Death and the Matron

[newsmanfan]

Part Six

Rowlf banged joyously on the piano, his latest upcoming weekend visit with the glamorous and tantalizing Foo Foo on his mind as he howled out: “You shake my paws and play fetch with my brain – Too much love drives a dog insane – My house is broke, oh what a joke! – Goodness gracious, great howls of fur!” The Mayhem joined in raucously as Rowlf swept both forepaws down the length of the keyboard and launched into the Jerry Lee Lewis-inspired tune full-blast. The band, the audience, and everyone backstage who could hear the happily rowdy song loved it…everyone, that is, except one certain journalist pacing the tiny confines of his dressing-room.

I don’t deserve to be walking around free after that! he thought, wringing his hands so hard the felt was starting to ache. Maybe Mother was right…what have I become? A brute who hits his own mother, that’s what! How did I get here? I never used to resort to violence for disagreements! If anything, the violence had usually been done to him, not the other way around. No wonder she’s disgusted with me! Has…has my relationship with Gina really made me into a cad? Have I no sense of decency? Have I no sense of decency, at all, left? No, wait; that was McCarthy. Upset, Newsie shook his head, then deliberately knocked it against the drywall of his newly-created dressing-room, a space about the size of a small walk-in closet built into one side of the reconstructed green room, below the mainstage level of the Muppet Theatre. How can I take back what I said, what I did? Mother’s never accepted an apology without some kind of punishment… He shuddered. Did ghosts have even worse means of punishing their unruly offspring at their disposal than live parents? He was certain he was close to finding out. Feeling sick, he dropped into the single chair in the tiny space. This room wasn’t much longer or wider than the broom closet next to it, the space Newsie had previously claimed as a semi-private space to psych himself up for his almost-always-painful News Flash reports; the main advantage of having this new space was that he didn’t have to share it with Beauregard’s mops, buckets, and chemicals.

However, it seemed tonight he was unwittingly sharing it with someone else. “Hey, can ya keep the emo angst down, buddy? Some of us are trying to sleep,” Rizzo complained from a hammock slung in a corner, just above eye-level to a Muppet. Surprised, Newsie looked up, then glowered as he saw who it was.

“Can’t you read? The sign on the door says News Flash Assignment Desk! That means serious journalists only, rodent!” the Newsman snapped.

Rizzo laughed. “Oh, puh-leeze! You couldn’t even fit a desk in here, and the only one who gets those assignments is you, Mr Rather-Not!”

“Sure, take a cheap shot at the second-stringer!” Newsie snarled, shooting to his feet again and stomping closer to the corner where Rizzo lounged. “This from the freeloader who plundered all my news director’s cheese while calling himself her assistant! The only thing you seem to have assisted with is the depletion of the larder!”

“How could I have depleted a larder? I have no idea what that even is! Sheesh, Newsgeek, you really could join the twenty-first century sometime,” Rizzo protested, trying to turn over in the hammock to block out the light. “Ya know, learn a little modern lingo, give up the ‘seventies coats for good, do a blog or something…”

He shrieked as Newsie reached up and gave the hammock a hard spin, winding up completely tangled inside the canvas nap-sack. “I am in no mood to put up with your insults tonight on top of everything else!” Newsie yelled, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “Now – now get out!”

“Okay, geez,” Rizzo grumbled, managing to poke his head out of the twisted hammock. He blinked at the sight of the Newsman slumping back upon his chair and worriedly clasping his hands together, gulping back a silent sob. “Hey…what’s wrong?”

“Why – why would I tell you anything? You’ll just make fun of me,” Newsie muttered.

Rizzo clambered from the hammock, swinging himself down the cross-braces of the half-finished interior walls to the floor, and coming closer to peer warily at the geek he’d once roomed with. “Oh, man. Did something happen with you and Gina?”

Newsie glanced suspiciously at the rat. “Not…not specifically, no.”

“’Not specifically’? What da heck does that mean? ‘Not specifically’ as in she hasn’t thrown ya outta the house yet, or as in she will throw ya out soon as she finds out what utterly brain-dead thing ya did?”

“I haven’t done anything!” Newsie argued, then modified that guiltily: “Not…not to her.”

“Okay,” said Rizzo, looking him over. “Uh…did she break her necklace?”

“What? No!”

“Did you break it? Is dat curse thing the both of ya have about to come alive again? Is – is all heck about to break loose around here?” Rizzo asked, nervously looking around as if expecting the closet to start closing in on him.

“The necklace is fine! No! It’s…it’s my mother,” the Newsman said, choking up again.

“Ohhh…I get it. Your ma’s sick and you’re worried, dat it?”

“No!” Newsie glowered at the rodent. “My mother is dead, and she won’t leave us alone!”

“Oh…kay,” Rizzo said, eyes widening, whiskers twitching.

Suddenly feeling the urge to unburden himself, Newsie burst into rapid, gruff speech: “She doesn’t like Gina, feels she’s a bad influence on me, calls her names, says we’re living in sin and won’t leave me alone about it; I spent my whole life doing what she wanted, taking care of her, trying to be moral and humble and good for her, and I just lost my temper and slapped her! I don’t know…don’t know what I was thinking…I’m a bad son…I’m horrible…” Newsie broke into sobs, hurriedly yanking out his handkerchief and burying the lower half of his long nose in it. “And now she’s going to punish me and I know I deserve it!” he wailed, and his vision blurred in tears.

“Uh…huh,” Rizzo gulped, opening the dressing-room door quickly and slipping out. Gonzo noticed him trotting away from the area as fast as his paws would take him, and blinked in surprise at him.

“Hey, Rizzo! What’s going on?”

“Oh, man. The geek’s completely gone all Norman Bates in there! Ya better lock up the kitchen knives! I’m not sticking around to see if he’s got Wayne dressed in a wig and negligee in the fly loft!” Shaking his head, Rizzo scampered upstairs.

Concerned, Gonzo knocked gently on the narrow door next to the broom closet. The Newsman’s rough-edged, angry voice shot out at him: “And I do not need any advice from any thieving rodents!”

“Uh…okay,” Gonzo said. After a second, the door opened a crack, and the Newsman peered out at him, his expression instantly changing to one of contrition when he saw who it was.

“Er. Uh…sorry, Gonzo. I thought you were Rizzo.”

“Yeah…I get that a lot,” Gonzo said agreeably. “I think it’s the Hawaiian shirts. You okay?”

Newsie sighed, nervously adjusting his tie. “I’m fine. Thank you. I just, uh…I just have, er…have a lot of thinking to do. Is there a News Flash?”

“Not that I’ve heard. I’m sure Scooter will come get you if there is,” Gonzo said, and Newsie nodded, starting to turn away. “Hey, if you need help, they say two heads are better than one!”

Newsie paused, then looked worriedly back at Gonzo. “Do you…can you think of any way I could make amends for an insult to my mother?”

Gonzo’s eyes widened. “You insulted your mother? Gosh, no! Ah, I was thinking maybe these guys could help,” he offered, pointing out one of the guest monsters tonight, a violet-furred creature with two distinct heads, red noses and horns; one had a goatee.

“Muh?” one of the heads asked.

“Ther!” the other responded. Both of them looked expectantly at Newsie.

The Newsman slammed the door.

At the Sosilly, Gina began cursing under her breath when she received the news that their scheduled comedian had contracted some sort of weird flu and wouldn’t be able to make it. “Green fur and clamshell lips? What the heck kind of virus is that?” Scott wondered aloud.

Gina shook her head, frustrated, skimming over the schedule of acts. “Who cares? All I know is that leaves us ten minutes short, and the ads specifically mention comedy!”

“You could always have Mumford stretch out his act even more,” Scott suggested, but Gina threw him a glare.

“Please. It’s about ten too long as it is! Where are we going to get another comedian on short notice?”

Alan spoke up, startling them both; they hadn’t realized the boy was anywhere near the lighting booth. “Um…I met these guys upstate at summer stock, and went ahead and gave them a call,” he said, looking at his tennis shoes. “They do comedy.”

“Please don’t tell me they’re students,” Gina muttered. “This is supposed to be a pros-only show!” Seeing the boy’s face fall, Gina sighed. “Look, Alan. That’s a great idea on paper, but unless they already have a name they’re not going to be much of a draw, and the whole point of a charity show act is…”

“To bring in the donors, I get it,” Alan said. He looked up at her. “They’re pros! They’ve both worked with the Muppets already!”

“They’re Muppets?” Gina reconsidered. “Well, okay…”

“Um…not exactly.”

“They’re what, monsters?” Gina hoped not; Newsie was anxious enough right now without being asked to be anywhere near his worst phobia.

“Uh, no, not monsters…” the boy said, giving her a puzzled look.

“Are they here?” Scott asked.

“Yeah! Hey guys, come on out, let ‘em see you!” Alan said over his headset. All three of them turned toward the stage as two very small people trotted out and sat upon black velvet cubes down-center, close to the front row. Well, perhaps people wasn’t the right term…

“Good evening! It’s great to be here! Isn’t it great to be here, Topo?”

“Yah, yah, it sure is, Chucky Bear! Hey, doesn’t this remind you of the show we did last time at the Hamptons?”

The odd-looking wooden bear swiveled his head around to take in the empty theatre seats. “Why’s that, Sticky my friend?”

“’Cause the audience then was another bunch of dead seats!”

They laughed heartily. “No, seriously, it’s great to be here, folks! What a great chance for us to show how much we care about the, uh…”

“The inner-city kids’ youth groups, Chucky?”

“Oh! Is that what this is for? I thought we were speaking out against termites!”

Gina turned slowly around, staring first at Scott, then at Alan. The intern beamed at her, grasping his clipboard with the air of a publicist who’d just discovered a real moneymaker. “Alan,” Gina said quietly.

