the selection of beans in the freezer door, trying to guess which flavor his love might best like today. Picking the “cinnamon jolt” one finally, he had just measured the right amount into the grinder when he heard a noise in the living room. Grinning to himself – he hadn’t told her he was fixing breakfast – he ground up the whole, rich beans in a few loud pulses of the machine, then tapped the rough granules into the press and started some water in the kettle. Stepping out into the dining room, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, he looked up and stopped in his tracks upon sight of the figure in the next room.

A tall, bone-gaunt, black-robed being seemed to suck all the morning sunlight out of the room. It held a scythe taller than it at rest in one skeletal hand. The Newsman felt his blood simply stop, his heart stuttering, ringing rising in his ears. “YOU HAVE TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS!” the figure intoned, pointing a bony finger at the Newsman, its voice echoing like a cathedral bell.

“Ack!” Newsie choked, his legs simply failing. He dropped to his knees, staring up at the horrible spectre suddenly turning his paradise into a charnel house.

Death sighed, shaking its hood. “OH, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. I’M NOT PICKING UP, I’M DROPPING OFF!” From behind the voluminous, tattered robes stepped a prim, grey, sharp-nosed, elderly Muppet woman. She frowned through thick spectacles at the Newsman, and set her hands firmly upon the straight hips of her shapeless housedress.

“Aloysius Ambrosius!” she snapped in a crackly voice. “Young man, I am deeply disappointed in you!”

Newsie’s felt turned from golden-yellow to pale beige all at once. With a soft moan, he slumped to the carpet, unconscious.

The late Mrs Crimp turned to Death, jutting her large chin out. “Now why do you have to do that? Look at that! You just scared my lily-livered son to death!”

Death rolled his red pinpricks of eyes in their black sockets.

 

[newsmanfan]

Part Two

“OLD SHREW, SILENCE! IF YOU CONTINUE TO TAX MY PATIENCE IN THIS MATTER—“

Gina gasped, reflexively making the gesture her Grandmama Angie had taught her to ward off the evil eye, at the sight of the gaunt, terrible thing darkening her home. Then she saw her Muppet journalist, pale and still on the carpet, and with a desperate cry rushed to his side. Scooping him into her arms, she shrieked at the ghastly spectre looming over him, “Mulesko angelo, leave him! I –I forbid you entry to my home!” Words of Romany she didn’t know she’d even remembered came pouring from her lips, frantic, terrified; in her grandmother’s native tongue, Gina shouted a countercurse for the sudden death of a loved one: “Pale king, you have no power here! Let the sun’s light drive you hence, may you scrape and skulk in the boneyard like a hungry dog; you shall not have my love for your deathly court!”

A sigh like a cold wind through a morgue blew over her, making her shiver violently. Gina clutched Newsie to her protectively, but the hooded figure only raised its bony hands to the ceiling. “WHY DOES EVERYONE ASSUME I ONLY DROP IN TO COLLECT SOULS? YOU THINK I HAVE NO LIFE, I’M JUST ALL ABOUT WORK, IS THAT IT? YEAH, YEAH: SOULS, SOULS, SOULS. SHEESH!” The dark entity crossed its shrouded arms over its ribcage, lowering its head, and Gina couldn’t meet that terrible glower. “RELAX. HE’S NOT DEAD.”

“Newsie?” Gina whispered, stroking his hair. With a quiet groan, the Newsman stirred, and she hugged him tightly. “Oh, no. Oh, no…” Shuddering, she attempted to look back up at the horrible angel.

“NO, NOT YOU EITHER! AND FOR THE RECORD, THAT LITTLE SPELL WON’T WORK ON ME, PEANUT. I’M NOT SOME RUBE DEMON THAT JUST FELL OFF THE PLAGUE WAGON. I’M IT. THE ONE AND ONLY. NOW SETTLE DOWN ALREADY!”

“Gina?” Newsie muttered, coming to with her arms around him, feeling weak and disoriented. A nightmare, it was just a nightmare! Relieved, he embraced her. “Good grief, what a horrible, horrible dream I just had…” The neglected kettle screeched, and he jumped. “Oh! The coffee…I was…I was…wait a minute…” The Newsman slowly lifted his head, trembling, and saw the very thing which had first frightened him. “Aaauugh!”

“Newsie, Newsie, it’s okay,” Gina said hurriedly, holding him tight; he clung to her shoulders as she knelt beside him, and they both stared up at Death. “Uh…I think…” Gina amended, still trying to process it all; she wasn’t feeling awake enough to be this terrified.

A grey-haired, grey-felted elderly Muppet woman with the same sharp, long nose and broad jaw as the Newsman shoved Death out of the way to glare at the couple. “And here’s the little trollop who’s been corrupting my boy! Don’t you have the least vestige of shame for yourself, you hussy?” the old woman snapped. Her voice sounded like dead leaves being crumbled in someone’s fist. She snorted in disgust. “At least turn off that shrieking kettle so I can lecture you without yelling over it!”

“Oh please no,” Newsie whimpered, and promptly fainted again.

Gina held him, mouth agape a moment, staring wideyed at the apparition. The old woman stepped smartly up to her and glared nose-to-nose at the helpless Newsman through tiny granny spectacles. “Who…who the **** are you?” Gina demanded, finding her voice again.

“Look at him,” the old woman muttered, ignoring Gina. “Always had such a weak constitution. He gets it from his father, you know. Killed by a falling load of turnips at the docks. Just imagine! Turnips.”

“FINE, *I’LL* GET THE DRATTED KETTLE,” Death groaned, stomping silently past them all into the kitchen. The whistling choked abruptly to a halt; Gina had the uneasy idea the hooded thing hadn’t even touched it or the burner control.

“Too weak for his own good,” the old woman sighed, and with a thick gray finger stroked the unconscious Newsman’s cheek. He groaned softly, shivering. Gina could feel the cold radiating off the old woman, and suddenly understood.

“You…you’re dead,” Gina accused. The old woman merely shot her a glare. Angrily, Gina dredged out of her memory her Grandmama Angie’s favorite exorcism: “Pale wretch, begone! Back to the night, back to the grave! By Saint Sarah I command you, by the two Marys, by Saint Michael and all the hounds of **** –“

“KNOCK IT OFF, PEANUT,” Death boomed from the kitchen, and Gina cringed instinctively, then glared at the old woman, cradling her Newsie tighter, away from the ghost’s cold hands. “HEY, GOT ANY EARL GREY? OH WAIT. YOU HAVE A COFFEE PRESS. COOL.”

“You take your filthy hands off him, you tramp!” the old woman hissed, her wide mouth curling down in contempt. “He’s mine! I never should have left him on his own, he never could think for himself! Look what you’ve done to him – wandering this horrible little hovel half-naked, just like you!”

Furious, Gina stood, gathering her Newsman into her arms to lift him well out of reach of the crazy old woman. “What the **** would you know about him, you nasty old bag lady?” Gina shouted at her.

“I was slapping clean diapers on him long before you were whelped, you presumptuous little puppy!”

“Are you calling me a –“

“You bet your dirty little paws I am! Put him down this instant!”

Before the fight could get nastier, Death wandered back in, plopping his charnel rags into a chair at the dining room table, a mug of coffee in one hand. He leaned the scythe against the wall and slupped the coffee noisily. “I SEE YOU’RE GETTING ACQUAINTED.”

“Tell that naked little tart to let go of my son!” the elderly Muppet woman complained to the spectre.

“Get this smelly, wrinkly troll out of my home!” Gina shouted back, hip-checking the ghost to one side to dare a complaint herself.

Death turned his skull from one to the other, his hood falling low like scowling brows. He sighed. “LOOK. HERE’S THE THING: SHE WAS ENOUGH OF A NUISANCE THE PAST NINE YEARS ALREADY. THEN *YOU* HOOK UP WITH *HIM*,” (with a nod at Newsie, who was beginning to wake up once more in Gina’s arms, though not the way he preferred) “AND DAY IN, DAY OUT, IT’S ALL ‘YOU HAVE TO BRING HIM TO ME,’ OR ‘YOU HAVE TO TAKE ME TO HIM,’ OR ‘YOU HAVE TO TAKE HER!’”

Gina flinched, frightened into silence. “Unnngh,” Newsie muttered. “Gina…?”

“Well?” the old woman demanded, her forehead crumpled over, glowering at Death. “So get rid of the rude little tramp!”

Death pointed a long white fingerbone at her. “YOU CAN SHUT UP NOW, FLOSSIE! YOU’RE HERE, AREN’T YOU?”

“It’s Florabeth, you awful tyrant,” the old woman sniffed, unbowed.

Frozen, holding on to Gina’s shoulders, the Newsman recognized that voice. NOT a dream? Oh no, oh no, oh no! Trembling, he slowly looked into Gina’s eyes; her worried expression didn’t inspire much confidence. Turning his gaze down, he let out a small shriek and jerked when the familiar but dreaded face moved into view just below him. “Ack! Uh…M-mother?”

“Aloysius! You let go of that creature this instant! You don’t know where she’s been,” the Muppet crone said, sounding smug.

“You old bi—“ Gina began, but Newsie hurriedly put his hand to her mouth.

“Uh…er…Mother…don’t say that. This is Gina. She’s my…” he gulped. “M-my girlfriend.”

“I see perfectly well what she is,” Mrs Crimp, deceased, pointed her nose at the ceiling. “Now come down from there right this minute!”

Deep, spectral bells tolled, making Gina and Newsie both jump. Death pulled a cell phone from beneath his robes. “SORRY…I GOTTA TAKE THIS. HELLO? WHAT? WELL, YOU TELL ‘EM THOSE FERRY BOATS CAPSIZE EVERY MONTH! *I* CAN’T BE HELD RESPONSI…RIGHT. YEAH. I KNOW.” He sighed, the breeze again making the living shudder. One of Gina’s thriving ferns hanging in a wire basket in the living room window shriveled and blackened. “WELL, I’M KINDA IN THE MIDDLE OF…OH, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT! I’LL BE THERE IN A MINUTE.” He paused, listening, then waved a clacking fistful of bones. “GEEZ, MARTY, I DON’T KNOW – TELL ‘EM TO CLING TO THE WRECKAGE UNTIL I CAN GET SOME SHARKS OVER TO EAT ‘EM!” Annoyed, Death snapped his cell shut, gesturing to the stunned Newsie and Gina. “EH, I GOTTA SPLIT. SOME IDIOT OVERLOADED A FERRY IN THE INDIAN OCEAN AGAIN, AND THE SHARKS ARE ALL BUSY AT A FISHING FESTIVAL A HUNDRED MILES AWAY! YOU’D THINK PEOPLE WOULD BE *HAPPY* TO DROWN INSTEAD, BUT NOOO, EVERYONE ASKS TO GO QUICKLY…” He gulped the coffee, then slammed the mug on the table. Newsie and Gina both jumped again at the eerie hollow noise. “THIS IS LOUSY COFFEE! WHY DO I ALWAYS GET LOUSY COFFEE?”

“Er…you killed the flavor?” Newsie guessed timidly.

“Around here, I’m sure it tastes like sin anyway,” Mrs Crimp sneered.

Death stood, brushing coffee droplets from his shroud. Alarmed, Gina stepped into his path, making Newsie cringe against her shoulder. “Uh…aren’t you taking the dead bag lady with you?” she asked.

Death shook his skull in a definite negative. Newsie realized suddenly you haven’t really understood the depths of the gesture for No until you’ve seen the Grim Reaper do it. “SHE’S YOUR PROBLEM NOW. SHE WON’T SHUT UP ABOUT HER SON BEING INVOLVED WITH YOU, AND FRANKLY, I CAN’T TAKE ANY MORE OF THE NAGGING! YOU BOTH HAVE FORTY-EIGHT HOURS TO GET SOMETHING WORKED OUT.”

“’Worked out’? What do you mean, ‘worked out’?” Newsie choked, looking fearfully from the ghost of his mother to the spectre of Death.

“Why don’t you just bring him back with us? Or leave me here, and do something appropriate to her?” Mrs Crimp badgered.

Death loomed over the grey Muppet crone. “AGAINST THE RULES, BESSIE! WE’VE BEEN OVER THIS A THOUSAND TIMES!” To Newsie, he intoned: “BUT I *WILL* BEND THE RULES IF I HAVE TO! I CAN’T – STAND – NAGGING!”

