Kermie's Girl (ushy-gushy fanfic)

The Count

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Jul 12, 2002
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:news: This is a Muppet Fanfic Mupdate!
The authoress of this epic novel has stated that she is unable to post at the moment due to being buried under a mountain of schoolpapers. Wha? Nooooo!
*Mountain of papers fall ontop of Newsie.

*Reemerging from under his desk...
In other KG news... We here at Muppet Central wish the novel a happy 9th birthday, to be celebrated as its astounding to think a work of fanfic has attained such status within the community. Everyone keeps checking out this novel whenever it's available at the Three Candlesticks Library and purchase the latest chapter on sale at the Coming Unbound Bookstore.
*The mountain dissasembles into a loose pile, quickly swept away by :oops: in the background.

:news: So happy birthday Kermie's Girl, cake will be served by the authoress as soon as she makes the details public to this reporter. That is all for this Muppet Fanfic Mupdate.
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Well-Known Member
Jun 11, 2006
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Looking for something well written that would get me away from my own worries lead me back here today. I love this story and hope that when you have the chance you will add more.

The Count

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Jul 12, 2002
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Hex yes! We needses us our KG fix mistress Ru!

BTW: Java, I'd also recommend you read through WebMistressGina's fics as well as Slackbot's, both handily found in the updated 2014 FLI thread. :electric:


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Oct 24, 2003
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Missed you guys! (Bonus points if you can identify the three, um...muskateers who save the day!)