“Aren’t they great? They’ve offered me a position as their manager! It could be my show-biz break!” the student exclaimed.

“Alan. Your ‘comedy act’ is a badly-made bear doll with a monocle, and a…a…” Gina was at a loss, gesturing at the weird pair still cracking lame jokes to an empty theatre.

“A tongue depressor,” Scott supplied, watching the wooden things onstage in rapt fascination.

“I know! Totally original, right? Do you think they could get into some of the clubs here after this?” Alan asked eagerly.

Gina sat down. She stared in silence at the inanimate objects ribbing one another in the center of a large, bare black stage. Finally she looked back at Alan. “Did you vet them through Paul?”

“Yeah! He loves ‘em!”

Gina looked at Scott. He shrugged. “Cold fish likes stiff, dead jokes,” he rumbled. “Who knew?”

Disgusted, Gina penciled them in on the act schedule.

When Scooter knocked to tell the Newsman a bulletin had come in over the wire, he noticed their resident journalist looked pale and anxious. “Hey, you okay, Newsie?”

“Fine,” Newsie muttered, taking the paper from the gofer-turned-assistant-stage-manager as they both hurried upstairs.

Scooter persisted. “You’re not coming down with the green fur flu, are you? I hear it’s been going around!” He peered closely at the Newsman, who backed away a step, nervously smoothing down his hair and tugging his coat-hem to get the wrinkles out.

“I’m not sick! I’m fine,” Newsie said firmly, and Scooter shrugged.

“Look, if you feel like you’re going to puke, try not to hit the audience, okay?” Scooter gave him a pat on the shoulder and hurried off, directing the stagepigs who were setting the last couple of cheeses in place onstage. Newsie blinked. Green fur flu? Cheese? He shook his head as Rizzo and a large group of rats scurried out before the curtain opened and the band struck up a jazzy number.

Why is it always something weird around here? Newsie wondered. However, that immediately brought to mind his mother’s repeated scoldings about the sort of company he worked with. Glumly he stood offstage, waiting, while Rizzo broke into fervent, if off-key, singing:

“If dey could see me now,
Dat little gang of mine –
I’m eating fancy chow
And drinking fancy wine!”

The rat, dressed in a gold lamé top hat and tails-coat, danced merrily atop a giant stack of chunks and rounds of various kinds of cheese. Below him, a group of rats dressed, well…rattily…looked up and shook their heads in apparent disbelief, even as they moved to the music.

“I’d like dose stumblebums ta see for a fact
Da kinda top-drawer, first-rate mice I attract!”

Rizzo gestured behind him; a chorus of gray mice dressed as Rockettes began doing a swaying, coordinated dance step on the level of Swiss just below him. One of them fell into a large hole with an indignant squeak.

“All I can say is wow-eeee!
Looka where I am! Tonight I landed, pow!
Right in a pot of jam!”

Rizzo did a cannonball into a large bowl of blueberry jam, flipping himself right back out immediately and licking off his arm in one fluid move.

“Ah, what a setup! Holy cow!
Dey’d never believe it
If my friends could see me now!”

“We see ya, already,” one of the rats below grumbled. “Quit hoggin’ da jam!”

The Newsman watched, lost in his own unhappy musings. I thought I had a great set-up! Living with Gina, in her wonderful apartment, doing…everything…with her… He blushed. I thought it was paradise. What if Mother’s right? What if I’ve only been dragging myself down in the world? It really is a good thing Aunt Ethel can’t see me now; she would be truly shocked. He could just hear his prim, gossipy aunt telling her friends how her nephew had moved in with some girl half his age… Wincing, Newsie tried to fight off the self-loathing creeping into his thoughts. No! Mother’s wrong! Gina is good for me, and I’m…I’m good for her! She’s said so! She wouldn’t be with me if that wasn’t the case!

Rizzo was joined onstage by Camilla, lolling extravagantly on a long fake-fur stole draped coquettishly over a rind of aged cheddar.

“If dey could see me now, my little dusty group,
Traipsin’ round dis chicken coop!
I’d hear those thrift-shop rats say
Bruddah, get her!
Draped onna bedspread made from tree kinds a’fur!
All I can say is wow!
Wait ‘til da riff and raff
See just exactly how we sign dis autograph!”

Rizzo produced a pen as tall as he was to sign an oversized check with a flourish; Camilla, clucking happily, grabbed it in her beak and took off. Rizzo laughed.

“What a buildup! Holy cow!
Dey’d never believe it,
If my friends could see me now!”

He went into a wild dance, twirling with several of the mice in turn. Two more went spiraling out-of-control off the cheesepile with squeaks of outrage. “Rizzo, dang it!” “Watch it, you oaf!” “Hey, Tommy Tune you ain’t!”

Newsie folded and unfolded the news bulletin, pacing tightly back and forth in the stage right wing. Yes, he’d gained all that: a decent salary (not the highest even in the local-news market, but far, far more than he’d ever made before), a fantastic apartment, a little fame earlier this year (though the questions about his experience with psychokinetic manifestational events had died down, he still had some nice articles and video files for his scrapbooks), and the love of a beautiful, smart, dedicated young woman…he’d made it. Personally as well as professionally. Did he still want a Pulitzer? Of course! But…he was happy. He’d been happy, at least, until Mother had shown up.

What would happen if he couldn’t persuade his mother to back off? Just how annoyed was Death at the old woman’s harping? Newsie shuddered. Wasn’t there anyone he could turn to for help? Clearly, Gina was expecting him to deal with it; he decided unhappily that was fair. After all, it was his parent; her own grandmother, the only parent she’d known most of her life, had grudgingly approved the match…and the Gypsy woman had also been dead at the time! No, the only obstacle here was indeed his problem, his mother. The fact that she hadn’t caught back up to him yet only frightened him the more; as a child, even as a younger man, he’d been relieved when her wrath turned on him immediately after whatever transgression she claimed he’d made. It was over faster, at least. No…the ones you had to watch out for with Mother were the slow, smoldering rages, the ones where she made you think she’d forgotten all about the issue for a day or two…and then wham! You’d wake up to find all your term papers had been put through the shredder, or you’d walk down to the market and realize all the clerks were laughing at you behind your back and making cry-baby motions, or your prized souvenir Natty Bumpo action figure would’ve been suddenly missing, donated to Goodwill along with your entire Pat Boone album collection…

Gonzo joined Rizzo, dressed as a waiter, bringing a hefty platter of sliced cheeses, which Rizzo disdainfully waved off, though he snatched a glass of champagne from the tray.

“If dey could see me now,
Right here wit’ Mr G,
Who’s waitin’ on me like he’s a maitré-d!
I’d hear my buddies sayin’…”

The disgruntled rats, trying vainly to leap up to the next level of cheeses, sniped more than sang: “Crazy! What gives?”
“Dat bum’s livin’ like da other half lives!”

Rizzo gleefully danced around, hat raised in one paw, pointing at Gonzo as he re-entered and offered a silent toast with another champagne flute.

“Ta think da highest brow –
Which I gotta say is he –“ Gonzo wiggled his eyelids at the audience, not having brows per se. “Should pick da lowest brow—
Which dere’s no doubt is me!
What a setup! Holy cow!
Dey’d never believe it –
Oh if my friends! Could! See! Me!
Noooooooowwwww!”

Rizzo stepped down the cheese-stairs one by one as he delivered the last refrain, the remaining mice line-kicking as they followed. Unfortunately, at the last line, Rizzo came within reach of the other rats, and they grabbed him, then attacked the cheeses. Although the audience applauded as the curtain closed, Rizzo was suddenly in a fight for his cheese. “Hey! C’mon! You guys, it’s just a song! Hey dat’s my Limberger! Knock it off!”

The stagepigs quickly shoved the news desk out in front of the curtain, flying the backdrop of world time zones down before opening the main drapes again. Newsie couldn’t get onstage fast enough, desperate to focus on something beside his own troubles. “Here is a Muppet News Flash!” he yelled, rushing to the desk. “A Muppet has just been named the winner of this season’s competition on the popular reality show, America’s Got Lots of People with Kind of an Unusual Gimmick Which They Want to Share with the World! Ahem…little Carrie Louise, age eight, took her singing duet with Mr Turtle all the way to the finals, after having previously sung with a large bullfrog. Although she didn’t even make the auditions on the Muppet Show with that act, Carrie Louise persevered, and by switching amphibious partners, seems to have finally garnered the attention she so desperately wanted!” Seeing the note at the bottom of the sheet indicating he should go to a live interview, the Newsman turned around to face the viewscreen built into the backdrop. He hadn’t done one of these in a while…not live, at least. Not having Rhonda here to edit made him a little nervous, but he gamely addressed the screen as the live feed flickered on: “Tell us, Carrie Louise, what factor made the difference in your act?”

A small Muppet girl with yellow hair popped into view, smiling brightly. “Hi! Am I really live on the news?”

“Yes, you are! Miss Louise, what was it like going up before those tough celebrity judges on national television?”

“Oh, this is so great! Hi mom!” the little girl shouted, waving.

A voice somewhere off-camera grumbled, “You’ve gained the fifteen minutes of fame you so atrociously lusted after, and all you can say is ‘Hi mom’? Heavens, where’s Drella when you need him?”

“Can you get me a spot on Barbara Walters?” Carrie Louise asked Newsie.

“What? Er…no, I’m sorry. But tell us, Miss Louise, what made you decide to resume your unsuccessful singing act with a talking turtle?” Newsie was winging it at this point, nettled that celebrities didn’t seem to want to be interviewed by him. Not even temporary, questionably quasi-celebrities… Another question occurred to him as the Muppet girl continued to wave happily at the screen as though she were in a Little Miss Safeway competition instead of a televised talent show. “Er…where is your singing partner, anyway?”