“Erk!” Newsie gulped, shrinking away from the terrible Reaper.

“SO WORK IT OUT! I DON’T CARE HOW! *YOU* CAUSED THIS; *YOU* SOLVE IT – OR ELSE!” The frustrated spectre glided off, somehow giving the impression of stomping angrily. “TWO DAYS! TWO DAYS WITHOUT THAT HARRIDAN SNIPING AT ME…I MIGHT ACTUALLY GET SOMETHING DEAD…”

With a horrible shriek like an owl being strangled, swooping through the apartment in his wake, Death simply vanished. The sunlight slowly trickled back over the windowsills. The oppressive coldness filling the apartment dissipated. Newsie stared at Gina; she stared back. Both of them looked down at the elderly woman who so closely resembled Newsie; she glared back, arms crossed, tapping one foot in an orthopedic shoe. Before anyone could say anything, a cloud crossed the room, the living shivered, and in a burst of grave-dust and squeaking bats, Death reappeared.

Everyone froze. Death grabbed his scythe, which he’d left leaning against the dining room wall. Realizing suddenly all eyes were upon him, he paused, looked around, shrugged, and grumbled, “YEAH? *YOU* TRY KEEPING TRACK OF OVER A MILLION DEATHS A DAY!”

With another eerie, squawking bird-knell, he disappeared.

 

[The Count]

What a pleasant surprise to find a new Newsie and Gina story from you just now. Finished reading both chapters... The references!

You've brought in Rhonda as Newsie's aid... And though I only know her from my previous Muppet Listings efforts never having seen the character—and prefering Yolanda—I have to say I've come to like her inclusion and development in these fics.
*Chuckles at the mention of Newsie remembering a former roomie and the name confusion over the camerasloth.
BTW: Tommy the Sloth? Thought Rhonda's cameraman was Doolly the Aardvark. That reminds me, she also had an effective manner of dealing with unruly interviewees... Namely, Trapdoor the Cat.
The fact you've got that Muppasaurus Tex makes me think there's a renewal in dino-interest around here, what with muppetwriter's upcoming fic in the fall.
The interviewee who went on a tech-rant... Digit?
Of corpse they'd think it's all about collecting souls for Death. Sheesh, he hasn't gone on a good reaping since the Huggy Bear incident (Mandy keeps him on a tight slave leash).
*Smiles at Death going to get the coffee kettle... That's fright... Since they couldn't stop for you, you kindly stopped for them. And got the tea or coffee as the case may be.
Hoo-boy, it's gonna be a looooong two days with Florabelle Crimp isn't it?
And about that mummy... That wouldn't be a shot at the group of singing sarcophagi from the performance of "Night And Day" from the Gladys Knight TMS episode would it?

Thanks for posting... More please!

 

[newsmanfan]

--------------------------------------------------------------
Ed, as usual you have out-referenced me!

Yes, I did look up the "original" Rhonda but mine is a slightly different take. I knew about the aardvark but somehow a stoner sloth just seemed really funny to me, especially in the high-stress, high-speed modern broadcast news world. As to Trapdoor...maybe. I haven't actually SEEN any of that show, and I hate using characters I know little about!

Oh yes. I have many ugly things in mind for poor Newsie, caused this time not by his own curse but the curse of his birth to such a prim and proper Muppet. Hee, hee, hee...

Wow! The Gladys Knight ep! Yes I recall it vaguely...but no. I was thinking of the "Hobbit" early-man discovery in Indonesia, and thought a similar skew of Muppet evolution would be fun to play with. Plus, as a kid I was scared when I read a kids' ghost story book which asserted that guards in the Museum (yes, same one as "Night at the Museum" in NYC) had heard odd noises coming from the mummy cases late at night, and objects moving around... And naturally, as a young child I was CONVINCED dinosaur skeletons came alive after everyone left, and was always awed and wary of them, when I saw some great ones at the Field Museum in Chicago (on visits from Detroit). And given our Newsie's rather nervous constitution... heh, heh, heh.

More soon; working on part 3 already. Suggestions are happily accepted here as to which Muppets people might like to see in action, as I haven't fleshed out all the scenes in my head yet! Glad you like, and thank you!
------------------------------------------------------------------

 

[newsmanfan]

Part Three

Still shaking, Newsie wrapped his arms around Gina’s shoulders; she embraced him in return, but just as they were about to kiss they were rudely reminded of the intruder to their home. “Don’t you dare touch him with those dirty lips! I know what you were about to call me! Someone ought to wash your mouth out with soap, you nasty child!”

“Mother, please,” Newsie groaned. He gave Gina a helpless look. Frowning, she gently set him upon his feet, hoping he could regain a little dignity on his own. As the Newsman turned reluctantly around to confront the frosty Muppet revenant, Mrs Crimp stepped closer, brandishing a waggling finger.

“And don’t you ‘Mother please’ me! I raised you better than this, Aloysius!”

Newsie flinched. Gina glared at the old woman. “I think I need some of that coffee,” Gina muttered, heading for the kitchen.

“You…you might want to start a fresh pot,” Newsie said, shooting a glance at the mug Death had discarded. At least those bony teeth hadn’t touched his favorite pottery mug, or Gina’s either. “Uh…would you like a cup of coffee, Mother?”

“Don’t be absurd. You know I had to give it up for my health,” Mrs Crimp sniffed.

“Does that matter now?” Newsie mumbled, eyes downcast, hands clenched together over his chest. Forty-eight hours? To solve WHAT? He could barely come to grips with the idea that the domineering woman whom he’d felt obligated to devote most of his life to, and had finally been freed of nine years ago, was suddenly back and as harsh as ever…much less the apparent demand Death himself had just made concerning Newsie’s mother, who had never, ever, wavered from an opinion once her mind was set. Gulping, he tried the gentle approach, though he still couldn’t bear to look at her. “So…uh…Mother…how…how have you been?”

“Well, up until a few months ago, fine enough, I suppose,” Mrs Crimp said, casting haughty looks around the colorful, formerly peaceful apartment. She sailed like an overburdened cargo sloop into the living room, with her anxious son pacing after. “Always a little too hot, or a little too cold, or too noisy with all those other people around, no such thing as a perfect underworld, but, just like the living world, it’s pointless to complain, no one ever listens.” She glowered at the framed Jacek Yerka print, “Illegal Light-Making,” which Newsie had hung on the living room wall among all of Gina’s Art Nouveau posters.

The painting, a metaphor for small, personal resistance under the Communist rule in Poland during the Cold War years, had served as a quiet inspiration to the Newsman since he’d first chanced to see it. A rusted oildrum of a furnace took up the central spot of the scene, a wood fire beneath it stoking up a beautiful, pure white glow within the boiling container. Small bowls of light had already been scooped from the drum, perhaps as tasting samples, like moonshine in the Kentucky hills. Storage cupboards and a pile of red potatoes on the right, and a wall simply vanishing into a northern-latitude endless twilight to the left of the furnace, spoke of both secrecy and freedom. The soft earth colors felt more soothing than revolutionary; if this was a protest, as the title implied, it was a very quiet one. The symbolism of it attracted the Newsman strongly, especially since he’d met Gina. He was not a Muppet for broad gestures like Gonzo, or open defiance like Rizzo…but with his love, he felt free finally; around her, he could relax, safe from ridicule…or from things falling on him.

His mother knew nothing about art. “She has a picture of an oil drum in a nasty, dirty cellar? And of alcohol, and sex?” She gestured at the posters depicting an ad for absinthe and for a clothier from turn-of-the-century Paris, both with voluptuous young women gowned in flowing wisps of fabric or mist. “I cannot believe that this is the company my son keeps!”

“I can’t believe this witch was able to produce such a caring man,” Gina growled, standing in the kitchen doorway. Newsie threw her a worried look, but his mother didn’t seem to have heard.

“Uh…Mother…I think maybe you, uh, you’ve judged a little quickly…” Newsie began, but his mother whirled on him with a scowl even more pronounced than his worst, her tiny glasses pinned between her nose and her forehead.

“I should say the same to you!” she snapped. “How long did you know this tramp before she seduced you into moving in? Little gold-digger!”

“That. Is. Enough,” Gina snarled, striding over, a mug of fresh steaming coffee in hand. She stopped right beside Mrs Crimp, taking advantage of her height to loom over the ghostly Muppet. “This is my home! Mine and Newsie’s! I don’t care who you are, I don’t care how dead you are, no one walks into a house of the kalo rat and insults one of us!”

Newsie was thrown a second before he recalled a little of the scattered Romany words Gina had taught him. ‘Kalo rat’…true blood. Oh, no. Please don’t make this a Gypsy honor thing, he thought, worried. He knew from experience now that she only ever used words like that when she was really, deeply upset or angry. “Uh, Gina, uhm, I’m sure this is all just a, heh, heh, a case of mistaken impressions, a, uh, a culture clash…”

Neither of the two most important women in his life was having any of it. “Oh, you’re gonna see a culture clash in a minute,” Gina muttered.

“So now she’s a rat? And she objected to being called a dog!” Mrs Crimp sniffed.

“Uh, no, Mother; that was Gypsy language. You see, Gina’s ancestors—“

“You’re about to hear some non-animal-related words, so you’d better cover your prissy ears, old witch,” Gina warned.

“Are you going to let her talk to me like that?” Newsie’s mother demanded of him.

“Uh, er, please! Wait just a—“

“Dirty hussy!”

“Stuck-up old hag!”

“What has she done to you, Aloysius? Now you come with me; I’ll take you down to the Y and get you all scrubbed clean…”

“Uh—“

“Clean? Why don’t we talk about the damage you did to him by insisting love was dirty? It took me weeks to get him to stop wearing pajama styles older than Waldorf!”

“Er—“

“Love is chaste, you trollop! What you’ve done to him isn’t love, it’s so sinful I’ll have to scrub him bright red to get the filth off!”

“Mother, ple—“

“What warped corner of Puritania did you waddle out of? Do you know what he moans to me, during that wonderful sin?”

“Gina! Ple—“

Mrs Crimp drew back, shocked, then grabbed Newsie’s left arm. “That is enough! Aloysius, I am taking you home!”

“N-no! Stop!” Newsie struggled to free himself from the ice-cold, iron grip.

“What, you hadn’t smothered enough life out of him when you were alive, you have to drag him to the grave right when he’s finally begun to live for his own happiness?” Gina argued, holding Newsie’s right arm tightly. A tug of war ensued a few seconds, with the Newsman frantically caught between the two angry women, until with a cry of pain Newsie yelled at them both.

“STOP! PLEASE!”

Suddenly realizing he was hurt, Gina let him go; Newsie tumbled onto his mother, knocking her to the rug. With a gasp he quickly jumped back, freed of her deathly grip as well. “Clumsy little oaf!” the old Muppet shouted; Newsie hesitated before offering her a hand up, and she shoved him away, righting herself with many puffs of outrage. “This! This is what you’ve become without me: a rude, sinful, horrible little boy badly in need of discipline!”

“Mother! I am not your little boy anymore!” Newsie shouted, unable to stomach the tension any further. Surprised, his mother stared at him a moment, then lifted up her nose, turned her head away, and drew her shoulders up tightly. Oh, no, he thought, Not the wounded thing. Not again, not now. Sure enough, the elder Crimp began sniffling, her eyes shut behind her spectacles.

“I don’t freaking believe this,” Gina muttered. She drew Newsie closer, her arm over his shoulders. “Newsie, you have to get rid of her. I can’t deal with this much craziness. I’m sorry.”

Unhappily, he looked up at Gina. She seemed about to kiss his forehead, then glanced at Mrs Crimp, changed her mind, and simply walked away, heading for the bedroom. “I have to get dressed. I have work.”

Dismayed, he stared after her. Behind him, his mother loudly cleared her throat. “Good riddance to bad rubbish. I am willing to forget how you just treated me, Aloysius Ambrosius Crimp, if you leave this place at once and get yourself properly presentable for me. I am frankly shocked that you’d allow yourself to be seen in so little clothing – and such atrocious things, at that!”

Newsie glanced down at the boxers and t-shirt he still had on. “It isn’t as though I even knew you were, uh, dropping in, Mother!” he muttered glumly.