Chapter 164: Getting a Grip
Kermit did his best to keep a smile on his face. Although he was a talented actor, he was no hypocrite, and it took a real effort to look bland and welcoming. More than once, he’d inadvertently found himself in a deadly unattached-male clump and worked hastily to extricate himself, but it was nothing compared to the speed with which he acted when he looked up to find himself the only male in a group of stunning starlets or young debutantes. He felt like he’d spent the whole event scrambling from one potentially dangerous situation to another. He wished Piggy were with him, because—well, because he wanted her with him!—but also because she loved these things! She always managed to hold everyone in her thrall—peers, patrons and underlings alike—and, with her by his side, or on his arm, he felt armored enough to…relax. He did not feel relaxed at the moment.
The food had been good, and the alcohol had been flowing rather freely. Kermit had clung to his champagne flute as though it were a weapon, fending off refills. Last night's “after-party” with the guys had made him wary, and while he had not minded the tongue-loosening that had resulted (because he had been among friends), he wanted to be firmly en garde in case the conversation veered suddenly into uncharted waters. The group he was in had exhausted all of their small talk, introductions had been made all around and people were talking about projects and appearances, jockeying for positions of esteem in the eyes of the patrons. The reactions of the non-SAG crowd ranged from rapt fascination to wry amusement as the topic bounced from one person to the next. Kermit thought of it like a game of volleyball—if the ball comes to you, set it up for the next guy (or gal) to spike—but stay out of the front line. When the conversation turned to him, he turned it deftly toward the next person and their next project, ceding the floor without ever really taking it. It was a policy that should have worked—
normal">would have worked, in fact, had the
normal">gentleman Anne had rescued him from (or rescued from him) not sidled up to their group. Evidently, he had not been too sloshed to realize that Kermit had shined him on, and his eyes held more than a touch of sulkiness as he turned and looked at Kermit.
“Sorry if I was insensitive earlier,” he said coolly. “I suppose playing the field doesn’t have the same appeal when you’ve been given your walking papers.”
Kermit felt a surge of heat in his cheeks, and his grip tightened on the glass in his hand, but he gritted out a smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about either of those things,” he said, his bulbous eyes hard. “I’m a happily married frog. You’ll have to tell me what the dating life is like.”
For answer, the young man’s face, already flushed, turned a deeper shade of red. If Kermit’s supposed marital woes had been tabloid fodder, this young man’s recent breakup had been splashed over the same pages, and the reporters had not been kind to him either. If Kermit had hoped to find some common ground, miserable though it might be, it was unsuccessful. The young man (what was he now—20?) glared at Kermit.
“Can’t complain,” he said expansively, but there was an edge to his voice. “Couldn’t decide who to bring today, so I thought I’d just play the field. You know how that goes, right?”
“I have a vague memory,” Kermit said pleasantly, and the crowd chuckled. “My dance card has been full for a while.”
The young man’s eyes narrowed, not pleased at being so expertly thwarted. “It certainly looked full at the Academy Awards. How is your girlfriend?”
The mini-crowd around him had grown still, and while Kermit had felt the release of tension when they had laughed at his earlier comment, it ramped back up to the tipping point in an instant.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Kermit said levelly. “My best girl is on Broadway.”
It was an unfortunate choice of words, and there was an almost imperceptible ripple through the crowd.
“Yes, and I hear your second-best girl is getting a new designer dress.” The crowd rippled again, smelling blood in the water.
“My—she’s not my girl! That was—that was just because her gown was damaged,” Kermit said, and there was no mistaking the warning in his voice. “Her dress caught on my cufflink—” (He shot forward a fist, his knuckles almost white). “–and I offered to replace the dress so I could get free to finish my interview with my—with Miss Piggy!”
“Smart move,” said the young man. “How does Miss Piggy feel about you co-opting her favorite designer?” While Kermit and company had been mum on the subject, the publicity-craving “personality” had had no such compunctions, regaling the press with the promise of “juicy details” about the dress Thoreau was designing for her. “I sure hope the rumors about your company’s finances aren’t true—I’ll bet it takes a lot of money to keep Miss Piggy—and others—in designer gowns.”
Kermit was peripherally aware that their little group of ten or so had now swelled to almost twice that size, and he could see the charity organizers in their red jackets converging upon them. He would have traded them all for Marty and Scooter, and he would have traded Marty and Scooter for Piggy.
“Piggy is
fine with it—” he began, grasping for calm, but too late and his opponent moved in for a killing blow.
“Oh, that’s right—we all know how
fine she is with that. That’s why she gave you the big send-off last night, why she’s been hob-knobbing with the best divorce attorney in the country!”
Kermit’s mouth gaped, and his whole body began to tremble with the effort of not launching himself across the crowd.
“She’s, but she’s not—” he sputtered, trying not to snarl. “She—it was just a misunderstanding. We were trying to talk on the phone and we got cut off.”
The crowd murmured, and to Kermit’s aural organs, some of the murmurs sounded supportive, but some of them most definitely did not.
“It certainly
sounded like she cut you off.”
“Now just a—”
“Broadway seems to have been good for her. I hear she’s getting out more.”
Kermit thought about what Piggy had told him last night, about dancing with her friends at a club. He suspected there were pictures on the internet, and could not see any use in trying to refute what must look like proof of her straying.
“I don’t worry about Piggy,” Kermit ground out. The collar of his tuxedo shirt felt tight, and he could feel the closely-tailored coat stretch along his back as he fought the urge to go over there and smack the sneer off the other man’s face. “She’s on Broadway where she belongs.”
“Huh,” said the young man, faking an epiphany. “And I used to think she belonged with you.” He turned and shrugged melodramatically, playing to the crowd. They weren’t exactly on his side, but they were certainly enjoying the show.
does!” Kermit practically shouted, closing some of the distance between them. “Piggy is my girl. She’s always been mine and that’s not going to change.”
“I believe
that’s up to her,” the young man taunted. “If she has any sense at all, she won’t be coming home anytime soon!” He turned to smirk at the crowd.
What happened next was a bit of a blur. Kermit was aware of stepping forward, saw the other man stumble backwards in surprise, but then strong hands restrained him, holding him back, putting a barrier between him and the other fellow. Other hands seemed to be dragging the fellow off, none-too-gently—part of the entourage he’d arrived with, maybe?—and Kermit craned his neck after him, trying to wrest himself free.
“Hey, hey Kermit, chill buddy,” said an earnest voice. “It’s okay—they’re taking him away to soak his head.”
“Let me…let me
help him,” Kermit growled, trying to jerk loose. He almost succeeded, but his would-be helper regained a grip on him and held on with both hands.
“A little help here!” his rescuer said, and a couple of tuxedoed fellows sprang to his side.
“I got him, Tobey—wait! Not yet I don’t!” said the first one, grunting with effort.
“Slippery guy—stronger than he looks!” chortled the second, but without mirth. “Hold him, Matt, let me get a grip…there.”
It is harder than it might look to wrestle a frog (Miss Piggy could attest to it!) and it is even more challenging when you are trying to do it in a crowd, in a tuxedo and while
smiling at said crowd and pretending nothing
unusual was happening. It did not help that Kermit did not want to be wrestled
anywhere and he was not helping his erstwhile rescuers. Although he was a consummate showman, cool on stage no matter what happened, Kermit was exhibiting none of that sangfroid now, turning around and trying to get a bead on where his tormentor had been taken.
Kermit felt himself being hustled over toward the side door, then they were through it, then another door and into the relative quiet of a back hall. Dimly, Kermit realized they’d dived into the servers’ hallway, and was at least a little grateful to be out of the limelight. He was not as grateful about being restrained and struggled against the strong arms that held him.
“C’mon—let me go,” the furious amphibian muttered.
“In a minute,” said the first fellow, smiling. “I’m trying to give the other fellow a head start.”
need it,” Kermit muttered, and tried again to wriggle free. The three men exchanged worried looks, and the third one started to speak, but a line of wait staff with trays suddenly turned the corner, and they moved—as a unit—over to the side, out of the way, carrying their amphibian friend with them. The men and women with the food cast them surprised looks, but were too well-trained to break formation and soon the hallway was quiet again. The quiet seemed to have helped.
“I’m fine—really,” said Kermit. “I’m not going to do anything rash—I’m just going to go over there and teach that guy a thing or two about…a thing or two.”
The second fellow knelt down next to Tobey, still holding firmly to Kermit’s wiry arm. “I don’t think he’s very teachable right now,” he said, and grinned. Dark hair fell over one eye, making him look more like Superman than the superhero he had played. “Not worth your time, Kermit.”
Kermit regarded him with apparent calm. “That’s probably true, James,” he said, sounding reasonable, and the two men on the floor flashed each other quick looks of relief. Their relief was short-lived, however, and Kermit’s next words made them tighten their hold on his writhing form. “But, hey, with Piggy out of town, I have time on my hands, so I don’t mind using some of it to teach that guy a lesson.” He strained against them mightily, eyes bulging.
James looked up, wide-eyed. “Matt—any suggestions?” he asked the other man.
The impeccably-dressed man shrugged. “Let him go?”
“Thank you, Matt,” Kermit called over his shoulder, still trying to extricate himself.
“Not helping,” Tobey said darkly. He tried to be reasonable. “Look, Kermit—popping that loudmouth in the kisser isn’t going to solve your problem.”
“Oh no?” Kermit said. “It would solve one of them!”
“No,” said James. “The real problem is the love of your life is on the opposite coast.”
Kermit had stopped struggling and nodded grudgingly. Warily, Tobey let go of one wiry arm.
“Look man, I
know what that’s like,” Matt jumped in unexpectedly. Kermit half-turned to look at the actor leaning elegantly against the wall. He looked cool and detached enough to be a tuxedo ad, but his voice was tinged with passion. “I hear you,” he continued. “Been that. Done there. Working on opposite coasts is the pits, but you’ve just got to power on through, you know?”
“I’m trying,” Kermit said, hoping it didn’t sound as whiny as it sounded.
“Darn tooting,” Matt continued. “You’re here working your tail off, she’s there, doing the same, and your phone battery can hardly keep up.”
“Yeah,” said Kermit, thinking of what might have been different if only….
“But do you think—do you really think that Miss Piggy isn’t missing you there as much as you’re missing her?” Matt grimaced. “New York can be a lonely place. You’ve got to remind her of what she has to come home for.”
Chagrin had shown up late, but it was making an appearance. Kermit cleared his throat, pulled on the collar of his shirt. “That’s true,” he said. “I should be thinking about Piggy instead of what people say. Punching that guy in the mouth won’t solve my problem.” He grimaced. “It’d make me feel better, but it wouldn’t solve my problem!”
“There you go—that’s right,” said Tobey. He grinned at Kermit, who was clearly regaining his equilibrium. “Besides—what would Scooter say if we let you get in trouble?”
“He’d probably say—”
Scooter,” said James soberly. “What would Miss Piggy do to us if we didn’t stop you?”
Kermit took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and exhaled slowly. “Right. Got it.” He grimaced and jerked his head toward the door. “It’s not going to be pretty. The press hates me.”
“I beg to differ,” said James. “You sell a lot of papers, make a lot of hits on the websites. Right about now, they adore you.”
“Funny way to show adoration,” Kermit muttered.
“It doesn’t matter what they’re saying—”
“As long as they’re talking…yeah, yeah. You’ll pardon me if I don’t agree,” Kermit said, his voice bitter.
“So it’s rotten now—pretty soon the movie will be out and then—” said Tobey.
“Right—then I’ll want the press to be writing about us.”
“There ya go!” said James, flashing a huge grin. He reached out, pulled Kermit under his arm and rubbed his head, making Kermit squawk and—finally—grin.
“Okay, okay,” the rumpled amphibian muttered. He readjusted his tie, checked his cuffs, and sighed. “I’m just going to go back out there and smile and flash my cufflinks. I can do that, right?”
“Attaboy,” said Matt, patting Kermit on the back.
“Right,” said Tobey, slapping Kermit’s shoulder. He stood up and pulled James to his feet. The four men took a moment to re-tuck and adjust their ties, and the other three non-amphibians smoothed down their locks.
Matt leaned over Kermit’s shoulder to admire the glittering dragonflies. “Kerm—those really are gorgeous.”
“Yeah,” Kermit said, sounding so morose they all reached to pat him, then laughed when their gestures overlapped. They started for the door, and Tobey put a steadying hand on Kermit’s shoulders.
“You can do this,” he said. “Put your game face on and don’t mind the idiots.”
Kermit did his best.