The same grouchy (though very cultured) voice sounded again from somewhere lower than the mic Carrie Louise held. “In a position of complete ignominy! Get off me, you little song-who—“

The feed suddenly crackled and shifted. “Uh…we seem to be having technical issues,” Newsie said uneasily. “Miss Louise? Mr Turtle? Can you hear me?”

“I hear you just fine, Aloysius!”

“Yeeek!” Newsie cringed. The glowering visage of Mrs Crimp filled the screen, gray and smoldering. He could see wisps of smoke coming out of her ears, and her eyes were nothing more than glowing pinpricks behind those tiny round granny specs.

“You want a news flash? Here’s a news flash!” Mrs Crimp snarled. “My son is changing his name from Aloysius Ambrosius to Benedict Quisling to show his new status as a guilty little traitor! In just the past twenty-four hours, he has engaged in immoral and probably illegal carnal acts, smeared the formerly good name of his family in filth, and abused his own mother!”

“Aagh!” Newsie stumbled back, shoving the desk off-kilter, his hands automatically rising to defend himself from the terrible spectre looming on the screen. As he retreated, she began pulling herself through the screen, seeming to grown bigger and more dangerous than she ever was in life…a truly frightening apparition as far as the Newsman was concerned. “Mother, I’m sorry!”

“You most certainly are!” she snapped. The audience murmured, looking at one another, unsure if this was part of the show. Offstage, Kermit and Scooter shuddered, surprised and dismayed at the ghost who looked uncomfortably like a female, older, dusty-gray version of the Newsman. She advanced upon her cringing son relentlessly. “This! This is what comes of bad little boys who ignore their mothers’ advice and reject all standards of common decency by falling into bed with Muppet-corrupting little tramps! What’s next, running for a Senate seat?” she shrieked.

“Aaaaggh!” Newsie fled, tripping over the curtains on his way into the wing, recovering fast and pounding past the other Muppets, slamming the back door open so hard it immediately slammed back in his face. He staggered; then, whimpering, shoved the door open again and ran. Scooter, hurrying after him, saw him fall down the loading-dock steps. He never paused, picking himself up and running as fast as he could go down the alley.

Scooter hastened back to Kermit, staring out at the stage. The apparition glared at them, scowled at the audience, and vanished. “Yeesh,” Kermit said. “What...what the heck was that all about?”

Scooter shook his head, baffled. “Heck if I know, but I don’t think we’ll see the Newsman again tonight!” He sniffed, and frowned. “Weird. Is that lemon dusting spray?”

Kermit simply gestured at the stagepigs to change the scenery, setting up the fake caravan and campfire for the musical number Piggy had asked to do. “As long as whoever-she-was is gone and we can get on with the show…” Kermit sighed. He tried to smile as Piggy air-kissed him, sweeping past to command the stage in a fluttering silk shawl and a skirt embroidered with a trim of jingling gold coins.

Scooter watched a moment to see that the number was beginning smoothly, with Piggy walking slowly among numerous pigs dressed in colorful scarves and playing violins and shakers. Her voice, low and melodic, carried throughout the dim house: “Moi was born in the wagon of a traveling show…”

Kermit nodded, watching his girl sway and sing and do an expert twirl with her arms above her head provocatively when the music launched into the loud refrain, with flutes and drums added to the mix: “Gypsies, tramps and thieves! We’d hear it from the people of the town…They called us Gypsies, tramps and thieves…”

Scooter tapped his boss’ shoulder. “Hey, chief? Did Miss Piggy base her costume on Gina’s usual outfits?”

Kermit shook his head, smiling. “Uh…no. I doubt this is derived from Gina’s wardrobe...or Cher’s. It, uh…it suits her figure, though.”

“Uh, yeah.” Scooter thought of something, and glanced back at the closed rear exit. “Good thing the Newsman’s gone. Rizzo told me he was complaining earlier that his mother won’t leave him alone about Gina! Apparently she doesn’t approve, and I doubt this song would help his mood much…” The same thought struck Scooter and Kermit simultaneously. They stared at one another. “Uh, you don’t think…?”

“She did look a lot like him,” Kermit said. Both of them shivered. “I’m kind of glad now she never came down to the theatre before!”

“Uh…Rizzo also said that Newsie said his mother was dead!”

“Oh, good grief! Isn’t one ghost around here enough already?” Kermit complained. “Uh, no offense, Uncle Deadly!”

The phantom dragon waved his hand in gracious dismissal. “Not to worry, little frog! I know full well you finally revere me as the dramatic genius I always was, and my home shall always be here!”

“Melodramatic genius, anyway,” Floyd muttered under the Gypsy-pig music as he sauntered past, heading down for a quick cup of java before the band was needed back in the orchestra pit.

Slinking away from the usual backstage banter, Uncle Deadly mused upon what he’d just seen. This theatre was his territory, for heaven’s sake! His and his lady-love’s, at least…and he didn’t wish to share it with any other spooks. Especially not ones that raggedy-looking. She could have put on a little corpse-rouge, at least! he thought, irritated. So that was the deceased mater of the unlucky reporter? Why on earth was she haunting him? And what was all this about Gypsies? Perhaps, thought the departed master of the golden boards, perhaps I should look into this matter…particularly if that homely creature intends to haunt MY theatre! He was in no position to ask a favor of the reaper, even a favor of information…but there were other avenues to explore. He could always put a question out on the deadvine and see what crawled up…

Nodding to himself, Deadly crept into the shadows; the show went on behind him.
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[newsmanfan]

Part Seven

Gina stood a moment, taking a breath, as the door closed quietly behind her. What a rehearsal. I will never, never do a show under Paul Grouper again! The man’s an idiot! In addition to the random lineup of acts the producer had insisted on or booked himself, Gina had spent the last half-hour arguing with him over the programs. Boxes of them had arrived this evening and were currently piled in the ticket booth to the Sosilly, which was fine; the issue was not whether they had them, but what was to be done with them. Paul was loudly proclaiming they would be sold for two dollars each to the show attendees, “so we can rake in even more money – er, for the charity!” Gina had fruitlessly argued in favor of giving one out free to every ticketholder, pointing out it was just a show, not a stadium concert. As the matter stood, she envisoned a full recycling dumpster out back this coming Sunday after the last performance. Idiot.

Sighing, she frowned, noting the apartment was blazing with light; every single lamp seemed to be on, from the aquarium light to the dining room’s small, hand-wrought iron chandelier. “Newsie?” she called. When no reply sounded, she set down her purse and keys and looked around. Oddly, she couldn’t find him anywhere. But his keys are here. What the heck? “Newsie? Where are you?”

A muffled voice came from one of the storage drawers beneath the bed. Startled, Gina pulled open the drawer. The Newsman cringed, blinking fearfully up at her, wedged absurdly into the compartment next to her winter tights. “What are you doing?” Gina demanded.

“Is she gone?” Newsie whispered, darting frightened glances all around.

“Okay. I’ve had enough of this!”

Newsie struggled to climb out of the drawer as his beloved stormed through the apartment to the kitchen. He hurried after her. “Gina? Gina, wait!”

“That witch is not welcome here! I am taking care of that part of it, at least, right here and now!” Gina growled, unlocking the latch to her Grandmama Angie’s thick tome of special remedies, herbal and otherwise, which always lay on the marble prep counter in the kitchen. Catching up, the Newsman watched in growing concern while Gina let her hair down, shook it out angrily, and flipped through the pages of the book with a hard look on her face.

“What…what are you going to do?” he asked timidly.

“I’m going to banish her from this apartment. If I’m not allowed to send her back to the underworld, at least I can keep her out of my personal space!” Finding the right page, Gina scanned it a moment, then began yanking open drawers and cupboards.

“Gina, wait…Gina…I did something…something awful…” Newsie tried to confess, touching her arm. To his dismay, she shrugged him off.

“Not now, Newsie. This is way past due.” With a grimace that wrinkled her usually-cute nose, Gina laid out some evil-smelling dried whole herbs, a mortar and pestle, and a small, smoothly-carved stone bowl. Quickly she crushed the herb in the mortar, releasing a green, dank, swampy sort of scent. Newsie put his hands over his sensitive nose, stepping back.

“What is that stuff?” he asked. Gina glanced at him only a moment, focused on crushing all of the weed.

“Hemlock. Get me out a couple of lumps of charcoal from that cabinet, would you?”

Confused, Newsie did as she asked. “Are we having barbeque?”

Gina paused, looking at him. He stared up at her. With a sigh, she stroked his cheek once, took the charcoal pieces, and resumed her preparations. “Newsie…let me do this first, okay? We’ll be able to talk privately in a few minutes.”

“Privately?” Newsie began to choke, fear rising in his stomach again.

“Aloysius! What is that evil little heathen doing?”

“Erk!” The Newsman backed against the kitchen wall, arms spread along it, finding nothing to protect himself with. His mother shoved one pointy-nailed hand toward him accusingly.

“And now witchcraft! Heathen! I raised you to be better than this!”

Gina stepped between them, waving the curling smoke from the stone bowl at the ghost; she’d lit the charcoal and sprinkled some of the crushed herb over the fiery coals. “This is simple incense, you horrible old hag! No different from what my people have done for centuries, from India all through Europe! And it has nothing to do with witchery, just simple chemistry: spirits don’t like certain smells!” Gina advanced, forcing Mrs Crimp to back away. “Now if you want the spiritual part, try this! I call upon Saint Michael, drive away this dead thing! I call on Saint Sarah, protect my hearth!” Still flattened against the wall, Newsie watched in shock as his mother’s ghost retreated, spitting like a wild bobcat before the advancing, foul-smelling smoke. He coughed, trying to breathe only through his mouth, baffled; Gina was speaking in Romany, he knew, but since he only caught a couple of words here and there he had no idea what terrible insults she might be spewing upon his mother.