She glared imperiously down her long nose at him through those tiny spectacles. He’d always hated how she would tilt her head so the light would glare off the lenses, giving the impression that she had fiery bright eyes instead of dull, small, watery ones. It had always felt like the harsh light of judgment blazing down upon him. “And that’s your excuse? Have you forgotten every shred of decent manners I schooled you in? A fine legacy I find here! A Crimp, half-nude, living in sin! Just think what your poor Aunt Ethel would have thought – why, she’d have a heart attack if she knew what you were up to!”

“I doubt she’d even recognize me, Mother,” Newsie retorted. His elderly aunt was regrettably now confined in the Long Shadows Upon the Dial Happy Home for the Dangerously Senile, out in Queens, where her own stepchildren had placed her after that unfortunate incident with the guinea pig colony and her weaving loom. The poor woman had mistaken the guineas for balls of yarn and given out some disturbingly squealing sweaters for Christmas that year…

“Not how you’ve changed, no, she wouldn’t! I barely recognize my own son myself! I raised you better than this!” She resumed the sniffling, shaking her head. “I tried…I tried so hard to make you good, always sacrificing my bridge nights to give you the discipline you so badly needed! It’s your father’s fault, dying like that when you were a baby, so you never had a strong hand around the home to guide you!”

Newsie reflected in some pain that he’d never felt deprived of a strong hand, though “guiding” wouldn’t have been the term he would’ve used to describe his mother’s typical laying-on-of-hands. Gina strode back into the living room, not even glancing at Mrs Crimp, opening the armoire holding all the entertainment electronics and doing something with the stereo and her iPod. Newsie hurried to her side. “What can I do?” he whispered, worried. “I don’t know how to make her stop complaining to Death! She’s always complained about everything!”

Gina gave him a very dark look. “Stand up to her, Newsie. I’m serious. We can not have that…that woman lousing up our lives! At least, I know I can’t!” He stared at her, stricken, as she pushed a few buttons and some quiet acoustic guitar began playing a song he didn’t know through the living room speakers. Standing up, dressed in an even more raggily casual t-shirt and cutoff shorts than usual – no doubt to antagonize the disapproving Muppet lady further – Gina slung her small purse under her arm, and put a hand on Newsie’s shoulder. “I love you. But I will not deal with this pleasantly. So think about what you need to do. See you later.”

She left the apartment. Newsie gulped, watching the door close. The song she’d put on the sound system seemed quiet enough, at least, and he hoped it was a peace offering: “Mother, do you think they’ll drop the bomb?” an even-toned male voice sang softly. “Mother, do you think they’ll like this song…”

“Are you ready?” Mrs Crimp asked. Newsie stared at her, worried.

“Uh…ready for what?”

“To apologize to me for the horrible treatment I have received today! I have never been so ashamed! You stood there like a tongue-tied cretin and let her say those awful things!”

“You said some mean things too,” he pointed out, disgruntled, and suddenly she was shoving one pointy-manicured finger against the underside of his nose. “Ow, ow, ow!”

“You horrible, shameless, spineless, disloyal little beast!” she shrieked, making him wince again. He stumbled, trying to back away, to free his nose from that painfully sharp French tip, but she stepped with him, keeping the pressure up, as she’d favored ever since he’d grown taller than her by a couple of inches and dragging him by his collar had become difficult for her to manage, with her declining strength. “How dare you! How dare you insult me by…by shacking up with this disgusting, amoral little floozy!”

“Gina is not a floozy!” Newsie yelled back, shoving his mother a step back.

Both of them froze. Mrs Crimp looked so shocked, so hurt, that instantly he felt guilty. What on earth had got into him? He’d never had a violent temper! “I’m…I’m sorry, Mother. I…I didn’t mean…”

His mother stared at him in silence a whole minute; the music broke into a slow rock rhythm, and Mrs Crimp scowled deeply. “Well,” she said icily. “I see things are worse than I suspected. There’s a phrase for what you’ve become, Aloysius. I am far too polite to use that sort of language, but if I were a nasty, crude, trash-mouthed hussy like that creature who’s ensnared you, I might be tempted to use the word,” she coughed delicately, distastefully, “whipped.”

The Newsman blushed, immediately angry and ashamed. “Mother!”

“I can see you’re in no mood for reason right now. We’ll speak more about this later.”

“Mother, I will not—“

But she was gone. Vanished, leaving only the faint scent of pine floor cleaner in the air, and a knife in her son’s heart. Dispirited, he stood there a long while, the words to the song still playing registering finally: “Mama’s gonna check out all your girlfriends for you, Mama won’t let anyone dirty get through…”

He slumped onto the couch, removed his glasses carefully, and covered his face with his hands. His stomach roiled, and he grimaced, holding in the bile wanting to come up his throat. It couldn’t possibly be any worse than this. Suddenly he wished his mother was still alive; at least then he might have a chance, if he changed his appearance and moved someplace she wouldn’t follow him…say, Borneo.

The song finished as the Newsman sat there, his body crumpled over, feeling a sickening sense of impending loss. He barely listened as the music ended and the apartment fell completely silent once more: “Mother, did it need to be so high…”

 

[newsmanfan]

Part Four

The acrobats seemed a little unsteady, and Gina made a wide swerve around them as they wobbled in a human pyramid. It seemed absurd to her that the heaviest member of the troupe would be the one they catapulted to the top of the six-man stack, but maybe that was all part of the act. Unhappily she grabbed the long locks which were trying to slip free of her ponytail and rewrapped the plain hair scrunchie holding them out of her face, then bent again to check her lighting plot. The specials for the acrobats, the downlight and spotlight for the comedian, and general area lights in attractive gels of soft pink and blue had all been hung, circuited, and roughly focused. That left…she sighed, studying the list with only half the items checked off. That left the sidelights for the dance numbers, whatever the magician wanted – assuming he even showed up – and a dimmer check, a few effects programmed into the lighting board, and assigning a few more simple “looks” to the board’s slider controls. At least this was going to be stripped-down enough, and a bit on the fly, so she wasn’t bothering to write formal light cues. Striding hurriedly with her hand-drafted light plot and checklist in hand, past the tall instrument “trees” on stage right at the Sosilly Theatre, she suddenly tripped. She had to grab one of the heavy steel crossbeams of the tree to keep from sprawling face-first. Angrily glaring at the spaghetti-nest of lighting cables which had snagged her, Gina wondered where the heck her tech assistant was. “Alan!” she shouted. Several people around the stage area, including all of the acrobats, froze and jeked their heads in her direction.

Oh, dear. Did she sound angry? Well, she had d—d good reason to be! Fuming, Gina pointed at the mess of cables as her volunteer techie, a high school kid whose grandfather was on the board for the theatre, scurried over. “What does this look like to you, Alan?”

“Uh…a lot of lighting cables?”

“Wrong. The correct term for this is ‘OSHA violation and broken leg waiting to happen!’” Gina snapped. “Didn’t I tell you to make sure every single cable was coiled and stacked properly, and everything on the floor gaff-taped!” It wasn’t a question, and fortunately the teen who’d wanted so badly to help in an actual stage production realized no response was probably the best response. He whipped a heavy roll of gaff tape from a carabiner on his belt-loop and bent at once to fix the mess. Sighing in frustration, Gina stomped off toward the lighting booth. Dress tonight, open tomorrow; dress tonight, open tomorrow, she kept thinking. This morning’s confrontation with the departed Mrs Crimp had set her very much on edge, and small things going wrong weren’t going to ease the situation any.

In the booth which overlooked the whole floor of the small black-box space, Gina’s friend Scott was hunched over the sound controls, one ear engulfed in a giant headset as he played back something on an old reel-to-reel machine. Gina fell into the chair before the lightboard, taking a deep breath and then a long sip of the energy drink she’d bought from a street vendor before she entered the theatre this morning, since her usual coffee had been cut short and breakfast was a bust. Scott glanced up, shut off the reel player, and sat back in his chair as well. “Huh. You thought about upping your caffeine intake?” When Gina shot him an irritated look, he continued mildly, “’Cause you’ve really been slackin’ off, and I’m getting’ tired of carrying the load. Pick it up already!”

Gina snorted something unrepeatable at him, and Scott grinned. “Hey, chill, okay? Look, most of it’s done. All the areas are covered, they’re gelled and rough-focused; I tested the amps and mics for the singers earlier and it’s all good. Not even lunch yet and that’s the big ones all done,” Scott pointed out.

“Yeah, okay,” Gina agreed. She leaned on the light console a moment, staring absently out as the acrobats shifted around and began practicing a tumbling move, somersaulting over one another back and forth within the bright but soft-edged lights of their onstage boundaries. “I still don’t know what the magician wants! Is he even here?”

“Oh, that Amazing Mumbles guy? Yeah, he’s…” Scott stared out at the stage, then frowned. “Huh. Well, he was there a second ago.”

“Well, whatever. If he wants lights other than general areas, he can come find me,” Gina decided, then looked quizzically at the reel-to-reel tape. “What are you doing with that dinosaur, anyway?”

“Oh, this is for the magician. It’s his theme music and a bunch of canned applause. He wants it played after every trick.”

“Are you serious?” Gina shook her head. “Canned applause? He does know this is a live show, right? Two nights and a matinee of real audience members?”

Scott shrugged. “Guess he’s not that good an act!”

Gina groaned. “Who booked these nuts, anyway?”

Together, they chorused, “Paul.” Neither of them had been thrilled about the idea of the somewhat disreputable producer striking a deal with the Sosilly’s directors to stage his charity event here, mainly because they’d heard stories from other techies about what a skinflint, domineering, foolish impresario Paul Grouper was. After meeting him last week, Gina and Scott had agreed with the others’ impressions of the fast-talking, fat-lipped, perpetually-grinning producer, but they’d volunteered to run the charity show nonetheless, both because it was a good cause and because they worried that Paul might truck half the electronics out the back door some night if not supervised: he seemed a bit fishy to them. Gina had dodged him three times already this morning, in no mood to deal with his nonsense on top of everything else.

“Ah! Ready to discuss my stupendous theatrical revival?” an unfamiliar, nasal voice drawled from the door to the booth. Gina had sworn she’d shut it behind her; she turned, puzzled to see a short, violet-skinned man in a formal tux, top hat and cape. He beamed broadly at her, though his eyes seemed squinted shut beneath heavy black brows. The booth door was not only still shut, Gina could see the deadbolt locked from where she’d sat. How had this character even entered?

“Uh…can we help you?” she asked uncertainly. Scott waved a hand from the short man to Gina.

“Hey, this is the magician, Amazing…uh…”

“The Amazing Mumford, my son!” the purple man said grandly, bowing to Gina. “Professional prestidigitator, prevaricator, and purveyor of the most astounding acts you have ever seen, my child, I guar-an-tee!”

“Uh huh,” Gina said doubtfully. “Mumford? What, after the band?”

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” the magician said, then gestured with his hat out at the lights hanging from the grid. “Now, I’ll need some nice spooky lighting, as well befits the mysterious nature of the performance I intend to give to these good people!”

“Spooky,” Gina repeated, looking at the tiny white tie and broad lapels of the old-school tux, the white spats and spit-polished shoes, the hat taller than the man’s actual head by several inches, and the self-satisfied smile. “You, uh…you do know tonight’s only the dress rehearsal, right? And we’re just doing run-throughs right now.”

“Of course, very professional of you, I approve,” the magician drawled, sounding very like W.C. Fields to Gina. All he needed was a cigar to complete the attitude. He must have realized she’d been eyeing his formal clothing, and laughed lightly. “Ahh, this old rag? No, no! I shall present myself far more nattily for the actual shows, believe me!” Leaning a bit closer to Gina, he whispered loudly, “I’ll wear the red cape for that!”

“Ooo…kay,” Gina said, and checked out the booth window. The acrobats were taking a break, so she began pulling up sliders on the console. “How about this one?” Several lights washed the stage in a central area of pale blue, surrounded by darker indigo-hued pools. “Is that spooky enough?”

“Marvelous! Spectacular! It’ll do.”

“All right,” Gina sighed, eager to get rid of the self-possessed performer and get on with the rest of her tasks. “Great. And do you want a spotlight? We have one, with an operator.”

“That would be lovely! And are you going to be my assistant?”

“What?” Gina stared agape a moment at the magician. Scott raised both brows, biting back a grin, interested in what reply Gina might make to that.