Piggy hit all her marks and all her notes and the audience whooped and cheered every time she cocked a sultry hip or batted her eyelashes, but Rory knew she was not as in-the-moment as she appeared. He tried to sound her out backstage while Kristen, as Sandy, belted out her hopeless devotion.
“Not that I’m taking it personally or anything,” he ventured cautiously, “but you could have been kissing a headlight out there.”
“Only the headlight would have been brighter,” Piggy sniped, but automatically.
Rory half-smiled. The sniping was a good sign, but he was worried. The thought that somebody had been backstage was disconcerting—not that there’d been any lack of attempts. Harvey and crew usually dispatched any “unwelcomers” before they even got within range of Bobo, much less Miss Piggy, but someone had left that note in her jacket, and no matter how she had tried to convince Mr. Lowry that she wasn’t freaked out, Rory was not fooled. He knew she was thinking of the unknown assailant who had tried to pignap her earlier, and wondering if he had once again gotten too close for comfort.
Rory touched her arm and she jumped slightly, but covered immediately.
“I’ll take the penny out of my loafers to know what’s going on between those two pretty pink ears,” said Rory.
Piggy rolled her eyes, but smiled.
“Not a thing,” she said. “You know I try not to think too hard.” She batted her long eyelashes at him.
“Don’t try so hard,” he shot back. “I think it’s working!”
“Ooh!” Piggy rounded on him, but she was fighting off a grin. Rory shrugged and grinned back.
“Still freaked about the message?” he asked. Piggy gave a half-shrug.
“Moi is thinking about Kermie, and the horrible press.”
“Maybe you
should think less,” Rory murmured, but Piggy continued as though he hadn’t spoken.
“The papers were full of horrible things,” she said anxiously. She darted a quick look at him. “Moi did not read them—I just…Marty told me not to read them,” she explained.
“Good idea,” Rory said grimly. Something in her attitude niggled at the back of his brain. “What?” he asked.
But Piggy was evasive. “Moi is just tired.” Saturdays, with their two shows, were always rather grueling, and they had all had more than their share of unwanted excitement.
“After the show, you can kick back and veg for a bit. Want me to bring you some takeout?”
Piggy shook her head and tried to smile. “Not really hungry,” she said.
“I’ll think of something,” Rory said confidently, and hoped he would before the play was over.

“I don’t
care what it takes,” Scribbler’s boss had said, voice so icy the weary journalist had been tempted to look to see if any actual icicles had formed on his phone. “If we are not the first paper to get a look at the dress Thoreau designs for that—for that, um, woman, then I wouldn’t want to be you.”
Nine-tenths of Scribbler wasn’t wild about being him either, but the other tenth was over-the-moon elated. He had been on an emotional roller coaster for weeks now, and the highs and lows were only getting more and more exaggerated, but despite the bone-jarring shifts and turns, part of him was thrilled—humbled and amazed and thrilled—that Missy had relented, had given him one more chance to be her hero. He thought about the article he would have to write, thought about all the articles he had already written—the ones from their early days, the most recent stories…the ones in between. He thought about what Missy would say, what his boss would expect, and what he might imply. He knew the truth lay somewhere in the middle—unspoken and unwritten and mostly unsought-for, but the truth of the article—or lack of it—wasn’t foremost in his mind. He could think of one thing, and one thing only—someone was getting closer to Missy, someone who probably meant her harm, and he was the only one she trusted enough to tell.
was it with her and the frog? Despite his objections to Kermit—both in general and in specific—he wasn’t blind. Kermit took care of her (although that was hardly a one-frog job), seemed to want her, probably loved her. Then why the heck was she hanging out here on a wing and a prayer with nothing more than a loser like him between her and some wacko? Why wouldn’t she tell Kermit she was in danger? Was she still that insecure about her place in Kermit’s life? Or was it something else?
He shook his head, trying to puzzle it out. And it wasn’t just Kermit that wasn’t in the know—it was Marty, too. Scribbler almost reached for his phone. He had called once before—had made sure Marty knew what was going on—and the bear had shown up like her own personal gladiator. Not the sharpest shovel in the shed, to be sure, but plenty of muscle besides that between his furry ears. Why was Missy so determined to do this on her own?