“Aloysius! Stop her! It hurts!” Mrs Crimp wailed, beckoning to her son.

Gina paused, and angrily shot over her shoulder at Newsie: “She’s lying! Ghosts can’t feel pain, Newsie! Don’t listen to her!”

“But…” Torn, the Newsman followed the strange procession of two out into the living room. Gina continued to sprinkle the herb over the coals, keeping up a steady trickle of smoke, waving the stuff around the doorframes of the kitchen, the dining room, and the front door, and into every corner high and low.

“I call on all the angels, throw this mamioro back to her bones!” Now that one Newsie recognized, and shuddered, staring wide-eyed at his mother: Gina had told him some of the ghost stories her grandmother had told her, and many of them involved a mamioro, a malevolent spirit or ghost. His mother snarled like a wild thing, seeking some way past Gina, but the Gypsy girl shoved the smoke in the ghost’s face every time she tried to swoop around or over her. At the moment, his mother really did seem horrible, terrifying! He ducked when Mrs Crimp tried to slip past Gina again as she was forced back to the living-room windows.

“Aloysius! Make her stop! How can you hate me so much? I’m your mother!” Mrs Crimp howled. Newsie froze, his automatic response to come to her aid countered by the hideous, crumpled expression on the gray face and the fiercely glowing eyes.

“Don’t listen to her, Newsie!” Gina yelled, and threw open one of the windows. “Out! Out, pale wretch! Go and shriek at the crossroads! Come not again into this home!”

Wailing piteously, the spectre flew out the window. She cried as she went: “Aloysius! I won’t forget this! Do you hear me? Alooooysiuuuuusss!”

Gina slammed and locked the window, waving the foul-scented incense around the sill and the jamb, then moving on to the hallway, apparently determined to coat every inch of the walls and doors and windows with the smoke. The Newsman saw Mrs Crimp flying – actually flying – outside the ninth-floor windows, darting over to the bedroom, finding herself repulsed there as well, then coming back to stare balefully in at him. He could see her mouth moving, but the glass was thick enough to keep most noise out, and the angry, grating voice of his mother proved to be not strong enough to penetrate the sound defenses. Shivering, he stood there, numb and staring, jumping six inches off the carpet when Gina’s hand touched his shoulder. “Aaagh!”

“Newsie! Newsie, calm down. It’s done. It’s done now.” Gina pulled him into her arms for a tight embrace, turning him away from the uncurtained windows. “Shhh. It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s all done. She can’t get in again. You’re safe.”

“What – what did you do to her?” Worried, he began to turn, but Gina crouched, taking his head in her hands, making him look at her instead.

“Nothing. She’s fine. She just can’t come in. That’s all.” He looked so fearfully at her that Gina sighed, and kissed him.

“She’s…she’s not hurt?”

“Oh, Newsie.” She sighed again, stroking her Muppet journalist’s soft auburn hair. “No. I don’t know of anything that actually could hurt a spirit. All I did was evict her, okay?” She locked his gaze until he gulped and nodded. “I’m sorry. I really am. But you and I both deserve privacy in our own home, don’t you think? She won’t bother us in here again.”

A thump came from the window, making them both jump slightly. Gina frowned. “At least, she can’t come in again! Come on. Don’t look over there. Come into the kitchen with me.” Taking his hand, she led the shaking Newsman into the warm-hued kitchen and coaxed him to sit at the café table in one corner.

Newsie huddled in his chair, his nose still bothered by the strong smell lingering everywhere. Gina started the kettle and set out their pottery mugs, preparing something herbal and less offensive-smelling, keeping a watchful eye on him. “I think we both need a night away from the craziness, okay? Now…what was it you wanted to tell me?”

“I…I hit her,” Newsie mumbled, staring at the table.

Gina sat down next to him, taking his hands in her own, noting how much his fingers trembled. “You did what?”

“I hit my mother,” he gulped, meeting her eyes finally, his own beginning to feel wet. “I lost my temper…I’ve never…never done that! Never! But I…I don’t know…she wouldn’t stop calling you…awful things, and I…I just…”

“You hauled off and slapped her,” Gina guessed, knowing her Newsie was not by nature a violent Muppet. She stroked his fingers softly. “Newsie…how many times did she do that to you?”

His head jerked up so fast she knew she’d struck home. “I…she…I deserved it!”

“No,” Gina said firmly, squeezing his soft, broad hands. “Nobody deserves to be abused! And I very much doubt you did anything bad!”

Newsie broke into sobs, ashamed. Gina didn’t say anything for a long moment; then she simply leaned over and put her head against his, holding his hands tightly. He curled his fingers around hers, feeling small and foolish and very much needing her touch. “She…she always said I was her burden,” he said, getting his voice under control. “She had to raise me all by herself…I know she tried…sacrificed so much…”

Gina let him babble on like that for a minute. Then she sighed, lifted his chin so he met her eyes, and said quietly, “Bulls—t.”

“Wha-ha?”

She repeated the word firmly. “Newsie…I love you. But you have got to stop living by her standards. She may very well have been hard-put to raise a child alone; I don’t know. But I do know you, and there is simply no way on earth you were as awful as she makes you think you were!”

He could only stare at her. From the living room, a couple more thumps on the glass told them Mrs Crimp hadn’t left. Newsie shivered. Gina continued, “Stop letting her control how you think, how you act! Do you think what we’ve done is wrong? Do you?” The kettle whistled, startling Newsie; Gina rose to pour the water for tea. She studied his expression as she did so.

“I…uh…I don’t…I mean…” he stammered. She returned to the table, glaring at him.

“You’d better consider what you say here really carefully, because if you think I’ve done to you half the things she’s accusing me of, you and I don’t need to be together any more!”

Stunned, Newsie stared up at her. He had to swallow twice before he found his voice again. “Gina! I don’t…no! No, I…”

“Good.” She leaned over and caught his open mouth in a deep kiss. When she released him, he blinked back more tears, ashamed of showing so much weakness, but she smiled tiredly at him. “Because if you think me loving you, or you loving me, is a bad thing, then…” Newsie reached up, pulling her lips down to his again, silencing her a long moment. Then he simply held onto her, taking deep breaths, eyes shut. She hugged him in return. He felt her sigh. “Let me get the tisane. We both need it, I think.”

He nodded, and she moved to the far counter to strain out the herbs from the steaming liquid in both mugs, stirring a little honey into them. When she set one mug before him, Newsie recognized the blend of mugwort, chamomile and jasmine she favored for calming jangled nerves. For once, he sipped it gratefully, the oddly floral taste promising a quieting of the jittery blood rushing through him still. Gina swept her hair out of her eyes, sitting down once more. “So. Are you hungry at all?”

He shrugged, doing his best to pretend it was a normal night. “Maybe…maybe a little.”

“Yeah. Me too. How about sandwiches?”

“Sure.” He winced when another thump came from the living room.

Gina scowled, getting up again. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked immediately, worried.

“Nothing harmful. Relax. Drink your mugwort.”

Newsie fidgeted at the kitchen table, surprised when he heard a lush, low voice begin singing, backed up by a slow jazz combo: “It was written in the stars, that what’s written in the stars, shall be…” After another minute, Gina returned to the room and sat back down as if nothing had happened.

“Er…who’s singing?”

“Ella Fitzgerald. Thought it would block the noise but stil be soft enough for your ears.” Gina smiled at him; Newsie nodded, listening. “Now…what kind of sandwich do you want?”

“Uh…whatever you’re having is fine,” he replied, feeling guilty when Gina slowly rose and opened the ‘fridge to rummage through it. “Do you want any help?”

She straightened up, smiling at him softly. “What’s the lousy-night rule?”

“Er…the one who has a lousy night is exempt from chores.”

“Right. So I’m invoking it. Drink your tea.”

A minute later, Gina started; Newsie’s arms closed around her waist, and she felt him lay his head against the small of her back. She paused in her dinner preparations, touching his hands. “What’s that for?”

“I love you,” he murmured against her shirt.

Relaxing, she looked behind her to see him hugging her, eyes closed, looking deeply weary, his glasses off. A really loud thump sounded over the music, and she felt him jerk, startled, then hold her more tightly. She reached around to stroke his hair. “I love you too,” she replied, and finished fixing turkey-bacon BLTs for them both while he hung onto her.

She swayed a little to the tune playing in the next room, “Love Is Here to Stay,” and Newsie shuffled along with her, not letting go.

“You, rat!”

“Ack!” Rizzo leaped straight up, landing hard and whirling to see the ghostly dragon peering at him from a shadowy corner of the otherwise deserted green room. Everyone else had gone home for the night, leaving the Muppet Theatre in the temporary possession of the bugs, the rats…and the resident spectre. “Geez, don’t do that!” Rizzo exclaimed, one paw over his heart. “My doc says I gotta jumpy heart! Scarin’ ain’t good for it!”

“Perhaps cutting down on the cholesterol-laden dairy foods would be a bigger help,” Uncle Deadly suggested, creeping into the dim light of the open room.

“Dat’s rich, comin’ from the dead guy,” Rizzo grumbled. “Whaddaya want?”

“I understand you spoke with our special correspondent earlier about his familial woes,” Deadly said, gesturing at the tiny dressing-room by the broom closet.

“Our special what?...Oh. The geek. Yeah, he was going off about some weird stuff with his mother. Real creepy. Ya know, I really think he’s gonna totally snap one’a these days,” Rizzo said, shrugging.

Deadly glided closer, making the rat nervous. Dead or not, he still qualified as a monster as far as Rizzo was concerned, and monsters around here had a bad habit of scarfing up rats for snacks. “Did he say why she is haunting him?”