“Why, your show producer promised me a lovely, leggy, redheaded assistant! I can only presume he meant you, my dear!” the magician said, leaning toward her with a smile he probably thought was charming.

Gina stared at him speechless a long minute, trying her best not to speak aloud any of the curses going through her brain. Finally she was able to limit her reply to a simple, “No.” In the corner, pretending to fool with the reel player, Scott was shaking in silent mirth. Swallowing back her anger, Gina added, “I’m sorry. I have to run the show. Why don’t you just grab a volunteer from the audience?”

“Oh,” the magician said, looking abruptly crestfallen. “My audiences typically haven’t been that…ahem…appreciative…er…enthusiastic…that is to say, I mean…adventurous.” He frowned. “I really wanted to launch my comeback to show business with a leggy redhead! That’s the only reason I chose this dinky little theatre; Paul Grouper promised me just such a young assistant, already well-versed in stage magic!”

“Well, I’m sure he didn’t mean me,” Gina snapped. “Is there anything else we can help you with, from a technical standpoint, Mr Mumford?”

“That’s Amazing, dear child. The Amazing Mumford…” he sighed. “I suppose not.” He suddenly whipped out a business card and thrust it into Gina’s hand. “If you change your mind, ever, please give me a call!”

Gina turned the card over; it seemed to be blank, but then suddenly turned into a bouquet of dusty fake violets. Coughing, Gina threw the musty flowers aside, about to dismiss the magician from the booth: “Great, sure, listen, we really have to—“ But the magician was gone. Gina looked at Scott; he shrugged his bony shoulders, shaking his head.

“Didn’t see him!” He burst into a guffaw as Gina glared around and out into the catwalks, unable to see where the short purple gent had vanished to so abruptly. “Hey, so, have you picked out a stage name yet?”

“Shut up, Scott.” Irritated, Gina looked back at her checklist, taking out a pen to write channel four (blues) + spotlight next to her question mark for the magic act.

“I’m thinkin’ the Feisty Firebrand, Gypsy Gina! Or – or how about – News, Flashier?”

“Shut up, Scott,” Gina muttered, but her friend, too caught up in his own amusement, didn’t notice how her eyes darkened at that one.

“No, wait! NewsieFloozie!”

“Knock it off, d—it!” Gina yelled, startling Scott. As he stared at her, mouth hanging open, she ranted loudly, “I have one **** of a lot to get done today, and stupid, juvenile joking around is not going to help finish any of it! So unless you have something useful to say to me, please shut the h--- up!”

“Okay,” Scott said quietly. “It’s cool.”

Gina put her head in her hands a moment. She took several deep breaths.

“You okay?”

Gina nodded, but Scott wasn’t fooled. She heard his chair squeak, and a second later his large hands were kneading her tense shoulders. She resisted at first, then gave in with a deep sigh. Finally she mumbled, “I’m sorry. Lotta crap going on.”

“It’s cool. You, uh, want to talk later?”

“I can’t.” Gina gently pushed her friend’s hands away, straightening up, and studied her checklist again. “Have you done any work on the trees yet?”

“Only a rough. We should still do a tight-focus.”

“Okay. Why don’t we do that, then.”

Without another word, they left the light booth and trudged down to the stage floor to adjust the lighting instruments on the sidelights, which would highlight every move the dancers made during their numbers. When the technicians had gone, a gray, primly scowling Muppet with her hair in a tight bun appeared in the booth. Well! Flirting with old and young, Muppet and men alike, I see! the very disapproving Mrs Crimp, deceased, thought as she watched the fire-haired hussy emerging below on the stage. It was only too bad Aloysius hadn’t witnessed his so-called girlfriend leading that magician on, with those too-high, ripped shorts and skimpy shirt – and then accepting the roving hands of that beanpole of a blonde young man! Mrs Crimp huffed. It was just as she’d feared: the tramp consorted with everyone behind his back! She nodded grimly to herself. The uncoiled cables had been a test, a warning, but clearly it was going to take stronger measures to dissuade the tall temptress.

“Well,” Mrs Crimp muttered, “the nice thing about being dead, is that she’ll never know what sent her tumbling into the trash!”

Gathering up her skirts, the self-appointed guardian of her son’s moral fiber sailed out of the booth, determined to put an end to this affair once and for all.

“Well, I guess brown is better than so-neon-plaid-it-hurts,” Rhonda observed, giving the Newsman an appraising eye as he caught up to her and the camerasloth in the main lobby of the museum.

Newsie glowered at her, in no mood to put up with the rat’s continual jibes. “You said the blue shirt! It goes with the brown suit!” He glanced down at himself, tugging his left shirtsleeve a little more past the jacket cuff. The chocolate-shaded jacket and trousers, with bright blue pinstripes, had been one he’d picked out and Gina had approved, so he knew there was nothing wrong with it, and besides, the pale blue shirt and navy-and-brown striped tie looked very smart with it, and offset his new blue-over-black saddle Oxfords quite well.

Rhonda sighed. “Yeah, whatever. You look like a British pop star in that.”

“Never mind,” Newsie growled, peering around the cool, wide-open lobby for any sign of the scientists they were supposed to be interviewing. “Where are our experts?”

“Dunno. Eh, these lab geek types…maybe they got so caught up in poking through bones they forgot they were supposed to meet us here!”

“I hope not,” Newsie sighed. “We have to keep the special report going another couple of days until the live feed Saturday.” He shot her a glare. “You did get a second camera for Saturday, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, the aardvark says he’ll be there. Sheesh. What kinda amateur you take me for?” His news producer gave him an equally affronted glare, then looked around once more and reached for her cell phone. It looked expensive; Newsie wondered how on earth Steve Jobs came up with technology that tiny… “Hang on. Dang it…straight to voicemail! Ugh! I hate scientists!”

Newsie reflected that Rhonda’s antipathy seemed reasonable to him; he wondered whether, like Rizzo, she’d ever been held captive in an experimental laboratory. Before he could ask, a tall-headed, pale-felted, large-mouthed man in a white lab coat burst out of a door marked ‘employees only’ and hurried straight to them. Rhonda cringed as one of the Muppet’s large, rubber-gloved hands reached forward, but all he did was grab the Newsman’s hand and pump it happily. “Oh, there you are! I was wondering why you were so late!”

“Late?” Newsie asked, taken aback. “Er…I thought you were meeting us at one!”

“Huh? Oh, no, no, no! Didn’t Mulch call you with the change of plans? Oh, never mind, you’re here now, so let’s do it!” the Muppet curator bubbled cheerfully, waving his hands as he practically danced in place. Newsie and Rhonda traded a bemused look.

“Uh, Dr Van Neuter, I had thought we’d be interviewing the two scientists who assembled most of the exhibits,” Newsie ventured as they followed the enthusiastic man back through the employee entrance and into the fluorescent-lit, confusing corridors of the museum bowels.

“Oh, really? You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Oh. Well! Dr Abercrombie Fish, who discovered the Muppeti quidquid, was supposed to fly in yesterday from Des Moines, where he was attending some sort of fundraiser for hurting children – at least, I think that’s what his secretary said. But somehow his pilot got lost and the plane seems to have vanished!” Van Neuter said, his voice growing hushed a moment, relishing the mystery.

Newsie started. “That’s terrible! Where was it last spotted?”

“Over Papua New Guinea. But not to worry! The natives haven’t eaten anyone in almost seventy-five years!” Van Neuter bounced along cheerfully, flinging open the door to a storage room full of dusty crates and racks of specimen jars. Newsie shrank away from the weird, mostly unidentifiable things floating in formaldehyde, some tinted in bright colors. Rhonda poked his leg.

“Where’d they get this guy, ‘Up with Geekle?’” she hissed at him.

“He’s supposed to be an expert in his field,” Newsie muttered back.

“Yeah, left field,” she snorted. “Hey Tommy. Film this. We can use it as filler.” Obediently the sloth adjusted the camera, panning around the crowded aisle of preserved things as they walked. Newsie shuddered. “Or sell it to the Jaycees as a haunted house idea,” Rhonda added thoughtfully.

“Uh, Dr Van Neuter, what about the other contributor?” Newsie asked.

“Hm? Oh! Well, Dr Bennigan O’Hara O’doul Friday says he’s contracted a virus and can’t make it.” Van Neuter hummed to himself as he bobbled around to the opposite side of a large desk crammed into the tight space between seven or eight packing crates, and promptly the stethoscope around his neck went flinging off to the side, sticking oddly to the wooden side of a long crate marked “US GOVT TOP SECRET.” When Rhonda and Newsie stared at this, Van Neuter chuckled awkwardly and tugged on the stethoscope. “Heh! Heh! Darned thing…frickle frackling magnetic charge…unnngh!” He yanked it loose with some difficulty, throwing it away to the other side, and beamed at the news crew. “Now, where were we?”

“A virus? Seriously? Isn’t that the lamest excuse for missing an interview?” Rhonda griped, hopping into the only available chair, a tiny folding campstool which looked too small for anyone else anyway. Uncomfortably, Newsie glanced around at the shelves of jars and the oddly magnetic crate, which seemed to be trying to tug the spiral metal binding of his reporter’s notepad out of his pocket. He slapped a hand over it. The camerasloth stayed a few feet back, but still seemed to be feeling the pull on the camera, and the boom mic swayed a bit as he set it up overhead. Rhonda snapped at Van Neuter, “What is it with you lab geeks? Didn’t he realize this is going to be televised nationwide to all the affiliates? He didn’t want his face on TV?”

“Not with green fur sprouting all over him,” Van Neuter responded amiably. “He seemed very up, which is good. I always say a positive attitude is the best weapon against any illness! I spoke to him earlier right before his lips turned to clamshells.”

Newsie shuddered, startled; even Rhonda blanched. Oblivious, Van Neuter smiled at them. “So! I will be your guest today! I’m sure your viewers will be much more impressed that you got to interview the actual curator of the whooooole exhibit!” He looked around for an intercom button, but if there was one, it was hidden by the stacks of lab journals and random computer parts strewing his desk. “Oh where is that darned thing… Muuuuullllch! Mulch Mulch Mulch!” he yelled suddenly. Newsie wondered whether this was the odd man’s way of cursing until a lumbering blue quasimodo suddenly popped into view. “Oh there you are! Mulch, bring us some coffee!”

“Aw ruh roongenuh urgh awwah!” the blue Muppet argued, gesturing at his boss. Newsie couldn’t help but stare at the assistant’s head; that had to be the worst toupée he’d ever seen. It looked like a pile of fake Easter grass.

“Well then go get some! Honestly, what do I pay you for?” Van Neuter cried, waving his long arms in frustration.

“Ruh awaaraghh oonga!” Mulch grumbled, but shambled away again. “Ruh!” he added as he left.

“You’ll be lucky to get intern wages after that little quip!” Van Neuter called back, then returned his attention to the others. “So! All set up? Great! Ask away!”

Newsie looked at Rhonda; she shrugged, rolling her eyes, and gestured at the sloth to begin filming. Newsie tried to get himself into a more professional frame of mind. “Ahem. Uh…Dr Van Neuter, what can you tell us about the proto-Muppet specimens on display in this groundbreaking exhibit?”

“Groundbreaking! Ahah! That’s very good!” the curator exclaimed; Newsie remembered the camera was on, and refrained from giving Rhonda an incredulous look. Van Neuter beamed, grabbed the boom mic, and dragged it down to his mouth. A squeal came from the portable mixer the sloth carried. “Well! The so called proto-Muppets, or ‘Muppet Hobbits’ as we in the know like to call them…”

Rhonda gestured at Newsie furiously; feeling like an idiot for having to do it, Newsie gently pushed the mic out of Van Neuter’s face, shaking his head. “Like, ow, dude,” Tommy the sloth muttered, his brain catching up to his ears even as the feedback quit.

“Oh, sorry! Like I was saying, the proto-Muppets were a mysterious race! We know they lived in caves, where they had some form of organized religion, and made beautiful tools and personal ornaments! A very advanced species for the time!”

“Do we have examples of any of the tools this enigmatic race of Muppets may have used?” Newsie asked.