Well, not entirely on her own. She had called him, not just once, and just lately in the restaurant. That didn’t count, Scribbler reminded himself. She’d thought she was calling the dancer—Rory. And the kid had come, but after the fact, and probably to protect Missy from him instead of that creepo Strathers. Scribbler stopped again, something niggling at his brain and then an idea popped into his head. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Missy hadn’t just been mum about the crazy guy with the chloroform—whom she obviously assumed was the same guy who’d been in her dressing room. She was also not fessing up about her former boss being a major-league jerk.

He thought about that, setting the idea in front of him and circling around it. Piggy could have made one call—one teensy little text, even—to Marty and Strathers would find himself shut out of almost every circle of influence in tinseltown. After that, the guy would have been lucky to have booked a birthday clown, much less any of the other acts that came and went at the Palace. But she hadn’t called, hadn’t raised one adorable pinky or a single objection. She’d fended him off (with a little help) and had continued to play this-pig-is-an-island with the loved ones back home. Why? Whywhywhy? What was making her unwilling to run to that stupid amphibian for help?

Suddenly, everything snapped into focus. Fleet inhaled sharply, his heart pounding. He had been a reporter for a long time, and while some reporters developed a nose for a story, Scribbler had developed a gut. And his gut was telling him he was on to something.

There were a number of reasons he could think of that might make Piggy unwilling to call for help. She had always been wary about putting herself into the hands of others—no one knew that better than him!—and now she had reason to back up her distrust since her assailant was still unknown. Even Marty had had a tough go of it at times, when Missy’s instinct warred with his business savvy. Funny enough, she had been right as much as she had been wrong, something that didn’t happen much with Marty. Scribbler knew, anecdotally, that Marty had had some objections to her joining the cast of The Muppet Show, but she had, and it had certainly turned out okay. A picture flashed into his brain—the way she looked at him, twisting her gloves in her hands, blushing and stammering and telling him that she’d nailed the audition, was taking the job, was moving to England. He should’ve gotten an Oscar of his own that day, should have won some sort of something for pretending that he was happy for her, was glad, was sure he would be there in no time to document her phenomenal success. He felt a grin lift his visage. He had managed it. By the time he’d gotten there she’d already caught the boss’s bulbous eye, seriously flapped the host, and was on her way to being a big star. His arrival and the articles he would pen would simply water the seed she’d already planted, and boy did it blossom!

Like the rest of the world, he watched her take the reins—and the frog—into her own hands and make her dreams come true. He’d watched, basking in her success, and while he’d certainly spared Kermit a worrisome thought or two, he had known, like Piggy had known, that Kermit was married to his job, would never want to settle down to anything like domesticity. But Piggy’s knowing, unlike his own, had been tinged with doubt, and she had moved—gradually but inexorably—toward a belief that Kermit could love her, and did love her, and would act on it. And he had watched and listened and comforted and kept his doubts to himself, unwilling to argue for the right to make her unhappy. He had never thought Kermit a serious danger, never seen in him the things that Missy had obviously seen. Was that what she meant by no one ever understanding? He had been casual about the danger from Kermit’s quarter, and it had swallowed him, stripping him of everything in one fell swoop when he realized that she had been right—all along.

Scribbler was tired. His eyes felt achy and hot, and he needed…he needed help. He needed Harve and Gladys, and he needed Scoop. No reporter is an island—and no pig either. If she wouldn’t do it, he was going to have to call in the reinforcements.
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The Count

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Jul 12, 2002
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Okay, finally got a chance to read the update. Sorry for the lateness, my phoneline/internet was down all day, and I suspect it will be again tomorrow/today/whenever, I don't have any clear-cut track of time anymore what with my computer's clock stuck cycling for an hour's worth at whatever time it's set. It's just like the White Rabbit's watch, or rather as the Mad Hatter pronounced it, two days slow.

Cleaned up some typos as well, dunno where all the normal">(s) when you attempted italicizing certain text popped up from, but they're gone now.

As for the chapter itself...
Never was able to play volleyball myself either Kerm.
Hmm, I sincerely doubt that jerk was sorry for his earlier behavior, especially since he egged Kermit on in his own way.
This young man, whoever he is, seems to be "almost" up to speed on Piggy's activities. I say "almost", because if he truly were up to date, he'd know the pig is potentially browsing other acting opportunities after Grease! wraps up.
Seems the group of male friends were able to drive home what Ann tried to do earlier at the fundraiser/party. I tell you, next Wednesday can't come early enough for the frog to finally jet off to NYC.

Looks like Scribbler's broken the case wide open. Maybe now we can get something rolling to get Strathers out of the picture. Even if he has to call the frog back in California to tell him the sorted goings-on.

:news: Was that a shot at me?
:news: The line about how some reporters developed a "nose" for news.
Er, you'll have to ask the authoress.

Thankses so very much for this, love it when you get a chance to write/post.

The Count

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Jul 12, 2002
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Sorry, didn't realize you had thrown down some sort of gauntlet regarding last chapter.

Okay, I'm going with...
Toby McGwire, who played Spider-Man in the three films directed by Sam Reimy;
James Marsders, Cyclops from the first three X-Men movies; and
Matt... Matt Daman?

*Shrugs, meh, yeah, let's go with that. :search:


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Oct 24, 2003
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You are close, darling! So close!
Tobey Maguire (of Spidey fame)
James Marsden (Cyclops and Prince Edward from Enchanted) and
Matt Bomer (White Collar)
Three talented actors who would surely stoop to help out an amphibian buddy whose being dogged about his love life!
The young man lacking in manners shall remain nameless, but you can probably guess who I was thinking of when I wrote this.