“Uh…something about her not liking Gina. His girl,” Rizzo explained, edging away, but the dragon seemed lost in thought.

“Hmmm. So she still thinks she needs to look after him? What an unfortunate duty for them both!” Deadly stared at the closed door marked News Flash Assignment Desk a long while, finally turning back to Rizzo just as the rat was about to slip away. “Why did he label that absurd little closet ‘assignment desk’ when he can’t even fit a desk into it?”

“Dunno,” Rizzo said. “Heh, heh…he’s always had some kinda self-importance issues, I think. Rhonda says all anchors have that. It’s like a special gland in their brains that turns on when they think someone’s paying attention to ‘em.”

“Hmmm.” The dragon stroked his wispy beard thoughtfully. “What precisely does the late Mrs Newsperson dislike about his paramour?”

“I dunno! She always seemed nice to me…Gina, I mean. Haven’t met Newsie’s ma, and don’t think I want to. I, uh, I don’t talk to dead things! Uh…no offense!”

Uncle Deadly turned slowly, his eyes glowing. Rizzo squeaked like a girl and took off, making the dragon chuckle loudly, his mirth building up to a hideous mwah! Ha! Ha! Ha! Abruptly, he fell silent, shaking his head. “Fool!” Sighing, the spectre slowly paced the length of the abandoned green room. Most ghosts returned to earth because they felt they had unfinished business, he well knew; he himself felt an obligation to this theatre, to this troupe: keeping them safe had been a priority of his for years now, and that meant safe from otherworldly entities as well as petty thieves and greedy would-be developers. He much misliked this new intrusion, even if it only affected one member of the Muppets thus far. If thwarted, who knew how far the new revenant might go to achieve what she believed to be her mission? Frowning, Deadly considered the empty news room, such as it was, as though some answer might be found there.

He slipped silently upstairs to the stage, his keen eyes seeking the inhabitants most people had no idea lived in the high rafters above the theatre’s grid. Sure enough, one little bat, not yet flown out for the night, was testing its tiny wings high above, snapping up the few moths hovering around the single, so-called “ghost light” which illuminated the stage faintly every night. Deadly called to it, and the bat swooped down, alighting on his outstretched finger, swinging loosely upside-down to stare at him.

“Go forth,” he told the little flyer, and held out the spare necktie he’d found in the Newsman’s dressing-room for the bat to sniff. “Find him. If the ghost who looks like him is there, bring her to me! Summon her! I demand audience with the intruder; tell her so!” With a squeak, the bat fluttered up and out, finding the hole in the roof ventilation Deadly had insisted be part of the remodeling of the theatre a few months back. He watched it go, nodding in satisfaction. Perhaps a frank discussion of the matter, ghost-to-ghost, would produce some useful results. Whatever the gray lady’s reasons for being here, he, the one true Phantom of the Muppet Theatre, would brook no more such arrogant invasions as had happened tonight!

Grimly, Deadly vanished back into the deep shadows of the stage wing.

Newsie tried his hardest to ignore the steady pounding on the living room windows while he and Gina ate a simple supper in the kitchen. Even with the soft music playing, it proved very difficult. When they retired to the bedroom for the night, he glimpsed his mother’s anguished face outside the living room window, and paused at the doorway to the short hall, feeling guilty. She looked so lonely out there…

Gina put her hand on his shoulder, nudging him toward the bedroom. “Newsie, I told you. Don’t even look.”

He did as he was told, but still the awful feelings returned. “Do you…do you think she’s cold?” he ventured while Gina undressed.

She stopped, clad in shorts and her sports bra, and gave him an incredulous look. “It is ninety degrees out there! And ghosts don’t get cold!”

“How do you know?” he shot back, ashamed of his own negligence. “Have you ever been a ghost? She looks cold, and lonely, and…and…”

“Oh, I do not believe this,” Gina groaned, tossing her shirt into the laundry hamper hard enough to make the wicker basket rock slightly.

Newsie stared at the floor, upset. “Now you sound like that dratted shrimp,” he muttered.

Gina glared at him. “That is it. If you want to feel sorry for the abusive woman who spent your entire time with her sending you on guilt-trips, you do it without me! Heck, worse than guilt trips! I think those were full-blown guilt expeditions!”

She strode across the hall to the bathroom. Newsie followed quickly, apologizing: “Gina! No, er…look…I’m sorry!”

The door slammed in his face. “She’s a ghost, Newsie! A bad one! Stop paying attention to her!” Gina yelled from inside.

“But…” Sighing, he fell silent. After a moment he crept down the hall once more, peering cautiously around the corner; as soon as Mrs Crimp spotted him, she resumed banging on the window with one fist, making plaintive faces at him, gesturing and apparently beseeching, although he couldn’t hear whatever she was saying. He ducked back into the hall, afraid, ashamed. She had appeared truly fearsome earlier…but she was his mother. His flesh and blood, and she had, in fact, made sure he had oatmeal every morning, made sure he washed behind his ears and had clean shorts on, driven him relentlessly to get better grades in school, to be a responsible person, to be honest and loyal and…and… He started sniffling. Loyal. Yes, she’d punished him many, many times, sometimes mildly, sometimes painfully, but she’d always insisted it was for his own good, to impress upon him the right and good way to live. And she had, often, sacrificed something she desired in order to provide for him, be it her time, her money, or her attention – she’d often told him so, in very clear terms, just how much she’d given up for him, her son, her burden and obligation. How could he turn his back on that?

Gina stopped in the hall, waiting until he noticed her. “Bathroom’s all yours,” she said curtly, and went into the bedroom, clothed now in a long black satin nightshirt. When he glumly opened the dresser drawers for something to wear to bed, she looked at him darkly once, then threw back the covers and jumped in, immediately pulling the sheet up and turning away from him as she settled in. Newsie hesitated, about to grab his now-habitual shorts and t-shirt. Another round of thumping sounded, this time from the bedroom window (thankfully curtained), startling him. “Oh for...” Gina let out a long curse, making Newsie wince. He abandoned all thought of immodest sleepwear, instead pulling out one set of his pajamas, and retreated to the bathroom.

This was horrible. Yes, he loved Gina – she was amazing, she was wonderful – but every admonition against immoral dress or speech or behavior ran through his mind, everything his mother had hammered into him for decades, and with a deep sense of having transgressed terribly, Newsie washed up and rinsed his mouth out and put on his long-sleeved, long-legged pajamas, a brown plaid pair, in fact, which his mother had given him for his birthday years ago. She always gave him useful things, not frivolous ones: socks or shorts or ties, sometimes PJs or shirts. Pencils. Pocket protectors. Guiltily he smoothed down the fabric over himself, then slowly returned to the bedroom.

Gina was scowling at the window, where the pounding persisted. “She shouldn’t even be able to touch that!” Gina protested. “Not if there’s nothing left holding her…” Suddenly she swung around to look at Newsie; he froze a few steps into the room, startled by the intensity of her glare. “Newsie…do you have anything of hers? Anything that belonged to her?”

“Uh…er…no,” he replied, taken aback. His mother had willed all her belongings to her sister Ethel. Gina stepped out of bed, coming closer to study him.

“What about gifts? Things she gave to you? Anything like that?” Her gaze narrowed. “Your books?”

“What? No,” he said, baffled. He’d bought all his books himself, through the years, with allowance at first and later, when he had employment, with what he could spare from his food money; his mother had thought owning books was useless when you could read them for free at the library, and had ridiculed every such purchase. “She…she believed in, er, practical gifts. She usually bought me…”

“Clothes,” Gina said, sounding disgusted. “Of course. Do you have any of them still?”

“Uh, a couple of ties; one of the sports coats; some of the shorts, I think...” He stared at her in complete confusion as she began opening his dresser drawers and the closet and pulling out his clothes pell-mell. “Gina?”

“Which ones? Show me!”

“Why?”

Exasperated, she explained, “When a Gypsy dies, all of their belongings are burned or given away to someone outside the community. The spirits can still be attached to the items, and follow around the family if any of them are foolish enough to hang onto something.” She saw him glance at her grandmother’s shawl, and snapped, “Yeah, I kept that! But I didn’t mind having her around once in a while, and she certainly didn’t plague me like a freakin’ poltergeist! Now show me! Which clothes did she give to you?”

The Newsman racked his memory, pointing out to Gina the few items he still owned which he knew his mother had given him; they were in most cases indistinguishable from the rest of his wardrobe in style, save for the newer things he’d bought himself since he and Gina had begun dating. To his shock, she gathered them up and carried them into the hallway outside the apartment. He hurried after her, protesting: “What are you doing? Gina! Those are my clothes! Gina!” But she hurled them down the incinerator shaft, dusted off her hands, and with another grimace at him, stomped back into the apartment and shut the door tightly.

“There. Anything else?” she demanded.

“Wha…I can’t believe you just…”

“Anything else, Newsie? Come on! This has to be done!”

Reluctantly he indicated the pajamas he was wearing. His eyes widened as she reached for him. “Gina! Wait!”

But in seconds she’d expertly stripped him; he huddled, ashamed, behind the bedroom door, hearing her leave the apartment again, the creaking sound of the garbage-incinerator shaft being opened and shut once more, and the slam of their door as she returned. “There,” Gina said, heading for the bed. “Come on. Climb in here.”

“But…but…” he gulped. “I can’t…I can’t…like this! Can you, uh, throw me a pair of shorts, at least?”

She gave him an amazed look, shaking her head. “Newsie, we’ve been sleeping in the same bed for how many months now? I have seen all you’ve got, you know!” She sighed, seeing his terrified expression, turning gentle. “And I like what I’ve seen. Very much. Now please…come to bed, my modest journalist.”

“Turn out the lights?”