“Oh, certainly!” Van Neuter scrabbled through his desk, producing something that looked like a vegetable peeler. “We have this! Note, if you will, the careful craftsmanship, the curved form, the –ow—sharp blade! Dr Fish had speculated these early Muppets may have been carnivores, and this was used for scraping the flesh off a three-day-old carcass of a Muppet elephant, left rotting for days in—“

“That’s a vegetable peeler,” Rhonda interrupted.

“What?” The curator stared at the instrument, small eyes widening. “Oh! Hah hah! So it is!” He tossed the thing wildly away, but the magnetic crate attracted it with an audible zzhhhhooop. “Silly me! Well, that really isn’t my area of expertise, you know! I’m really more into the biology than the anthropology. But Mulch here has been working on a translation of the proto-Muppet language!”

Everyone shuffled aside as the grouchy hunchback distributed paper cups of strong-smelling black coffee, muttering until he heard his name being mentioned. “Uhhrah? Awrh,” he nodded, his expression turning proudly complacent. Behind his back, Newsie and Rhonda each sniffed at their darkly ominous coffees, glanced at one another – Rhonda had been given a huge cup, Newsie a tiny one – silently traded cups, sniffed again, and as one set the dubious refreshment aside on the crates.

Newsie tried resume the interview. “Er…Mr Mulch? What can you tell us about this ancient Muppet language?”

He regretted the question immediately. The blue hunchback hogged the camera, elbowing Newsie aside so he was half-squashed against a box. “Ruh rah rahrah runga awoo ungh errah!” Mulch growled importantly, waving his hands to make whatever point he was making.

“Oh, you did not go to Cornell! You padded your résumé!” Dr Van Neuter snapped, and an argument broke out loudly between the two of them as to Mulch’s actual linguistic qualifications. Rhonda smacked her face with a paw. Desperately Newsie tried to regain control of the interview.

“That’s…that’s great. Thank you.” He flinched when the hunchback swung meaty arms and growled something which might have been protest, or insult, or merely acknowledgment, before trudging away. Straightening his jacket collar and tie, Newsie turned back to Van Neuter. “Uh, so, Doctor. Your background is as a biologist?”

“Veterinarian, actually. But I am absolutely fascinated by the Muppasaurs!”

Rhonda, out of camerasight, shook her head, giving up. “Where the heck is that cat when I could really use him…”

“They, uh, they certainly are impressive fossils,” Newsie said, hoping against hope to obtain some kind of usable footage from this. “How many species are featured in the new exhibit?”

“Oh, a bazillion!” Van Neuter exclaimed happily, then revised his estimate. “Hm. No, actually, I think it’s only about twelve. But that does include the amazing, ginormous, absolutely vicious specimen of Muppetasaurus Tex! Isn’t that one just to die for? Die for! Get it?”

“Tell us about the history of that particular fossil skeleton,” Newsie offered. “I understand it was the first complete example of the species ever unearthed!”

“Oh, who cares about that? It’s big, it’s mean, it’s dead!” Van Neuter cried, throwing his hands in the air. “Now what really interests me is the DNA I’ve extracted from the bone marrow of that stupendously massive thigh bone! Did you know,” he bent over the desk, staring wildly at the Newsman, “that Muppasaur DNA is still present in their living descendants, Muppet birds? Isn’t that amazing? Why, with the right techniques, you could activate those dormant genes and turn a simple Muppet bird into a hideous, raving, slathering Muppasaur with huge teeth!”

“Erk!” Newsie gulped involuntarily, jerking back, but suddenly Van Neuter lunged over the desk, grabbing Newsie’s long, straight, pointed nose.

“Why, all I need is a Muppet bird to inject a little prehistoric DNA into, to trigger the retro-genetic engineering process! You’re not a bird, are you?” He twisted Newsie’s nose this way and that, peering closely at it.

Outraged, the Newsman yanked free, touching his fingertips to his bruised nose. “No!” he honked angrily.

“Oh,” Van Neuter said, crestfallen. “Looked like a beak to me. My mistake!” He turned to Rhonda and the sloth, frowning. “You two aren’t birdish at all, are you?”

“ThanksDocthat’sallthetimewehavetoday,” Rhonda squeaked in one breath, grabbing Newsie’s coatsleeve. “Cut!”

“Cut?” Van Neuter repeated, eyes brightening.

“Ack! Run!” Rhonda shrieked, bolting for the exit.

“It does not look like a beak!” Newsie snapped at the curator, nervously backing away as well. When he was clear of the tight area around the desk, he turned and hastened after his producer. The sloth slowly lowered the camera, looked at Van Neuter, shrugged, and began packing up the equipment.

“Oh,” Van Neuter said, disappointed. “Oh well. Bye-bye! Enjoy the exhibit!” He looked smugly at Mulch as the assistant peered after the slouching sloth. “Well! That should prove to you I can so do well on TV!”

“Ungah row row raffahunga!” Mulch snorted, starting yet another argument.

“What! I do not need camera makeup! I have perfect felt!...”

In the relatively fresh air of the museum lobby, Newsie paused to take a deep breath after running all the way out. Rhonda was leaning against a pillar, panting, and gave him an angry look as he approached. “What did I tell you? I hate scientists!”

Newsie didn’t have anything to add to that. “Can you…do you…do you think we can use any of that?” he puffed.

Rhonda sighed. “Maybe. I should be paid extra for all the editing I have to do for your reports!” She shook her head, looked around, and pointed at the barosaurus display just inside the Central Park West entrance. “Creepy things. That’s what the viewers wanna see. Let’s go get a shot of one of the smaller Muppasaurs for your stand-up and then get the footage back to the station for cutting and pasting.”

“All right,” Newsie agreed, beckoning to the sloth just now emerging from the employee door. He frowned at his notes. “I’m going to have to redo the intro completely! None of what I wrote could possibly prepare anyone for that ranting vet!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rhonda promised him as they set off for the next floor. “I’ll cut the ranting. We’ll just shoot more of the exhibit. Teaser shots, and you’ll voiceover.”

“Voiceover?” Newsie frowned again. That was the lowest form of airtime a network correspondent could get.

Rhonda shrugged. “Hey, your back was to the camera for the whole interview anyway – unless you want we should use the bit with him grabbing you by the schnozz. Nice profile, by the way.”

“Absolutely not!” Newsie fumed. “You know, I am sick of everyone going out of their way to humiliate me!”

“What?” Surprised, Rhonda stopped, but Newsie stomped past her, still furious. “Newsie, no one’s—“

“’Pretty in Plaid’? ‘Newsgeek’? ‘El Pineapple’?” Newsie was close to shouting. “You think it’s funny? You don’t think I put my heart and soul into this job every day?”

“Whoa,” Rhonda said, scurrying after him. “Hey, look, I thought we were friends! Friends kid around, right? I wasn’t trying to—“

“Well I don’t kid!” Newsie roared, whirling around to yell in the rat’s face. Rhonda flinched at the full blast of anger from that wide mouth, then stood up taller, set her paws on her hips, and glared at him.

“Fine! Fine!” she squeaked angrily. “Ya don’t have to blow my fur off!” She smoothed down her blouse, tossed her nose in the air, and huffed at him, “Forget it! I’m just gonna go back and start editing your wonderful, professional, perfect little interview, and if and when you wanna join me in recording something constructive you’re welcome to it!” She immediately headed back down the stairs to the lobby, muttering as she went: “Sheesh! Give a reporter a little face time with the camera, they start thinking they’re frog’s gift to network news!”

Tommy paused, looking slowly from Rhonda to Newsie and back, shrugged again, and started lugging the equipment after the rat. The Newsman felt a pang of guilt. Kidding or no, his producer, editor, and yes, friend was indeed a pro at her job, and he had no right to yell at her as he’d seen the station manager do to the coffee interns. He realized he was still smarting from the conflict this morning. What the heck am I going to do? I don’t know how to make Mother like Gina – I couldn’t even get her to like ME! he thought, instantly depressed again. Come to think of it, it wasn’t like his mother to let an issue drop for even an hour, and it had been several since he’d had to deal directly with her. Where was she? This did not bode well at all! What if she was harassing Gina? Then he’d have to try to calm down both of them! Shivering unhappily, he looked all around, but saw no sign of the ghost. Of course, that means nothing, he realized. She could be right here and you’d never know it until she said something. If she was good at that when she was alive, how much better is she now? The prospect was far from comforting. His nervous temperament had been well-earned after numerous incidents of his mother sneaking up behind him to try and catch him doing something he shouldn’t be, such as taking a cookie from her stash of them. He’d almost never actually defied her, despite her constant belief to the contrary. Well, he thought grimly, then it’s about time you did.

Taking a deep breath, he glanced warily around once more, and whispered to the air, “Mother, if you’re here, I’m not giving her up. Not ever!” He waited, but no reply came. Only slightly relieved, he ran after Rhonda. “Rhonda! Wait! I’m sorry!”

The magician had been trying a coin trick for almost ten minutes now; Gina hoped this wasn’t the extent of his repertoire or it would be a very long evening. Although she’d reminded the strange Muppet this was only the dry run-through for the tech crew to get their routine in place, and so he didn’t really need to do a complete act, Mumford had insisted upon performing “just one trick,” and announced he was going to make a gold coin appear in an audience member’s pocket. After numerous waves of his wand, and repeated pronouncements of some nonsense about peanut butter sandwiches, the coin he’d tossed into the air and made to vanish had yet to turn up anywhere.

“Okay already,” Gina growled. “Can we just move on?”

Scott snickered, slumped back in an audience seat at the edge of the stage while Gina paced the aisle impatiently. His long outstretched arms showed off a multitude of tattoos, including the newest one on his left forearm, a rendering of the Great Gonzo dancing on a tightrope. When Gina had asked about the odd body art, Scott had merely said “That’s how I feel most days.” The sudden drag in the tech run-through felt more like an endless parade of elephants than a tightrope act to Gina. Scott asked now, “You want I should tell him to get the heck off the stage?”

“No,” she decided, an idea forming. “No, I’m just going to send on the acrobats. He’ll get out of the way or they’ll tumble on him!”

“Uh…the coin will now appear…in the hands of that spry young fellow there!” Mumford said, gesturing up with his wand at one of the other volunteer electricians currently adjusting the hanging angle of one of the downlights above the stage. “I wave my wand, I say the magic words – á la peanut butter sandwiches! – and the coin is now –“

He looked up expectantly. The electrician shook his head and went back to his task. Disappointed, Mumford’s arms dropped to his sides. “I just don’t understand it! That trick usually works!” He frowned. “Maybe I shouldn’t have used a subway token painted gold…”

“Hey acrobats! Acrobats next please!” Gina yelled into the curtained-off section which served in lieu of an actual wing in the square performance space.

“Wait! I know! I shall pull a rabbit out of my hat!”

“Do they still use real rabbits for that trick?” Scott wondered.

“I doubt this guy is union- or PETA-approved,” Gina grumbled, watching the tumblers come running on, disrupting Mumford’s endless rehearsal. She glanced at her watch, pulling her hair back yet again. It didn’t seem to want to stay in place today…yet another in a series of irritants she could really do without. “After these guys, I say we break for dinner, and come back and just do a spot check for the steel drum player and a dimmer check before the full dress. We don’t have time for much else now.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Scott agreed, getting to his feet and stretching. Mumford, ousted from his spot, wandered away, still complaining that he wasn’t finished practicing. Gina ignored him, looking instead at the way the lights hit the acrobats, watching for any dim spots which would necessitate a refocus. As she moved around to the back of them to see whether any of the front lights were shining too harshly into the eyes of the performers, she felt a snap at the back of her head. The hair scrunchie bounced away, and all her hair came sliding down.

“Ow! What the—“ Angrily, she bent to retrieve the somehow-snapped band of lace before anyone tripped on it, and heard Scott’s frightened bellow:

“HEADS!”

Years of training paid off; she ducked to one side just as the lighting instrument came crashing to the stage floor, right where she’d been standing. The acrobats, thrown off balance just as they were attempting their pyramid-hoist, faltered and the heavy guy at the top toppled over, knocking Gina down as he fell. Scott was there immediately, helping everyone to their feet, then yelling up at the techie on the catwalk: “Hey! Safety cable! Safety cable! Does that mean anything to you?” Gina brushed herself off, her knees bruised, her anger rising rapidly. Every light in the building was supposed to be attached to the grid not only by their heavy clamps, but with a loop of strong airline cable as well to prevent just such an accident.