Stay posted--next chapter coming up in 3, 2,


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Oct 24, 2003
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Chapter 165: Diva Ex Machina (Diva in the Machine)

When you raise 147 kids, there’s bound to be some worrying, but Mabel had always been practical. You can always kiss booboos—no matter how big they got—and it pays to keep the tissues and superglue handy, but eventually you just have to trust that you’ve done the best you can and let them find their own way. Tricia had come to them later—a little blessing she had been, but so wounded, so full of distrust and skepticism. That still came out in her music, that fierceness and aloneness, but she had settled in without ever actually settling down. Thinking about Tricia settling down—metaphorically speaking—was like a Mobius strip: no matter how hard she tried to think of it in a straight line, it just kept twisting and turning.

So Tricia’s band was getting their big break. The Indie Vittles had had other breaks, to be sure, but nothing like this. This was the big-time, this was career-changing—heck, life-changing, and it had come about because of Clifford. Clifford, who also appeared to be having some life-changing breaks of his own.

Mabel could see it. She could see them happy, and together and making a life and a living, but being on the road at this point could be a real strain on a budding relationship. She wondered how they would do apart from each other, how that would change this exciting career opportunity for Tricia. She worried about Clifford, and not just for Tricia’s sake.

He had played the field for a long time, had painted himself as the happiest bachelor in the world, but the truth was that being on your own could be a lot like loneliness. Not for everybody, sure—some people were more solitary by nature. Jervis, bless his soul, from her 8th litter, could only tolerate the rest of their big, noisy family in small doses, but that didn’t mean he didn’t love them or miss them. When Jervis sent her cryptic little texts from his office at NASA, or posted the rare photo on Instagram, she knew it was as heartfelt as the long, newsy emails she got from Loralie, who had followed her husband all the way to Germany for an engineering job.

So lost in thought was she, that she didn’t hear Clifford approaching until he stepped up beside her and picked up a drying towel.

“How was the breakfast shift?” he asked, reaching for the bowl she’d been rinsing for the past four minutes.

“It was busy,” Mabel said, squinting up at him. “What have you been up to?”

“Writing a little music, I guess.” He grinned at her, self-conscious. “Guess I’ve been a little out of practice lately.”

“Maybe you’ve just been stretching other muscles?”

Clifford choked, and Mabel could have sworn his face flushed guiltily, and she thought back along what she’d said. Oh. Oh! So…so things had progressed. Mabel turned away to hide her own flushed face and opened her mouth to speak, but Clifford surged into the silence.

“If you are washing a bowl, I assume there was something in the bowl that might be worth investigating?”

Mabel laughed. “I made a strudel,” she said. “You like apricots?”

Clifford didn’t say anything, but he bent and kissed her on the top of her furry head. “You are the best mom on the planet.”

Mabel laughed and patted his waist. “Make yourself useful,” she said. “Run to the market and get me a few things.” She went and got the list off the fridge and handed it to him along with the car keys.

“I am the man,” Clifford said as he saluted and started out the door.

I think you might be, Mabel thought, and it made her glad.

“It was terrible,” Scoop said. “He couldn’t get on the right side of anything.”

Scribbler shot Harve and Gladys a quick look over his shoulder. They were all listening to Scoop’s report over the phone speaker, receiving the news with varying degrees of discomfort.

“So Kermit tried to take out what’s-his-face for being smart, um…aleck (He glanced apologetically at Gladys) about Miss Piggy?”

“I didn’t see him hit the guy or nothin’ like that,” Scoop said. “But three of his friends hustled him out before it got ugly.”

Scribbler was quiet for a moment, thinking. “You got your piece written yet?” he asked, and Scoop snorted.

“I wasn’t expecting this kind of story and, um—sorry, Fleet, I don’t mean anything by this but, well, my paper isn’t really looking for that sort of story. We’re not really, um, sensationalistic…and all…. No offense…?” Scoop trailed off, clearly uncomfortable, and Harve shot a look to see how his friend had taken the comment, but one look at Scribbler’s face told him that Scoop had nothing to worry about.

“None taken,” Fleet grinned savagely. “More room at the bottom for the rest of us, right? Look, if you aren’t going to write it, maybe you could help me write it, then you could write a friendly little clarification piece—like last time. Whatdya say?”

“I could try. I’ve not really written anything like that,” Scoop said doubtfully.

“He sounds like a nice fellow, doesn’t he Harve?” Gladys whispered, and Harve put his arm around her waist. Gladys always saw the best in folks.

“Tell you what, Scoop. You just tell me what happened—what actually happened, and I’ll make up the rest, okay? I’m just looking to give Missy some, um, plausible deniability. Champions of truth and all that.”

“Okay,” said Scoop. “You had me at plausible.”