“Okay, okay…” She shut off the lamp and the bedside light. Reluctantly, the Newsman crept into the bed, pulling the covers up high and sinking down into them. “Hey. Do you hear that?”

“What?” he mumbled. Both of them were silent a moment.

“No banging. It worked. She can’t touch us in here now. Not even to act like a nasty poltergeist.” Satisfied, Gina tried to curl up with Newsie as she usually did, but he pulled away from her. “Newsie? You’re safe, you know.”

“I…I know.” How could he tell her how horrible he felt? Laying here, without a stitch on, while his mother was probably hovering outside somewhere, thwarted and frustrated and convinced he was behaving immorally… Newsie huddled beneath the sheet, miserable. Rationally, he knew he was being ridiculous; Gina loved him, he knew that. They’d enjoyed many lovely nights here, and many mornings and afternoons as well… He could feel a deep blush overtaking his felt. He’d ceased to be frightened of such intimacy, over the time he’d spent in Gina’s arms; why then, now again, did he feel ashamed of being here? He felt her try to touch him again, and almost groaned, terribly guilty, shifting closer to the edge of the bed, away from her.

“She was wrong, Newsie,” Gina said, her voice low and angry. “You want to sleep way over there tonight, fine. You do what you have to do. But so will I, if you make me. Think about that. I love you, and I’ll always fight for you. But maybe it’s time you did some fighting for yourself.” She leaned close to him, and said softly in his ear, “The dead do not have the right to control the living. Stand up to her! Be your own Muppet for a change! Stop living for her happiness, and think about what you want!”

Wordless, he blinked at her, the soft light from the small nightlight by the door just enough for him to see the gleam of her gray eyes. Was she crying? He wasn’t sure. She startled him by kissing his nose. “I love you,” she murmured. “But you need to choose.”

He didn’t know what response to make. Gina turned away, moving to the far side of the bed, curling up facing the wall instead of him. Newsie lay still, his chest tight, his stomach starting to hurt. He thought of his mother, probably still floating outside, waiting for him. He had no idea how to defuse her. He had no clue how to make up for slapping her, whether it had caused physical pain or not. And he was at a loss as to how to make her accept the one woman who actually loved him, and had proven she did time and again. “I…I love you too,” he whispered across the bed, but if she heard him, Gina gave no sign. Depressed, he lay quietly, staring up at the dark ceiling, surrounded by a crushing blackness in the now-silent apartment.

Outside, Mrs Crimp brushed away the insistent little flying rodent trying to get her attention. “Nasty thing! Get away from me!” she snarled, slapping at it. The bat dodged, then swooped back, chittering at her; to her surprise, she understood it. “What? Who says?” It squeaked, fluttering near her, just out of reach. Mrs Crimp snorted. “Well! The nerve! I don’t think so!” She waggled a finger at the bat. “You just go back and tell that ugly monster that Aloysius is my son, and I will keep trying to show him how far he’s fallen until he sees it himself, and gives up that tawdry little tart! Who knows what sort of disgusting, shocking, horrible things she’s subjecting him to in there, even now? Ugh!”

The bat tried once more, repeating its message, but the prim gray Muppet would have no truck with it. “I most certainly will not go talk to that weird thing! I’ve had quite enough of my son’s freakish little friends, thank you! You tell your master I will do what I need to do, and go where I need to go, in order to turn my boy around – and if that means I go through his awful workplace, so be it! Now scram!” She swung at the bat, and it darted off, giving up.

Disgusted, Mrs Crimp turned back to the window, annoyed at whatever the little witch inside had done to prevent her even touching the building. Well! I guess I’ll just have to see about you, missy! You’ll slip up, and I’ll be right there to see it! A better idea chanced into her dusty gray hairbun, and she smiled. Better yet, I’ll make sure Aloysius sees it – sees just how wanton and immoral you REALLY are! THEN he’ll give you up, and maybe even come with me! I could use him to rub my feet again…all that endless tromping about the underworld does wear on a body. Nodding to herself, she waited for daylight, and the exodus from the building which would have to happen at some point. She’d be waiting…and when that awful female who’d ensnared her boy made her next mistake, she’d catch her, and make sure her son finally saw her for the tramp she was.

Whatever that took.
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[The Count]

Ooh! How I love this story.

Chucky and Topo, a wooden bear and a popsicle stick okay. His not a tongue depresors okay.
Rizzo gets a musical number and fights to protect his cheese(s).
Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves by Cher starring Piggy? Why not. *Needs to get that into my rock & roll MP3 library.
References to Rowlf and Foo, and Mr. Turtle, and Carrie Louise...
Uncle D! *Aws <3 at the scene with the little bat at the theater, that would make a nice illustration.
The angst going through Newsie and Gina over the troubles presented by Mrs. Crimp...

There's just so much here that it positively makes your head spin... Triple AH!
*Head spins around wildly like another prominent poltergeist.

More please!

 

[newsmanfan]

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Dear Ed: ask and ye shall (if my limited talents can provide) receive!

Illustration (also posted under Fan Art, but since it belongs to THIS story):
http://newsiefan.deviantart.com/#/d3lifd5

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[The Count]

Thanks for the drawing.

Hope others like as much as I did the idea found in the fic itself.
Please post more story when possible.

*Tacks up note with the new smilie created by frogboy4 and just added to the site by Phillip Chapman.

 

[newsmanfan]

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I love it!!! Will have to go thank frogboy4. Exxxxxcellent!

Okay...storm warning ahead. Or Mother warning. Mother has been sighted in the area, citizens urged to travel with caution....

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[newsmanfan]

Part Eight

The Newsman stared up at the ceiling for some minutes before it occurred to him he was actually awake. Awake again, more accurately; he’d slept only fitfully, unhappy at not having Gina’s arms around him, but worried about his mother no doubt lurking outside all night. He knew Gina hadn’t slept peacefully either; several times he’d heard her murmuring as she dreamed of unpleasant things, and almost reached out to her. Each time, he hesitated, and then the image of Mrs Crimp’s glower, even more pronounced than his own, would flash through his brain like news footage of a trainwreck or a combat zone, and he’d flinch. But Gina would then toss and turn, and make small unhappy noises in her sleep before subsiding into quietude once again.

He turned his head, able to see even without his glasses that she was still asleep, her hair tangled over the pillow, her arms drawn protectively up near her face although very little sunlight came through the closed curtains and linen shades to disturb her. Guiltily, Newsie slipped out of bed, quickly locating a fresh pair of boxers and his knee-length brown plaid robe and covering himself with hurried movements. With his glasses on, he looked at his sleeping love once more, knowing he was at least in part responsible for her bad dreams. This was awful. He had to do something to make it all right again.

Padding silently on broad, bare feet into the living room, he kept his gaze on the carpet directly in front of him. Movement flashed in his peripheral vision, and he had to consciously forbid himself to look over at the window. She was still out there. He wondered if the neighbors could see her. Good grief, I hope not! Please, please don’t let her bang on THEIR windows as well! Moving on through the dining room into the kitchen, his feet left the rugs and chilled a bit on the brick-patterned tiles of the kitchen floor. Relatively safe in here, he looked up finally, and realized Gina had never enjoyed the breakfast he’d begun for her yesterday. Yesterday! Twenty-four hours! Has it really only been that? Dismayed, he realized that meant the deadline was only another day away. Assuming the reaper meant two days as in forty-eight hours. Oh no. I hope he didn’t mean only daylight, and he’ll be showing up tonight! No, please! I don’t know what to do!

Newsie took several deep breaths, fighting panic. Gina always says focus on the immediate. Breakfast. I should make breakfast. Try to make up for yesterday…and last night. Ashamed of himself for not being a Muppet of stronger stuff, he busied himself fixing a fresh carafe of rich coffee and warming up the iced cranberry scones his beloved preferred. One more day to figure something out. What am I going to do? I don’t want to lose Gina! Surely even Death didn’t have the authority to just take him, or Gina, right? Not yet! What then? If Death can’t stand having Mother around, and I refuse to break up with Gina, and Mother won’t budge…then…then…what’s the alternative? Thoughts churned through his head, all unpleasant. He was pouring two glasses of strawberry soymilk when he noticed lovely bare feet in the doorway. His startled eyes followed up the lean, toned legs to the slinky black satin nightshirt and, finally, the sleepy, bemused face of the young woman he loved. He stopped, staring at her, not sure what to say. “Uh,” was about all he could immediately manage.

Gina squinted at him, not fully awake.

“Er…” Newsie said.

Gina sighed, leaning against the doorframe.

“Um,” Newsie said, feeling like an idiot. “Uh…good morning?”

She looked at him blankly a moment longer. Then she slowly knelt. Instantly Newsie went to her, relieved that she opened her arms to him. He embraced her tightly. She hugged back, wordless, but he felt the tension go out of her shoulders. When her fingers began toying with his uncombed hair, he sighed, closing his eyes.

“You’re up early,” she whispered. Her voice told him she was too tired to even be conscious yet. He hoped the coffee grinder hadn’t woken her, feeling guilty again.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he replied, and felt her nod. Slowly she released him and stood up, moving to the kitchen table to sit.

“I had…bad dreams.” She simply looked at him; his toes fidgeted against the hard floor, and he couldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Where else would I be?” he asked, confused.

Gina shook her head, her hair falling over her face. “Don’t… Just forget it. Was just a dream.”

Newsie took her hands gently in his. “I’m…I’m sorry.” He swallowed hard. “I love you.” He could hear how rough his voice sounded, but she smiled even though her eyes remained closed.

“I love you, Newsie. Sorry you couldn’t sleep.”

“No, no. It was…” Frustrated, he sighed. “Um. Do you want breakfast?”