“Dang, man, I’m sorry,” the electrician called down, sounding shaken. “It was safety-cabled! I was just slidin’ it along the bar and the clamp slipped and the cable broke!”

Gina and Scott looked at each other. The acrobats milled around uncertainly like spooked sheep in tights. “It’s okay,” Scott told them. “We were gonna break for dinner anyway. Why don’t you guys take a break too? See you at rehearsal later.” Grumbling, the tumblers crowded off. Scott studied his friend. “Uh…you okay?”

“Fine. Great. Just lucking fuvely,” she snarled. That was an awful lot of accidents for one day. First the cable tripping her, then her scrunchie, the light, and the acrobats all at once? Worried, she touched the copper beads strung around her neck. It’s been fine for months…but what if Newsie inherited his curse thing from his mother? The discovery that the Newsman had a psychokinetic energy field surrounding him at all times, which caused the various mishaps during his News Flash job, and that Gina also had a similar energy which combined badly with her Muppet beloved’s, had been a serious problem for them before, causing all manner of unhappy events until Dr Honeydew and Beaker had figured out the cause and made this special necklace for her. She’d worn it constantly since. What if the nasty old biddy is giving off something as well, and messing up the field balance, or whatever Bunsen called it? She glanced worriedly at the grid again, wincing at the remembered pain of having fallen from it during that accident-prone time.

“C’mon, why don’t we go get some eats? Ginger beer’s on me,” Scott offered, trying to lighten the mood.

Gina shook her head slowly. “No…you go ahead. I’ll grab something on the way back.”

“The way back? From where?”

“The Muppet Theatre. I think I need to go have a chat with some mad scientists,” Gina said, and strode out of the Sosilly before Scott could respond.

 

[newsmanfan]

Part Five

Just as she reached the closed door marked with the international symbol for radiation hazard and a sign proclaiming COLD FUSION IN PROGRESS – PLEASE KNOCK FIRST!, a loud explosion sounded from within. Concerned, Gina paused, then carefully knocked on the door. It swung open, then dropped off the top hinge. Dr Bunsen Honeydew stood in the opening, coughing and waving the smoke from his smoldering lab coat away from his face. “Oh…Miss Broucek! What a nice surprise! Beaker, look who’s here! Isn’t that nice?”

Wordlessly, the singed lab assistant poked his head out above Bunsen’s. Coughing as well, he waggled his fingers in a wave. Gina nodded at him. “Uh, hi, guys. Are you…are you busy?”

“Oh, well, not terribly. We were just trying to extract the elusive cold fusion facilitator formula from carrot juice and paradimethylaminobenzaldehyde. The formula…” Bunsen coughed again. “The formula needs just a teensy tweak!” Beaker shot his lab partner an incredulous look, then swiveled his head back and forth. “Do come in. How’s the psychokinetic field anticharge portable modulating device holding up?” Bunsen trotted back inside the lab; Gina followed uncertainly.

“Well, that’s…that’s what I came to talk to you about.” Beaker chivalrously cleared a stack of papers off a lab stool for Gina to sit. “Thank you…um, I think we have a problem.”

“Oh? Beaker, would you fetch me the psychokinetic energy meter?” As Beaker rummaged through a large toybox, tossing aside the container of test strips for acidic titration, the self-adjusting slide rule they’d invented but never seemed able to sell the patent for, the remains of the gorilla sensor alarm, and, inexplicably, a rubber duckie, Bunsen gently lifted the copper beads off Gina’s skin, peering at them with his glasses raised, then lowered again. “Hmmm…well, structurally, the circuit seems to be whole! What sort of psychokinetic events has the Newsman been experiencing?”

“It’s not him, it’s me,” Gina began. She told them about the unusual string of bad luck she’d had today. “Uh…his mother showed up this morning. I was wondering if maybe her being around would throw off your field thingy.”

Beaker found the psychokinetic energy detector finally, turning it on and scanning Gina with it. It beeped softly, steadily, and Gina tried not to fidget while Beaker swept it all along her body. He shook his head. Bunsen peered at the meter readout on the instrument. “Well,” Bunsen mused, “your theory is sound in principle, especially if the Newsman’s energy was an inherited trait! However, the field seems to be intact and I see no evidence of recent energy spikes around you. I can happily assure you, Miss Broucek, that the specific-gravity-calibrated personal field anticharge is still in place and operating within normal parameters!”

“Mormal marameters!” Beaker echoed, nodding.

“Great,” Gina sighed.

“I beg your pardon,” Bunsen said, “but I was under the impression that the Newsman’s mother had, er, passed on some years ago?”

“Oh yeah. She’s dead. Does that change your calculations?” Gina asked, frowning.

Beaker shivered, his head yanking down into his collar. “Oh, my!” Bunsen said, but then shook his head. “No, no…energy is energy. As you know, energy can neither be created nor destroyed, just morphed into something even stranger!” He looked again at the readout. “No, it would still register as a disturbance in your PKE field if the, er, late Mrs Newsman was responsible for throwing off your manifestational balance.”

Gina started, the obvious explanation suddenly hitting her. “Responsible! Oh…” She muttered a long string of expletives which made Bunsen blush and Beaker cringe. “Oh, you bet she’s responsible! I think I know what’s going on.” She frowned at the scientists. “Do you know anything about poltergeists?”

“Meep!” Beaker flinched, then began waving his hands in an “oh no” gesture. Bunsen put a thoughtful finger to his lips.

“Hmmm…well, Beaker and I have done a little ghostbusting in our time; right, Beakie?” He smiled, ignoring Beaker’s increasingly fervent denials. “I take it you think the ghost of the Newsman’s mother has been pulling pranks on you?”

“Pranks? I think she’s trying to kill me!” Gina snapped.

“Oh. Oh dear…”

“Listen. Can you guys make me something to send a dead thing back where it belongs?” Gina demanded.

“How very intriguing!” Bunsen nodded. “That sounds like a wonderful idea! Don’t you think so, Beaker?”

Beaker considered it warily. “Meep memoll mee meepie mee?” he asked.

Bunsen laughed lightly. “Well, of course we’ll have to field-test it! How else are we going to know whether it works?” Beaker sighed deeply, shrugging. Bunsen gave Gina a puzzled look. “Ah, Miss Broucek…not that I, as a scientist, put much faith in, well, supernatural things, you understand…but…doesn’t your heritage have some experience with this sort of thing already?”

“I can’t exorcise her,” Gina growled, kicking the lab table in front of her. “Death won’t let me. And if she is trying to get her son back by offing me, she’s got another think coming!”

“Meep!” Beaker said, stepping back. He exchanged a worried look with Bunsen.

“Er…well, of course, if you’d like us to help, we’re always happy to design a new toy, so to speak,” Honeydew offered.

“I don’t need a toy,” Gina said darkly. “I need a weapon! This is war.”

Ten minutes to air; the Newsman paced his dressing-room at the KRAK studios, too anxious to sit. He’d been unsatisfied with the report Rhonda had managed to edit out of the ridiculous footage from earlier in the afternoon, and had recorded his voiceover, which would play over a montage of shots Tony had taken of a couple of the smaller Muppasaurs and the walled-off gallery where the exhibit was shaping up. As a means of piquing interest, it felt terribly lacking to Newsie. He knew Rhonda agreed, but there was little either of them could do without the expert interviews they’d hoped for. Newsie’s frustration had only increased when several phone calls he’d placed to paleontologists and anthropologists at Columbia, NYU, City College, and even SUNY had been met with brush-offs by secretaries and assistants. He couldn’t even get a non-Muppet expert to comment. Now here he was, about to go on-air with the other Muppet news, and he’d have to stand by largely helpless and watch while his carefully-planned special report flopped. He could already hear the massive clicking sound of thousands of bored viewers switching channels. To heck with scientists; to heck with exhibits and Muppasaurs! Angrily sighing, he sipped from a bottle of Muppawater, which was sponsoring the exhibit. Better enjoy it while you can, he thought; After tonight, they’ll probably pull their support of this turkey. No more free bottles of Crushed Orange for you.

Rhonda tapped on the door, peeking in. “Hey, you ready?”

“Sure. Why not,” Newsie answered, and strode out of the room after her.

“Cheer up. KRAS is showing that stupid dentist-wannabe reality show against us tonight; I bet almost nobody will even be watching us to begin with.” Rhonda gave him a smile; Newsie simply threw her a glower. She shrugged, sighing. “Eh. Whaddayagonnado. Just make sure you get the rest of the news right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I always do!” Newsie snapped.

Rhonda frowned. “Oh, look who’s still touchy! Did you forget suddenly that if it wasn’t for me you’d be stumbling around half-blind in Pittsburg?”

The Newsman stopped in the corridor to the studio soundstage, took a deep breath, and counted to ten silently while Rhonda tapped her foot, waiting. Finally he mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

“You darned well should be,” the rat sniffed. “Now hurry up!”

Trying to dampen the inner fire he sensed still on the verge of flaring up, the Newsman entered the studio, and suffered himself to be miked and soundchecked and the sharp edge of his long yellow-gold nose patted with a powder puff by the makeup artist. He took his place in his own chair just off the news set, taking his notes from a jacket pocket to go over them one more time. “Five minutes to air!” the stage manager called.

Rhonda suddenly reappeared at Newsie’s knee. “Uh, I forgot to tell you: when the stage manager cues you during the opening, smile, okay?”

“What?”

“They’re trying out a new opening, showing a closeup of everyone’s face as your name is announced over the lead-in. They want to do it live every night, you know, sort of a ‘here-we-are-tonight’ thing. So just do me a favor and pretend you’re happy to be here, okay?” With a final glare, the rat hurried away to the production booth to oversee the cueing of his report footage.

Newsie sighed, tucking his notes away and watching the crew hurrying about, readying last-minute camera angles and turning on the rest of the bright set lights. Smile? She has to be kidding! Feeling far from happy, he waited for the signal from the stage manager. Anchor Bart Fargo strolled by, hardly breaking a sweat, his dark hair sleekly styled. He paused, then looked over at the Newsman. “Uh, hey, Newsguy?”

Newsie glanced up, surprised. The anchor usually didn’t bother to even acknowledge the Muppet reporter’s presence when the cameras weren’t on him. Fargo pointed at Newsie’s suit. “That new?”

“Er…I guess so,” Newsie replied, trying to recall if he’d worn this particular outfit on the air before now.

Fargo frowned, but only lightly, not wishing to put a wrinkle in his baby-smooth skin. “Well, don’t wear it again! It’s upstaging me.” Without another glance, the star anchor of KRAK News continued along to the news desk and slid into his seat behind it, smiling at the sportscaster and the weather girl.

Fuming, the Newsman scowled after him. Suddenly the director was gesturing at the cameramen, and the stage manager called out, “And…live in ten, nine, eight…”

Newsie tried to straighten his tie and cuffs and quickly smoothed down his auburn hair. “LIVE from the Channel Forty-two Studios, it’s KRAK Big Apple News at Six! With anchor Bart Fargo…” the announcer belted out; Fargo turned on a dazzling white smile. “Sports with Rog ‘the Stodge’ Franklin! Weather with Susan Popatopolis! And Special Muppet Correspondent the Newsman.” Newsie gave the camera pointing at him what he hoped was a smile. The theme music swirled down, and Fargo, beaming still, took over the lead.

“Good evening! Our top story tonight is President Obama’s Middle East trip, which had to be cut short today when a suicide bomber was apprehended just outside the airfield gates at Kandahar!”

Newsie listened, sobered, realizing serious news really put his own problems in perspective. After all, his mother might be hard to deal with, but at least no one was in danger of dying…he hoped. Newsie gulped, recalling Death’s vague threat. ‘Or else?’ What exactly does that mean? Would he really take me away? Would he take Gina? The thought frightened him immensely. No, no, no! That has to be against the rules, doesn’t it? So what could he do? Another awful possibility came to mind. What if he just leaves Mother here, and I have to live with her all over again? Oh, please, no! Gina, he realized, would never accept that. She’d kick him out of the apartment. He’d be alone…well, unfortunately, not quite alone. Oh no. Please, please, please, not that! How could he persuade his mother to back down?