He ought to be elated, ought to be happy, but he wasn’t. True, he’d made it into her inner sanctum and dropped his little promise into her pocket, but she still wasn’t his, still wasn’t looking up at him in abject adoration, worried about displeasing him. His eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. She certainly hadn’t been worried about displeasing him the other night at the restaurant. True, he might have spooked her, moving too fast while she was still reeling from Kermit’s deceit, and she did have to think about her reputation, but he could still feel the shock of having her pull away from him, actually resist him. As rage-inducing as that was, the thought of overcoming that resistance when there were no witnesses around both calmed and excited him.
He just needed to work the plan, needed to keep at it. And he was good at making plans. Seymour frowned. He was good at making plans, so what was it that kept going wrong?
First, he’d never had a moment with her—not a moment—when they’d been in Vegas. Either she’d had the kid or her friends, or she was connected to that stupid amphibian by some sort of invisible bond. He remembered watching them dance together on the stage when they thought no one was watching, the way they had looked at each other, the way they had moved…. Abruptly, Seymour kicked the trash can in his hotel room, sending it skittering across the floor. Stupid frog, silly swine…ah, that was better. She was silly—just silly and unschooled—attracted to Kermit because she didn’t know any better, hadn’t really been exposed to someone who knew how to handle her, knew how to demand discipline. But he could fix that. With time and the willingness to do whatever it took to bend her to his will, he knew he could triumph. He just needed to be patient, but his patience was already strained.
Secondly, he needed to solve the mystery of her apartment. He had thought himself quite clever, changing rental cars so frequently, but those stupid New York cabbies seemed to disappear like magic, and she didn’t always go directly home. In fact, she rarely seemed to go straight home, but instead spent far too much time out with her friends. That would have to change, too. Once she was his, she’d not be allowed to gallivant all over the city at all hours. She should be home, ready and waiting whenever he arrived, ready and willing to devote herself to him. It had occurred to him that, if he wanted her all to himself, he might have to keep her all to himself and he had investigated a number of security devices that might do the trick. Once she learned that defying him was useless, she’d come around. Besides, once they got back from New York, he planned to take an extended vacation at home so he could dedicate himself entirely to her, and helping her adapt to her new responsibilities.
Finally, he’d been somewhat pleased at the progress made in the dissolution of their relationship. Kermit was apparently making the rounds at Hollywood parties without her, talking up starlets and giving every appearance of a frog-about-town with no particular ties to the lovely pig he had betrayed. Piggy could no longer cling to the idea that Kermit loved her—she’d been too far back on the back burner, behind the movie, behind the frog’s big-bootied bimbo. If only Piggy had taken the opportunity and crawled into his arms the other night, wanting comfort, he could have dispensed it in droves. As it was, she’d have to crawl to him after an even bigger fall, but he’d be generous, if not gentle.
With effort, he composed himself. He was supposed to go check out a new penguin act on Broadway later, and not just to keep his partners off his back. They’d become a little too interested in his schedule of late, and he wanted to have something to report. Penguin…penguins in Las Vegas. Novel, at least. It could work….

Scribbler’s boss snatched the papers off the fax machine and looked at them, reading hastily. Unwillingly, a grunt escaped—a grunt of grudging approval—but it was quickly masked. Can’t let the slaves think too highly of themselves was a motto to live by. But the story was good. It was good enough to score some damage. Longingly, the memory of the hired-muscle-gone-wrong surfaced, but there was no use crying over unspilled blood. The way this sounded, the frog was right on the edge of a breakdown, ready to pound the next person who sounded off about that porky diva. An evil glimmer bloomed. Wouldn’t it be fun if that someone who sounded off near that stupid frog was…Scribbler. Then that goody-two-flippers Kermit would be hauled off in froggy handcuffs, and Scribbler would get the thrashing he deserved. Somehow, despite the way little Miss Porkrind had treated him, he still had some sort of thing for her, and no matter how mean-spirited his stories, somehow she always managed to come out with more public support from her fans than before. It was like some sort of cosmic boomerang—the more you threw things at these stupid Muppets, the more they clung together. Well, they’d just have to cling together on opposite coasts! Fang had leaned on a travel agent he knew who said that Kermit had booked a flight on Wednesday, just waiting to fall into his wife’s loving arms. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. Then what would Piggy think of her frog-in-shining-armor? Not quite important enough to get on the agenda, are you princess? Ha! Let the stupid amphibian try to back-pedal his way out of yet another cancellation!
Maybe dismemberment was overrated. Maybe watching Kermit squirm in misery, knowing how much pain he was inflicting on his girl, would turn out to be more fun in the long run.
Something flicked on the cruel lips—something very like a smile. It was not a pleasant sight.

Sometimes the best part of an event was the ending of it. His dignity in shreds, Kermit had managed the social niceties expected of him with a gritted palate, but without further incident. Still, when his phone buzzed in his pocket, he checked the message, texted his acknowledgement and took his leave of his sponsors/hosts with a degree of relief that was almost indecent. He made his way outside, thankful that the event security had kept the paparazzi far enough from the door that he was not accosted as he scanned the lot for his ride. Gonzo had, at least brought a car, not a tractor, a segue or a unicycle, although—ever the showman—he had liveried up and looked like a doorman or a decorated general in a moss-green uniform that clashed with his fur.

Kermit climbed in the back and sat straight as Gonzo pulled into traffic, but when the car cleared the paparazzi and pulled out of traffic, their eyes met in the rear-view mirror and Kermit slumped.