Gina nodded sleepily. At once he brought her coffee, scones, and milk. Watching her sniff deeply was a pleasure, as was the smile which slowly crept across her face. “Mmmm. My observant journalist knows me.”

Newsie could only nod at that, still feeling very much a failure, knowing the breakfast didn’t make up for much or solve anything. It wasn’t nearly enough. At least she seemed pleased, and began sipping the coffee and nibbling one of the warm scones. He sat a while, hands curled around his own coffee mug, just watching her carefully lick the icing from her fingertips between bites. It amazed him that a woman who could be so…passionately involved in the bedroom at night…could also appear so childlike at the breakfast table, before she was fully awake. She noticed him studying her, and smiled a little, and reached over to daub a bit of melted icing on his nose. “Oops. You got something on you there.”

“Heh,” he tried, his heart not really in it. When she leaned over to kiss away the sticky spot, his eyes shut, guilt washing through him. I don’t deserve her. She’s not bad for me at all – she’s too good for me! Gina sensed his unease, and pulled back, frowning.

“Since when do you not like nose kisses?”

“No, I –I love them,” he assured her hastily.

“Are those too immoral for you now?” she snapped. Newsie blinked at her, hurt. Gina lowered her head, sighing. After a long pause, she muttered, “I’m sorry, Newsie. Very bad night. I’m sorry.”

He nodded, unable to say anything in his own defense. Gina picked at her second scone; reluctantly he made himself drink some of the milk, although he wasn’t hungry in the least. He’d need some kind of nutrients, anyway, and had learned to like the vaguely-sweet soymilk. It beat plain oatmeal.

At length, after drinking her entire cup of coffee and some of her milk, Gina asked carefully, “So…have you decided what to do?”

“What to do?”

Gina met his hesitant gaze firmly. “She’s still out there.”

“I…I know.”

“We have one day left.”

“I know.”

When he said nothing further, Gina sighed again, and took his hand in hers. “I love you.”

He couldn’t reply, feeling choked, but he nodded.

“Newsie…you have to tell her to go away. She’s not going to ever listen to me, but if you were firm with her and really put your foot down, she’d have to accept the situation.”

“She’ll never accept the situation!” He glanced up at Gina only a moment before returning his stare to the tabletop. “Gina, you don’t… She’s not the kind of person you can convince of anything, once she’s made a decision. I was never able to reason with her about anything! And since she’s…dead, she seems even…even more implacable.”

“All right,” Gina said quietly. “So what are you going to tell Death?”

He shook his head in despair. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

He blinked up at her, hearing the threatening tone in her voice. Her gray eyes seemed a little colder. “Hm. How about ‘Hey, Mr Death, I’m not leaving my girlfriend, and you don’t have the right to take either of us away, and why don’t you just lock the witch up in a deep, dark cell somewhere and leave us alone?’” Gina asked angrily. “How about ‘Man up and deal with her yourself and let the living live?’”

“I could never say that to…to him!” Newsie gulped.

“Then what do you think is going to happen?” Gina demanded. “Newsie, I can’t fight this one for you; you’re going to have to throw it right back at him! The dead are his problem, not ours!”

“I thought…I thought maybe…” Newsie tried his best to put some strength into his voice; it still sounded like a fainter croak than Robin’s to him. “Maybe he could just…leave her here.”

“Leave her here?” She stared at him incredulously. “Oh, yeah! What a great idea! I’d love having an angry dead hag hanging around outside the window every minute!”

Newsie flushed pink. “We could…we could put up curtains,” he mumbled.

“Newsie! I am not killing the houseplants and hiding away in a dark cave just to keep from seeing her ugly face day in and day out! And do you know how long that protection spell lasts? Do you?” Frightened, he shook his head, and she spat, “One month, tops! For a determined nuisance like that, probably only about two weeks, and then I’ll have to redo it – over and over! And that’s just the apartment – do you suggest I also cast a banishment over your theatre? And mine? And the grocery store and your news station and every single place we go? Just to avoid her hounding us – or worse?”

“I…I don’t…what else can we do?” Newsie asked, startled when Gina shoved her chair back.

“I am not living like that! That’s not living, that’s hiding, and I am not willing to spend the rest of my life having to deal with your stupid dead mother! Do you get that?” she yelled, and he cringed. She stopped, breathing hard, clearly struggling to get her anger under control. Finally she said, more quietly, “Newsie…my sweet Newsman…I adore you, still. But. I will not. Live that way. Not even for you.”

She glared at him, waiting for his response; he had no idea what to say, what to do. Eyes narrowing, she suddenly left the room.

Newsie sat there, stunned, horrified. Was she leaving? Was she going to leave him? Over this, because he couldn’t stand up to his mother – or to Death? He forced himself up, forced his feet to take him through the apartment again, glimpsed Mrs Crimp still hovering outside the living room; the sight spurred him down the hall faster. Gina was already half-dressed in well-worn gray cargo capris with black metal chains and studs darkly gleaming all over, and she pulled on a black t-shirt with the logo Nine Inch Snails as he stopped in the bedroom doorway. “Gina,” he choked. “Gina…”

She said nothing, shooting a hurt glare at him, putting in a pair of dangling black skull earrings. He’d never seen her dress so…so…dark. Everything about the outfit seemed to thumb its cultural nose at his own more conservative wardrobe. She yanked flexible black shoes onto her feet, pulled her hair quickly into a ponytail and looped a simple black band to hold it in place without even brushing it. “I need to go out for a while. I’ll see you tonight, if you still want to be there with me.” Her pointed look shot right through him, and he instinctively grasped the doorframe.

“Gina…Gina, don’t…I can’t…” he gulped, unable to voice his fear.

Her voice rose in both tone and pitch. “You should get ready. Don’t you have a busy day of avoiding things ahead of you?” She paused at the bedroom door, looking down at him, blinking hard. “Good luck with that.”

He felt the tears coming, trying hard not to let them. He heard the front door slam. He kept hold of the doorframe, but sank down, eventually sitting on the bedroom rug, crying openly, too absorbed in his own grief to recognize that she’d just broken down as well.

The phone rang right as Beaker pressed the activation button for the laser.

“Meeeeep!” he squealed, the kickback from the force of the beam staggering him.

“That’s it, Beaker! Keep it level! Don’t let it zoom all over the place!” Bunsen urged him, then turned to the jumble of parts and pieces strewn over their worktable to find the phone while his ringtone, the chorus from the Busboys’ song “Cleanin’ Up the Town,” continued to play. “Ah! Hello, Muppet Labs, where the future is being made today!”

Bunsen almost didn’t recognize the voice; she sounded flat and terse. “Dr Honeydew? It’s Gina.”

“Oh! Oh, yes, hello, Miss Broucek! How is everything?”

Beaker finally got the wildly dancing laserbeam under control, practicing aiming it at a Muppet cheese, which stopped singing “On Top of Spaghetti” and fell inanimate, if likely inedible. Pleased, he next tried the snapping, fortunately chained-up Muppet sofa, which they’d lured away from its pack at the edge of Queens where it had been roaming feral since 1977.

Gina responded, “Great. Have you made any progress on that project I asked you about?”

“Oh, yes! We’ve built the prototype and are testing it as we speak!” Bunsen said proudly. On the other side of the room, Beaker glared and meeped fiercely, shooting the laser like a squirtgun all over the raving sofa, and it gasped, croaked, and slumped, its eyes turning into harmless doilies and its mouth relaxing into mere moldy cushions.

“Mee meep meep!” Beaker called happily. For once, an experiment which worked well! He was definitely appreciating its anti-animate properties.

“Well done, Beakie!” Bunsen told him. Beaker smiled, standing up taller, turning off the laser. Just as he powered the whole thing down, Bunsen trotted over to the wall and pulled a lever, opening a glass sliding panel which had arcane symbols etched all over it. “Now let’s see how it does against an actual ghost Muppet!” Startled, Beaker stepped back, frantically looking from the malevolently-fanged, one-eyed, axe-wielding creature which floated out of its glass prison cell to his cooling-down spectral electron-disrupting anti-Muppaspectre beam-thrower…which would need another five minutes to reboot.

“So it works?” Gina asked.

“Oh, quite well!” Bunsen proclaimed happily.

“Meeeeee!” Beaker shrieked, ducking as the ghost hurled the axe at him, only to have it reappear in the phantom’s hand and get thrown again. He punched the ON button of the laser over and over.

“How soon will it be ready?” Gina wanted to know.

“Oh, well, we’re doing the final test now! I was able to procure the ghost of an infamous mass-maimer known in life as the Cherryville Chopper!” Bunsen turned finally to see Beaker ducking, dodging, squealing, and tapping every button on the laser as fast as his pink fingers could move, while the ghost chortled and threw his axe over and over and over, destroying a chair, gouging the walls, and setting off an explosion when one blade whirled through a delicate chemistry experiment separating pure hydrogen from aqueous hyrogen sulfide.

BOOOOOM!

“Meeeeeep!”

“Ah,” Bunsen stammered, taken aback. “Ah…soon! Very soon! I’m sorry, Miss Broucek, but I need to get back to work…see you soon…bye bye…” He snapped the phone shut and called out, annoyed, “Beaker! Be careful! Do you know how much a genuinely murderous Muppet ghost costs? Those are extremely rare!”

They stared at one another through the window a long time, the Newsman in trepidation, his mother with a haughty expression.

For Gina, he told himself, shivering. After all they’d been through, he was going to lose her if he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t bear that thought. Mother was just going to have to be mad at him. That was all there was to it. I have to do this, and accept the consequences, he thought, frightened. As terrified of telling his mother off as he was, especially seeing her floating, gray and immovable as stone, right outside waiting for him, Newsie was more frightened of losing the best thing in his life, ever. I’ll…I’ll tell Mother I’m never listening to her again, not ever! And she can complain and rant and...and hurt me…all she wants…but I’m not leaving Gina, and I’m not going with Mother, and she’s not going to bother Gina again! Whatever that takes!