Worried, he sat there in growing nausea until suddenly he realized his name had been mentioned. A moving flurry of floor personnel indicated the show was on a commercial break, and the stage manager was gesturing at him to get onstage; he’d be up next. Swallowing down his despair, Newsie hurried onto the set, stepping up onto his low platform so he’d be seen above the human-sized desk. Fargo hissed at him, “Camera hog! Go back to your ugly plaid!” He then smiled at the camera and pretended he’d just been chatting amiably with the Newsman as the feed switched back to them. “Now, here with the second of his special reports on the new exhibit at the Museum of Natural History, is our own Muppet Newsman! So what’s going on at the museum, Newsie?”

The Newsman struggled to get his glare under control, hating Fargo for using his nickname after such a nasty directive. “Ahem! Er. Well, Barty, quite a lot of interesting things!” He felt pleased when Fargo frowned; only an instant, but a frown nonetheless. “I visited the museum earlier today and spoke with the exhibit’s curator, Dr Philip Van Neuter…” He really, really hoped Rhonda’s editing job had turned out better than the actual interview. “He shared some fascinating facts about ancient Muppets.” They cut to the taped, highly edited footage: the teaser shots of the mummy, Van Neuter saying “They had some form of organized religion, and made beautiful tools and personal ornaments! A very advanced species for the time!” Cut to the weird objects next to the mummy inside its case, and some other quick shots of artifacts on display.

Fargo leaned over to whisper to the Newsman, “Real nice report. What high school student did you pay to put it together?”

Flushed with anger, Newsie retorted quietly, “Uh…uh…nice hair. How many barrels of crude went into the styling gel?”

They glared at one another. The Newsman’s voiceover sounded faintly in the studio while the footage segued from the ancient Muppet artifacts to one of the Muppasaurs, a tiny thing which vaguely resembled a chicken skeleton…if chickens had enormous head-crest bones and small, sharp claws on their wingtips. “Mysterious Muppet civilizations won’t be the only things on display! The exhibit also features never-before-shown Muppet fossils!” The film cut to Van Neuter exclaiming happily about DNA and birds, but stopped just short of him grabbing Newsie by the nose. As the view changed back to more fast teaser shots of the various skeletons, including a very brief glimpse of the M. Tex’s toothy jaws, his voiceover finished up: “Birds…or terrible lizards? Science may still be determining the classifications, but I’m sure we can all agree these amazing specimens fall under the heading of ‘not-to-be-missed!’”

“Get bent, Muppet,” Fargo snarled at him.

Shocked, the Newsman snapped back, “Get flattened, stuffed shirt!” only a second before the feed went live once more. Quickly he tried to erase the glower from his face. “Uh…so! Be sure to check out this wonderful exhibit for yourself this weekend at the museum! Ahem…” Unnerved, he had to check his notes, squinting in the bright studio lights. “In other Muppet-related news: Following last month’s landmark Supreme Court decision ruling the Frog Scouts could not discriminate against toads, a citizen’s action group representing salamanders, skinks, and cute fluffy…bunnies,” Newsie blinked at that one, then forged on, “Er…has…has demanded they all be allowed to join as well. The Frog Scouts declined comment.” He flipped his notes to the next item, then looked back at the camera, trying to project a confidence and coolness he certainly didn’t feel. “A new development in the Marvin Suggs paternity suit! Test results released today conclusively prove that Suggs is not the father of any of the Benson’s Babies. The Muppaphones went on record for their leader, saying, quote, ‘He has never, nor will he ever, have the opportunity to father anything.’ Ahem…” No more items. Relieved, Newsie tossed it over to the weathergirl. “And now for Susan with your KRAK local forecast! Susan?”

As the weathergirl smiled from her stance in front of the bluescreen which would, on the viewer’s televisions, show up as a computer-generated weather map, Newsie stepped down from his platform, retreating to his chair. He wouldn’t be needed again until the closing bit, when he was expected to stand up with the rest of them and pretend to be having a nice chat as the credits rolled. He hated the falsity of it. He’d known he was in for a certain amount of pretense when he was rehired by the network earlier this year, but he’d never expected this kind of prejudice, jealousy, or whatever was prompting Fargo to be nasty to him. All this over my clothing? How shallow is this guy, anyway? Newsie wondered. He shot the anchor a glare as Fargo went past him, leaving the set, probably heading for the bathroom to make sure his hair was pretty. Sunk in gloom, he was startled when the news director suddenly loomed over him.

“Hey, fill in!”

“What?” Confused, Newsie stared up at the director. The man was gesturing furiously at the set, though looking at Newsie.

“Fill in for Bart! He’s throwing up in the men’s room,” the director said.

Newsie blinked in surprise. “He’s…he’s sick?”

The director sighed impatiently. “Yeah. Someone switched his coffee for Pink Tummy Sludge. He didn’t notice it until he’d drunk two cups. Get up there!”

“Uh…er…but I…”

“What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Just read off the prompter! Geez, a second-stringer who doesn’t jump at the chance to get in that seat? What’s the matter with you?” the director harangued him, and Newsie, blushing, scrambled from his chair and up into the anchor’s seat. It was too low for him. He stared out at the tech crew, but only a couple of seconds remained until they would be back from commercial again; no time to switch it out for his platform! Thinking fast, he stood up in the chair, fingertips lightly touching the news desk for balance. The director raised his hands to the ceiling. The stage manager cued Newsie; the camera was on him!

“Er…welcome back to Big Apple News on KRAK! This is your Muppet Newsman, filling in for Bart Fargo, who is…er…” He glanced at the sports guy, who shook his head slightly. Improvising, Newsie finished, “Who is on special assignment. Ah…in other news tonight…” He squinted out at the prompter screen, wishing he had notes to read from instead; now that he actually had a prompter feed, he found himself uneasy at the prospect of misreading the scrolling print. “Councilman Venkman today protested Mayor Bloomberg’s new city ordinance which states that no more than two hundred ectoplasmic entities may be confined in the same containment grid at one time, for humane reasons! Councilman Venkman reportedly said that enforcing such a law would bring about, quote, ‘a disaster of Biblical proportions.’ The Mayor has responded to Venkman’s concerns, ‘Maybe the Councilman should spend some time trapped in there before he decides what compassionate incarceration really is!’” Gulping nervously, the Newsman paused before going on to the next story. “The hunt for the serial dumpster thief known only as ‘Lefty’ continues tonight! Police thought they had the most-wanted criminal cornered in an alleyway behind Clifford’s Soy Chicken and Waffles restaurant earlier this evening, only to find the thief had vanished into thin air –whooof!” He gasped as a small but surprisingly heavy Muppet fell from the ceiling onto him.

“Never take me alive, coppers! Never! Aaaagh!” Lefty cried as Newsie shoved him away, and the studio securitymen immediately pounced. As they dragged the diminutive trenchcoated con man from the studio, he shrieked, “They’re MY nickels! MINE! Youse guys’ll never find ‘em!”

Shaking, Newsie tried to regain his composure, looking back at the prompter. “Er…well…it seems the thief is now in custody; a KRAK exclusive!” Nothing else showed up on the screen for him to read. Relieved, he was about to turn to the sportscaster when an intern darted up, crouched out of camerasight, and handed the Newsman a note. “Oh…ah…a breaking news item!” He read it cold. “The latest statistics from the city’s Department of Moral Security reveal that too many New Yorkers are now living in sin with vastly unsuitable partners!” Choking to a halt, Newsie looked out at the studio; sure enough, his mother stood coldly in the center of it. Everyone else became aware of the gray old lady at the same moment. “Er, uh – and now for major league scores!” Before the camera even cut to ‘the Stodge,’ Newsie had jumped from the chair and bolted for his dressing-room.

That didn’t ensure an escape, unfortunately. No sooner had he slammed the door behind him than his mother snapped, “Have I made myself clear enough yet?”

“Ack!” Newsie jumped, spinning around to find her directly behind him. As a young man, she’d insisted he never shut his door to her, hinting distastefully but vaguely at the ‘evil things young men are prey to in their private time,’ which he’d never understood; now it seemed he still couldn’t shut her out. “Mother! I was live on TV! What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? Trying to put my wayward son back on the path to goodness, that’s what!”

“What is wrong with me dating Gina? She’s good for me – she’s good to me!” Newsie protested. “She encourages my work! She makes me feel happy!”

“That is exactly what’s wrong! You are entirely too happy! I had always hoped that if you had to be involved with a girl, it would be a proper Muppet your age – not some young, non-Muppet tramp! Do you know what she’s doing right now? She’s flirting with other men, that’s what!” Mrs Crimp lectured sternly.

“She would never do that!” Newsie said, startled. No! She wouldn’t! Mother is just trying to rattle you!

“She most certainly is! I told you, Aloysius, that little whelp is a shameless hussy! Now you break it off at once!”

A knock sounded on the door. “Uh…hey Newsie? You okay?” Rhonda called.

Ignoring her for the moment, the anguished Newsman shouted at his mother, “Mother, will you stop calling her names? I love her! She loves me! I’m not walking away from that!”

“You most certainly are! You have never known what’s good for you, you little ingrate! How many years have I spent feeding you, clothing you, making sure you were clean?”

“For frog’s sake, Mother!”

“Uh…Newsie?” More knocking. “Hey, I called your cab, it should be here any minute! You still have a show tonight at the Muppet Theatre!”

Newsie put both hands to his head, overwhelmed. Mrs Crimp sniffed haughtily. “And you have a rat for your girl Friday? I told you nothing respectable would come of you hanging around that theatre!”

“Mother, it is my job! I’m not loitering like some bum on a corner! I have two legitimate jobs: one here, one at the theatre! And more than that, the Muppets are my friends!” Newsie groaned.

“Two jobs? You see! What did I say about going into accounting instead?” his mother argued, getting in front of him no matter which way he turned to avoid seeing her. “Not to mention, if you’d been working in an accounting firm like your Uncle Joey, by now you’d have settled down with a nice clean girl instead of making time with that – that –“

“Shut up!” Newsie yelled, startling his mother; she actually took a step back. “D—it, Mother, I’m happy with Gina! Why can’t you just accept that? Why can’t you just be happy for me, for once? Just once!” He suddenly realized he was actually shaking his fist in his mother’s face. Stunned, he froze. Mrs Crimp reacted first: with a palm so chilly the cold burned him, she slapped him on the cheek. Hard. Newsie reeled.

“That is for disrespecting your mother! If you ever, ever, raise your hand to me again, Aloysius, I will see to it you’re locked up where no one will ever see you again – except me, because I’m the only one who cares about you! You remember that! You remember that, when you find out how that nasty redhead has been playing around behind your back, that little slu—“

Outraged, the Newsman slapped her across the mouth.

Both of them stopped, shocked. Newsie cringed immediately. Oh good grief! I hit her! I hit my MOTHER! Backing away, gulping, feeling sick, he stared at the ghost, whose eyes grew cold and blue and fiery, like that scary dragon-thing who haunted the Muppet Theatre. Mrs Crimp, deceased, moved her jaw, though no sound came out yet; she seemed to be building to an eruption.

Choking, the Newsman fled, bowling over Rhonda on the other side of the door as he hurtled past. He ran into the street just as a cab pulled up, yanked open the door, and dove into the back seat. The cabbie gave him an uncertain look. “Mu-Muppet Theatre, please,” Newsie gasped. He peered fearfully over the edge of the seat out the back window as the cab pulled away, but his mother didn’t seem to be pursuing. Shivering, he wrapped his arms around himself, freezing despite the sultry August night and the apparent lack of air conditioning in the cab. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. What have I done? How could I? Panicked, Newsie huddled tightly into himself, his cheek still stinging, but the rest of him going numb. What dire punishment would befall him for that? Could he ever make it up to her? Was there even a way to atone for an insult done to one’s dead mother?

Terrified, the Newsman kept replaying the awful thing he’d just done over and over in his mind, sickened by his own anger. One thought kept surfacing: I’m a horrible son. Horrible. Mother was right about me. She was right. He couldn’t help it; tears began trickling down his face, and his nose clogged with sniffles.

The cabbie shoved a box of tissues through the partition window at him. “Uh, hey, mac…use dese, okay? I don’t need no germs in my cab, aright?”

Nodding obediently, Newsie accepted the tissues, blowing his nose loudly. He used his handkerchief to dry his eyes, and when the cab slowly rolled to a stop in front of the Muppet Theatre, he fumbled more bills than necessary through the window. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, “I’m so sorry!”