“Thanks for coming, Gonzo,” Kermit said quietly. “I wasn’t in much of a festive mood.”
“No problem,” Gonzo replied, craning over his shoulder and changing lanes. “Rizzo and Pepe and I were just going out to lift a few.”
“Beers?” Kermit asked, surprised. He had never known Gonzo to drink beer.
“No—chicks,” Gonzo said, surprise written plainly on his face. “We’re going to the park.”
In spite of his glum mood, Kermit smiled. Best not to ask, he thought. “Sorry to interrupt your plans.”
“Like I said—no problem. Pepe’s probably still messing with his hair.” For a few moments, Gonzo drove without speaking, moving the big limo in and out of traffic with ease. Honeydew's tweaks to the controls had made the vehicle operational for many of Kermit’s size-challenged friends and co-workers. Gonzo caught Kermit’s eye in the rear-view mirror again. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not especially,” Kermit responded, then he sighed and seemed to rouse himself. “Maybe. It’s just—it’s just so frustrating, Gonzo. Everywhere I go, people stop talking when I enter the room, or they start trying to introduce me to
women. They don’t know anything about Piggy. They don’t know anything about us. If they did, they wouldn’t—they couldn’t think---“ Kermit stopped abruptly, staring with surprise out the window. They had taken an exit and he looked up to try to read the sign as they passed under it.
“Um, Gonzo—I think we took a wrong turn back there.”
“Nope,” said Gonzo cheerfully. “Not a wrong turn—a
right one.”
Inwardly, Kermit groaned. The last two times Gonzo had shown up to cheer him up had ended up with an impromptu party at his house or a bottle. He didn’t think he was up to anything of that nature after the week he’d had.
“Look, I appreciate the effort—”
should,” Gonzo said complacently, practically preening with satisfaction.
“Gonzo—look. I know you mean well—”
“Don’t I always?” Gonzo murmured.
“Well, yes, but—but I really just want to go home.”
“You don’t want to go home.”
“No,” said Kermit. “I mean—yes, I do. I do want to go home. Now, please.”
“You don’t want to go home,” repeated Gonzo. “Home is depressing. Piggy’s not there, the house is quiet as a tomb, and you’ll just be lonely and miserable.”
Kermit’s whole body slumped. “Gee, thanks, Gonzo.”
“It’s true,” the furry blue whatever said. “Going home alone is the last thing you need.”
Despite his depressed state, Kermit felt something stir to life in the vicinity of his solar plexus, something familiar. He fought it back, trying to stay articulate, but found he was leaning forward against the pull of his seatbelt and gripping the passenger-seat back with white-knuckled hands.
“I’m perfectly capable of deciding what I need by myself—”
“Said the frog who sent his pig to New York without him!”
“And while I appreciate the ride, I just want you to take me home. Now.”
Scooter would have recognized the deadly calm in that voice for what it was, but he wasn’t here. Piggy would have recognized the warning in that collected voice and exploited it, but she wasn’t there either. Gonzo, for all his daredevil ways, was cheerfully and completely oblivious to the fact that arm-waving hysteria was approaching at a fast clip.
“Not happening, buddy,” said Gonzo. “This is for your own good.”
It didn’t happen in that moment, but it did happen later. Later, Kermit would realize what it was like to have people who loved you decide what you wanted and needed without consulting you, and would understand just a little of what Piggy must be feeling in New York. But that was later, and in the moment Kermit found he was, instead, thinking of where he might hide Gonzo’s body. Before that thought could communicate itself into irrevocable action, the car stopped.
“Gonzo, why are we—?” He looked out the window in confusion. “Where are we—is that the airport?”
“Yep.” Gonzo turned and looked at Kermit over the back of the seat. “Out there on the tarmac is Mr. Lord’s private jet. You’re going to get on it.”
The practical, rational Kermit was struggling to surface. “But, that isn’t…Gonzo—don’t be ridiculous. I can’t take Mr. Lord’s private jet!”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Gonzo said fondly. “You’re not taking it—you’re hitching a ride. He’s going to check out a new penguin act on Broadway.”
“Penguins. New York. Private jet. Miss Piggy. Sheesh, do I have to draw you a picture?”
Kermit swallowed, his eyes feasting on the plane while his sense of duty kept him rooted to the spot. “But—but I’ve got a meeting Monday with the money people. We’re supposed to—“
“We’ve got it covered,” Gonzo said serenely, glad Kermit could not see his hastily crossed fingers. Scooter would manage—they would manage—somehow, without him.
“But—I….” Kermit felt lightheaded and confused, but Gonzo’s words had triggered a homing beacon inside him. Not a homing beacon to his house, but a homing beacon to the only one on the planet who would always mean home to him. Piggy…. He swallowed, struggling to take it all in, then looked longingly toward the plane. “I didn’t pack,” he said faintly.
Gonzo threw a duffle bag over the seat. “Fozzie packed for you—so don’t complain to me about content. And Pepe helped him—so just plan on going green most of the time. It’ll save time anyway,” he muttered.
Kermit picked the bag up with both hands, almost daring to hope.
“I didn’t—she doesn’t know I’m coming.”
Surprise her.”
Kermit’s heart began to hammer with excitement. He opened the limo door and the sounds of the airport assaulted their ears. “Gee, thanks Gonzo,” he said. It seemed woefully inadequate. “Thank Fozzie and Pepe, too.”
Please—we’re tired of you moping around. You’re sucking the joy of living out of all of us. Go—see your pig.”
“I miss her,” Kermit said, feeling like it was not enough to say.
“Of course you do. Have a great time.”
“I will.”
Kermit got out of the car and took two steps forward, then turned back toward the car. Gonzo had gotten out and was grinning at him as though he’d just come up with some stunt that would give their insurance company a heart attack. Kermit took a step toward him and Gonzo closed the distance and hugged his amphibian friend.
“Thank you, Gonzo,” Kermit said, muffled against his shoulder. “Thank you—I, thank you!”
“Get out of here,” Gonzo said gruffly.
Kermit sprinted toward the big plane.
“Come back
tired,” Gonzo called after him, accompanied by a wicked laugh. He could have sworn the back of Kermit’s neck grew red, but he didn’t look back again—not even once.

Sara knew that look. She walked over and pressed a kiss against the nape of Scooter’s neck while he sat hunched over his tablet. He looked up quickly, but distractedly, and tried a smile that came out more like a grimace.

“Going down in flames again?”

“The press is—it’s like he has a target on his back.”

Sara nodded and sank down next to him at the table. He hadn’t even really settled in since he’d come in, just dropping his satchel on the floor and sliding haphazardly onto a chair. “Poor Kermit. He’s having a tough go of it.”

Scooter made a rude noise, then looked up. “Oh—hey, sorry. I wasn’t doing that at you—I was just….” The compassion in her face stopped him in mid-apology. Scooter reached for her hand, twining his fingers with hers. He kissed the back of her hand. “If I ever decide to let you run away to Broadway—”

It was Sara’s turn to make a rude noise and Scooter grinned.

“—or Paris or something for a job opportunity—“

“Ooh!” said Sara. “I’ve always wanted to see Paris!”

He pushed back from the table and pulled her onto his lap, the tablet forgotten. “Not helping,” he grumbled.

“You’d let me go, though,” Sara said earnestly. She put her arms around his neck and teased the little untamable curls that always disappeared into his collar when he needed a haircut. “You’d want me to go.”