He jumped, his glasses bouncing on his nose, when his watch alarm went off in the bedroom, reminding him it was time to shower and get ready for work. Shuddering, he turned away from the unwelcome visitor on the opposite side of the glass, remembering he was supposed to be at the museum again today for the last of his special reports before the exhibit unveiling tomorrow morning. In the shower, he kept turning up the hot water; he couldn’t stop shivering.

Grateful for the sheltered atmosphere of the bedroom a little later, he stood wrapped in one of Gina’s oversized bath towels from chest to toes, unhappily looking through his remaining clothes. To heck with visual interest, he decided; he simply didn’t feel cheerful enough to put on something bright. Although it would be hot to wear outside, he dressed in his dark gray pants and matching jacket over a plain white shirt and plain gray silk tie, a newer, serious outfit more suitable for delivering reports of casualties overseas than trying to hype the Muppet natural history exhibit. He didn’t care. I can’t lose her, he kept thinking as he automatically knotted his tie, combed his hair, tied his shoelaces. Oh, Gina, please don’t leave. Please don’t. He was too upset to think that if anyone would have to leave, it would be him; the apartment was technically hers, not his.

His mother appeared beside him as soon as his shoes hit the sidewalk.

“I see you finally put some clothes on,” she said snidely. “I was wondering whether you forgot what appropriate attire was!”

He did his best to ignore her, walking on with his jaw set. Frowning, she persisted, “I saw your leggy trollop blow by in the most atrocious outfit. Does this mean you’ve got rid of her?”

“Gina is not a trollop, Mother!” Newsie shouted, making several early lunch-hour commuters turn their heads. Humiliated, flushed, he increased his pace; years ago, when she’d been complaining about her hip constantly, he’d been able to outrun her with a fast walking speed. Not anymore; she glided effortlessly alongside, sneering at him.

“Oh no? Dressed like some…some horrible stone-and-roll fanatic, like those crazy teens on Dick Clark’s show?” Mrs Crimp sniffed. “Why, that rag she had on was tight enough to be a corset – as if the wanton little puppy knew what that was!”

“Mother, stop it! Just stop it!” He halted in the middle of the busy sidewalk, ashamed of doing this in public, having no choice. “For the last time, I don’t care what you think! Do you understand? I don’t care! I love her! I don’t care if me being with her makes you…makes you lose face with your old-dead-ladies bridge club or whatever! I don’t care how awful you think our relationship is! Yes I live with her! Yes I sleep with her!” He was shouting at top volume now; the passersby edged away as they hurried around the two Muppets blocking a few feet of the right-of-way. “And—and—I’m happy! So you can just – just go to heck!”

Tears were streaming past his glasses. Angrily he turned away, whipping them off his nose and wiping his face with his handkerchief. He could feel the cold radiating off his mother over his shoulder, a cold which put the exhausting heat of the day to shame. As he shoved the glasses back on, his chest tight, eyes hot, he saw his mother staring at him; involuntarily he shivered. Those pinpoint, glowing eyes were tiny lasers of anti-happiness. They always had been, he realized. Even when she was alive. One icy glare from her, and he’d always wanted to shrink into nothingness, to be invisible, to be nonexistent, just to escape that scorn.

“What makes you think she feels anything for you?” Mrs Crimp asked coldly, and he felt his heart contract.

“She—she—she’s told me so! She loves me! She says so!” Newsie protested, but his fear gave Mrs Crimp all the opening she needed to press the attack.

“A loose girl like that? Feh!” Mrs Crimp looked as though she wanted to spit, then thought better of it. “And whose salary is she living off of? She dresses like a hobo, you have a decent suit! I can see quite well who’s making the money here!”

“She made more than me when we met!” Newsie argued. “Don’t even go there, Mother! Gina loves me!”

She slapped him.

“That’s for being stupid,” Mrs Crimp snapped. “What have I told you about those kind of girls! You should be taking care of me, after all I’ve done for you, Aloysius! Not giving your money to that reckless little –“

“Mother! You – are –DEAD!” the Newsman yelled, fists clenched, almost nose to nose with her. “I did take care of you! I spent my whole life taking care of you! And now you are dead and I – I – I’m glad!”

Oh! He stopped, stunned at what had just come out of his mouth. His mother even looked startled. Oh good grief…oh…it’s TRUE! He gaped, anger ovewhelmed by surprise, then guilt, then…amazement. All this time…he’d never even thought about it…through years of living alone, in rickety slums because he couldn’t afford anything better, after he’d spent all he earned and gone into debt on top of it, just to provide his demanding mother with everything she insisted she deserved, right down to the velvet-flocked casket. Even before he met Gina, even living in near-poverty, even when he’d been fired from the TV station and relied solely on his meagre Muppet Theatre salary, yes, even then…he’d been relieved. Relieved she was gone. Relieved he’d never hear her harping, grating voice again, or see her proud, hurt expression, or feel guilty for not doing something else right in her eyes. Newsie gulped, astonished at himself. Then he stared at the ghost, and his gaze hardened, and he said calmly, quietly, “Mother, I don’t need you. I don’t want you. Get out of my life.”

Startled, Mrs Crimp backed away a step, for once looking unsure around her son. “I…I can’t believe you’re saying these things, to your own mother!”

Newsie swallowed back a sour taste, but his voice gained a little more strength. “Believe it. And go away. Forever.”

She hesitated. Newsie glared at her, then resolutely turned his back and made his feet start moving again. He couldn’t believe he was actually doing this. Walking away from her, once and for all! His heart was pounding in his ears; his throat was dry as cloth. But he was doing it. Finally, truly walking away.

And then she said, “Then I suppose you don’t want to hear who she’s been cheating on you with.”

He stumbled. No. No! Gina wouldn’t do that! It’s a lie! He tried to ignore his mother, resuming his pace, not looking back. He felt her cold form slide up behind him, and a cold wind breathed on his ear: “That tall delinquent with all the nasty tattoos, that’s who!”

Newsie stopped, looking back at his mother, eyes wide. “N-no! You’re lying!”

“Oh am I? Your own mother, who only ever wanted what was best for you, even when you were too foolish to know what that was?” Smiling nastily, Mrs Crimp hissed, “Do you really think a tall, young girl like that would want to be with you, when she can get her jollies with another young, immoral, non-Muppet brute? I’m sure she knows how absurdly blind you are to the evils of the world! I’ll bet she ran out of here this morning right into his big, tall, lusty arms!”

“Shut up!” Newsie said, jerking back when his mother leaned in suddenly. “Gina wouldn’t…no!”

“She’s not a Muppet! She has no morals! Why on earth would you think a tramp like that would be faithful? I’ll bet she even has other men besides!”

“You’re lying to upset me! You just want me to break up with her!” Newsie accused. “You have no proof at all! You’re just making this up!”

“Proof? Oh, I see, the fool of my own blood can’t take his own mother’s word for it, hm? Do you really think of yourself as some high-and-mighty reporter? ‘Newsman,’ indeed! Cuckold, more like!” As Newsie spluttered, too furious to speak, Mrs Crimp waggled a gray finger at him. “Fine! You want proof? You’ll get it in spades! Just remember, you asked for it! And don’t come crying later to me!” With a satisfied nod, the ghost suddenly vanished.

Newsie stood, trembling in rage, abruptly alone in the crowd. Taller people flowed around him, casting irritated looks his way, unheeded. The noon sun beat down on the pavement, relentless, but even dressed in his heavy, dark suit, the Muppet Newsman felt frozen, from his heart out to the tip of his pointed nose...even the spot Gina had kissed again, just this morning. Frozen.
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[The Count]

Yep... There's definitely a storm brewin' between both sides.

But the best part was the toy testing at Muppet Labs.
May I borrow the Cherryville Chopper? He's hexactly what I needed for one of the demons.

Sure hope Gina doesn't get into much trouble or gives Mrs. Crimp so plenty of ammo to continue driving that wedge between the duo.
Excited to read what may happen at the museum... And there's still that outbreak of the green furry clamlips virus going round.

Thanks... More please!

 

[Ruahnna]

Howdy! I just finished up to this point! A couple of comments, if I may.

I enjoyed seeing your take on an established character--Newsie definitely has my sympathy for his rotten family experience, and my heart went out to him because he was so miserable. I can understand why Gina is frustrated though, even though she wants to love him. He's going to have to stand up for himself--Muppet up, if you will--if he's going to move forward from this spot in his life.

I was surprised, I think, about the subject matter of the story. Abuse and infidelity are tough topics to write a Muppet story around, but you engaged my imagination enough to make me care what happens to Newsie and Gina. (I did think Rizzo was a little unnecessarily harsh to Newsie--this is a rat that hangs out with Gonzo, for goodness sake--but I respect other folks interpretations of characters. Vive la différence!)

This last is one of those it's-not-you-it's-me comments--the individual story sections in this story are so long it made it harder for me to read from a stop-accidentally-touching-the-touch-pad-and-losing-your-place point of view. Keep writing--by all means!--but could you break each story segment into smaller chunks?

Nice to have you adding to our fanfic library!

 

[newsmanfan]

-----------------------------------------
Ed: borrow the Chopper, sure! I made him up on the spot. Was curious if you caught the "Thirteen Ghosts" vibe I was trying for. ; >)

Lady Ru: glad you like. This thing went way darker than I planned, but it feels right to me, so I'm running with it. After all, what's a relationship without adverisities?

Sorry about the length...but I think in terms of overall chapters, linked segments. Please feel free to copy/paste them to your own computer if that makes the whole thing easier to digest!

More soon...writing tonight! Thanks everyone for reading so far.
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