“Huh? Hey mac, you okay?”

“I’m so, so sorry…” Newsie choked, and his unsteady feet carried him through the lobby doors. By the time he reached the orchestra pit, he was crying again, helpless to stop it, but routine forced him onward, and he brushed past Scooter and Kermit and everyone else on his way through backstage, ignoring all, speaking to no one, barely able to see.

“Uh, Newsman, you all right?” Kermit called after him, curious.

At the sound of his boss’ voice, the Newsman looked up blearily. “Fine,” he said hoarsely.

“Okay,” Kermit said. “Uh, because you look a little…ah, off-balance.”

“I’m fine,” Newsie said firmly, trying to get himself composed quickly. He gave Kermit a nod, yanked down his sleeves, turned, and promptly tripped, tumbling noisily down the stairs to the green room.

Kermit sighed, shaking his head. “Okay,” he called down, “as long as you’re all right!” Good grief. What next? Before Kermit could speculate further as to what had the Newsman out of kilter, Scooter ran up.

“Hey, chief? Muppy’s stuck in a pot over on stage left!”

Irritated, Kermit waved him off. “So? We’re about to open the show! The dog can wait!” Scooter shrugged, nodding. Curious suddenly, Kermit asked, “Why is he stuck in a pot?”

“Well, you know the Chef is up first tonight?”

“Yeah?”

“Uh…he was saying something about Korean barbeque!”

“Eep!” Kermit gulped. “Oh, good grief! Chef!” The two of them ran off to rescue the dog from becoming a potsticker, and for the moment the frog completely forgot the Newsman.

The steel drum player seemed to be enjoying herself, her eyes sparkling under long lashes, making the most of her colorful, ruffled dress as she swayed in time to her own light-fingered drumming. A band of pigs dressed for a luau (though as guests, not the main course) backed her up. Absently Gina watched from the lighting booth window, lulled into quietude by the thus-far smooth rehearsal. It wasn’t until the number ended, the drummer curtsied, and the pigs oinked appreciatively that Gina realized the band had been Muppet pigs and a human lady, and that made at least two acts in this charity show which involved Muppets. She sighed. “What theatre am I at again?” she asked Scott.

He glanced up from the reel-to-reel machine, which he’d just cued to play the theme music for the magician, up next. “What theatre do you think you’re at?” he responded, grinning.

“I have no idea anymore,” she grumbled. At least nothing else unlucky had happened tonight; maybe the old bat had abandoned her…but that probably meant she was tormenting her son instead. Oh, Newsie. I can’t believe this is happening, she thought, depressed. I’ll have to at least put up protections around the apartment so she won’t come back there…but we’ll have to get rid of her once and for all. In the months they’d been together, Newsie had spoken very little about his mother, and of his father said only he never knew him, the Muppet in question having died when Newsie was an infant. Gina had noticed that whenever she shared some happy story from her own childhood, of going to Romani festivals with her Grandmama Angie, or of playing hooky from school to float sailboats in the park, or of birthday parties or handmade Mother’s Day gifts or being tucked in after a bedtime story of traditional Gypsy fairytales, Newsie would listen intently, give her a smile which seemed somewhat wistful, kiss her, and change the subject. No wonder he never shared any good childhood memories in return…he probably doesn’t have any! Gina frowned, biting her lip, barely remembering to adjust the lighting in time as the steel-drum band left the stage and the Amazing Mumford’s table with a large black top-hat sitting atop a sparkly purple cloth was wheeled out.

After the musical flourish – complete with canned cheers and clapping – no one appeared onstage. Gina looked down, her gaze roving the empty floor, seeing no movement from behind the curtains. She sighed, annoyed. “Maybe he didn’t hear his cue,” Scott offered.

“Yeah, play it again,” Gina said. Once more Scott played the reel tape: music, applause. This time, a cheesy burst of blue smoke went off center stage, and the Muppet magician emerged from it, coughing as he tried to bow to the nonexistent audience.

“Thank you! Thank you! Yes, I, the Amazing – cough, cough, cough – the Amazing Mumford, will now perform for you a trick so astonishing, so astounding, so amazing, you’ll all be talking about it for months!”

Gina doubted that. She tweaked the levels of the brighter blue lights, although why anyone would want to see the corny clown was beyond her. At least Alan, on followspot right now, was able to keep the magician easily centered; then again, it wasn’t like a lot of actual movement seemed involved here. “Yes, my friends! I, the Amazing Mumford, have here a pretty, shiny, gold coin!” He held up a large, sparkling coin, showing it from side to side. “Now, I will make this coin disappear into thin air!” Gina wondered if anyone had ever tried to vanish something into thick air. “I wave my magic wand, and I say the magic words: á la peanut butter sandwiches!” He tossed the coin into the air; Alan followed it up with the spotlight, and it actually did seem to disappear. “Ha ha! Yes! And now, I shall make the coin appear again, in the pocket of that lady in the front row!” He pointed his wand at the pretty steel drum player, who seemed genuinely surprised. Gina shook her head. I see he found an accomplice fast, she thought. “One wave of the wand! Two waves! And…á la peanut butter sandwiches!”

He looked expectantly at the girl in the tropical dress. She shook her head, perfectly coiffed dark hair sliding over her bare shoulders. “What? Melanie? You don’t have the coin?” Mumford asked.

The girl laughed. “My name’s Suzanne!”

“Ah! That’s the problem! I will now make the coin reappear in Suzanne’s pocket, not Melanie’s! I wave my magic wand…”

Sighing, Gina slumped in her chair. This might take a while. She glanced at the booth clock; she’d give this joker exactly five minutes and then send the acrobats on. She wondered how Newsie’s night was going; he should be finishing up his regular newscast about now, and heading to the Muppet Theatre soon. With his salary from the KRAK job, he really didn’t need the second gig, but she understood why he’d want to stay on with the Muppets. They’d proven to be remarkably supportive friends, even when everyone thought Newsie was responsible for the partial destruction of the theatre. A good troupe, she mused, but her thoughts turned dark again quickly. At least, most of ‘em are. I guess even Muppets have bad apples. How had such a mean-spirited, narrow-minded, repressive woman raised such a generous, thoughtful, quietly passionate man?

Onstage, Mumford was turning to the stage manager, then another techie, then one of the acrobats watching from the side, and even his hat, confused. “Not here either? Huh...I just don’t understand it! Where did it go? Confounded magic coin!...”

It was that kind of horrible, overbearing attitude, Gina told herself, which had always made her determined to be free. She’d been mocked, called names, even spat upon once as a child for being Gypsy; but on the other side, the old-timers she’d met of the Romani hadn’t inspired her to copy them, either. All of them so caught up in their traditions and rules, trapping themselves in their own little-minded cages! She was proud of her heritage, but except for her grandmother, she’d never met an older Gypsy who thought it was acceptable for a girl to go into theatre. Music, perhaps, but not the actual theatre. Both cultures still seemed to regard the profession as tainted somehow, even though Gina had never wished to be onstage, just to work behind it, taking pleasure in seeing a design through from a paper sketch all the way to a successful show, or even just using her energy and determination to make a bunch of rusty, uncooperative lighting instruments bring forth subtle effects which would move people as much as the words spoken by the actors, although most of the time the audience never knew their emotions were being played upon by the lights. Just seeing a cue well-done made her happy. Grandmama Angie hadn’t really understood, but nevertheless she’d supported Gina, encouraging her dream and her drive, even telling distant relations proudly how her granddaughter was an artist! She’d never scolded Gina for going on dates with gadjo boys in high school and college, merely warning her to never let a boy show her disrespect – to her mind or her body. Clearly, the Newsman had never basked in that kind of parental love.

Angrily, Gina picked at a loose thread on her cutoff shorts, completely forgetting her five-minute limit; below, Mumford was finally giving up. “Ah, well, I don’t know what happened with that…but on to my next trick! Ladies and gentlemen, I, the Amazing Mumford, will now pull a rabbit out of this hat!”

The old woman’s insults this morning made it clear what she thought of Gina. Is the hag in a twist because I’m human, or because I’m Gypsy, or because her son is living with me – or all of the above? What right does she have to say a word about any of it? She’s dead! The dead have no rights over the living! Disgusted, Gina thought about Gypsy custom; traditionally, when someone died, their name was never spoken again unless absolutely necessary so that the ghost wouldn’t hear and come back. Wine and food were left out for them at the gravesite. All their possessions would be burned, sold, or given away outside the community…a custom Gina had broken by hanging onto her grandmother’s shawl, which had wound up being the thing that saved her Newsie from being swept into a deadly whirlpool during that weird, dark time right after they’d become a couple. Good thing his family’s not Gypsy, she thought. There’s no way in Hades I’d ever be subservient to HER as a mother-in-law! Traditionally, a bride of the Rom was expected to move in with her new husband’s family and obey his mother. Then again, Gina had no desire to be married. She’d had friends who’d dated a long time and finally married their lovers…and almost all of them had wound up quarreling, turning nasty and bitter and divorcing. Whatever it was about a little piece of paper and a ring that seemed to change true love into obligation and resentment overnight, she wanted no part of it. She was glad Newsie hadn’t even brought the subject up; the closest he’d come to it was telling her stories about the courtship of the Frogs. However, he’d related histories of many of the Muppets, as a way to include her in his world, and she didn’t think he’d been trying to drop any hints with hilarious narrations of the wedding-within-a-movie with a real minister, and how both Kermit and Piggy had played games with one another over being wedded or not right up to the actual day of the ceremony. Newsie did know how to tell a story thoroughly, she thought with a brief smile.

“No? Well, let me try one more time! I wave my magic wand…I say the magic words…”

Magic words. I wish I had some to fix this mess, she thought. If I can’t just exorcise her, will Death accept it if the lab guys come up with a ghost-busting machine? Shivering suddenly, she scooted her chair away from the air vent blowing a cool breeze overhead. He’s not taking my Newsie! Not to please that horrible old hag! She didn’t even want to wonder how long his life would be; he didn’t look or act his age at all – nor did Kermit or Rowlf or the others, and she knew almost all of them were quite a bit past her own thirty-one years. However long a Muppet lifespan, she was sure now was too early for her beloved Newsman, and she’d fight to keep him alive and out of his evil parent’s clutches. She sighed again, still lacking answers.

“Still nothing? Hmmm…” Mumford scratched his balding head. “I guess I’ll just have to keep practicing…”

“Keep at it, Mumfy!” the steel-drum player encouraged him. Gina glanced down at her, then stared in shock. The formerly-lovely young woman now had large rabbit ears, enormous bent whiskers sticking out of her cheeks, and was munching on a carrot as she flounced out of her seat and hopped away from the stage area. Oblivious to the change, the magician sighed, picking up his hat and carrying it off dejectedly.

“I just don’t understand why I can never do that trick right!” he complained to himself.

Gina looked over at Scott. He shrugged. “Oo…kay,” Gina said. She shifted the console sliders, bringing up bright, cheerful pink and orange lights as the tumblers romped onstage, bounding over one another with many a “Hey! Hah!” Settling back in her seat again, looking at but not really watching the acrobats, she wondered how her Newsie was handling his night. Hopefully, it was less strange than her own.
--------------------------------------------------------

 

[The Count]

Oh what a wonderful chapter.

The bits where Newsie reads the story about Councilman Venkman made me laugh.
*Cheers for all the inclusions so far.
Van Neuter and Mulch were exactly in character, Lefty's up to his usual shady deals, and I liked how Suzanne the steel drum player was turned into a rabbit by Mumford's errant magic.

Serious stuff going on with Newsie's mother though... And that deadline's about half gone.
*Wonders what busting toys Bunsen and Beaker will whip up. Maybe a proton pack and ghost trap? Or do you suppose it'll be some ecto goggles and a modified Poltergust 3000 borrowing from Professor E. Gad's tech?

Thank you for this update, please post more soon.

 

[newsmanfan]

------------------------------------------------------
Glad I portrayed Van N and Mulch correctly! Did my research.
: >)
Yes, the DEADline looms. And many solutions will be proposed, though their success rate will be dubious...
Not saying what the lab boys come up with...but the results will be epic.
New chapter hopefully tomorrow...writing tonight! Thanks for everyone reading so far!
-----------------------------------------------------