Scooter sighed. “I would,” he admitted. “Kermit would kick me in the seat of the pants if I didn’t…if I wouldn’t….” He shook his head. “There’s nothing to do to fix this until he’s up there.”

“Wednesday’s coming,” Sara said gently. “It will come.”

“Thank goodness,” said Scooter, stretching to kiss her.

He never quite made it. His phone, sitting on the table, began to buzz insistently.

“Better look,” Sara whispered. “It might be Kermit.”

Scooter looked and made a face, debating. “It’s Gonzo,” he said. “Probably just—”

“Answer if you want to,” Sara said, smiling. “With Gonzo, you never know.”

Scooter shook his head, leaning to kiss her. “It can go to voice mail. I’ll check…later.” Their lips met with a satisfying degree of enthusiasm as the phone stopped ringing.

“Later is good,” giggled Sara, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

“Later is very good.” He moved to help her, and the phone buzzed again, bumping against the cup of tea Scooter had not touched. They broke apart and looked at it, sighing.

“Gonzo again,” Scooter said.

“They still let you have one phone call,” Sara said practically. “You might be it.”

Scooter sighed again and reached for it.

“Hello, Gonzo—is this your one—what? What?! You just…just now? And he—he was okay?”

Sara tensed, worried but quiet, knowing Scooter needed to listen. He listened, one hand clutching his hair.

“But there’s that meeting Monday with—you know what? Nevermind! I got this. Nevermind the meeting—there’s nothing Kermit can tell them that I can’t. This is…this is good.” His head bobbed up and down as though Gonzo were in the room with them and could see him. “Okay. Okay—no, that’s fantastic. Really.” He grimaced. “Yes Gonzo, I said you were fantastic, okay? Good job. Honestly—really, really good job. I—thanks. Thanks, Gonzo. Yeah.”

Sara waited anxiously, biting her lip to keep from asking, and watched Scooter shake his head in disbelief. He stood suddenly, whooping with delight, and started down the hall with her in his arms.

Surprise made her tighten her arms around his neck and she looked into his grinning face.

“Good news?” she asked. Piggy had probably trounced the press on behalf of her beleaguered frog.

“The best!” Scooter beamed at her, stopping to finally claim a kiss.

“That was the best,” Sara murmured, pleasantly befuddled. “What happened?”

Scooter resumed his march toward their bedroom, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “I’ll tell you all about it,” he said. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

Although she would not have admitted it to anyone, Rory’s little jibe about her kissing during the matinee had tweaked her pride. Piggy took her kissing very seriously, so she brought a lot more of her own luscious self to the second performance of the day and the crowd practically swooned. Rory came backstage rubbing the back of his neck and giving her a wary look.
“Dang,” he said. “You trying to kill me or something?” he grumbled.
Piggy just batted her eyelashes at him. “If Kermie were here, he’d kill you himself after that,” she said sweetly. While she had done as Marty asked and avoided the tabloids, she’d seen a few tweets that suggested that Kermit had brought his green-eyed monster with him to the charity event. Poor Kermie, Piggy thought, but even as she thought it her cheeks bloomed with color. Kermit would always defend her, always protect what was his, and it inevitably reminded her of the first times that he had shown his true feelings for her. He always appeared cool as a cucumber until one of their costars fell under her spell and tried to pitch a little woo, then Kermit would come in swinging and pitch it right back at them.
Watching her bite her lip, blushing, Rory wondered—again—what was going on between those two velvety ears, but this time it didn’t seem to be making her unhappy. He watched her step inside the dressing room and was turning to go when Kristen grabbed his wrist and pulled him after her down the hall. She looked carefully up and down the hallway before speaking.
“Loverboy just tried to take out some overgrown teenage heartthrob!” she hissed.
“What? Now?”
“At the charity event. It’s all over the internet.” Kristen showed him her phone, flipping through at least four salacious gossip sites. Scribbler’s was one of them, and Rory let out a grunt of surprise. As he read the article, his eyes narrowed angrily and a muscle jumped in his jaw. What was that little muckraker trying to do? Piggy seemed to think he had come to her rescue, but this article wasn’t going to make her happy. It sounded like Kermit had come to the event all slicked-down and gussied up, making small talk with the ladies until someone suggested that Piggy wasn’t quite as much Team Kermit as he liked to think. Reading closely, it was obvious that the reporter wasn’t willing to say an actual fist-fight broke out between the child-star and the former children’s entertainer, but something had happened, something that just supported the idea that Kermit was a hothead more concerned with his own reputation than Piggy’s happiness. Rory read it a third time, grudgingly aware of the artistry of the nasty little article. It implied more than it said, and it did the trick right enough. Kermit’s reputation would take a hit—no question about it.
Kristen watched him read, but when he looked up, their eyes met and she made a face.
“Talented little scumball, isn’t he?” she said.
“Yep,” Rory agreed. “Why on earth is he wasting his time with this rag?”
Kristen shrugged, but then her face turned thoughtful. “You know,” she said. “That’s a good question.” She pursed her lips. “I wonder if I know anyone who might know,” she said.
would know?” Rory said. “Who the heck knows why he does anything?”
“Love makes you do strange things,” Kristen said, and Rory jerked back.
“Love? You think Scribbler loves her?”
Kristen shrugged. “I’m going to do some asking around,” she said. She looked back to the dressing room door. “We need to try to keep Piggy occupied so she doesn’t see this stuff.”
“Marty told her not to look at it,” Rory ventured, but he knew well how Piggy could say one thing and slip around the edges of her promises if she wanted to. Kristen’s snort told him she thought the same thing.
“We’ll think of something,” she said.
Rory tried to believe it.

(Note to readers--the spacing and layout gods obviously work for Scribbler's tabloid. I just do the writing--sorry if the layout isn't pretty.)
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The Count

Staff member
Jul 12, 2002
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Yay! This is hexactly what I needed, a lovely distraction.

*Reads through the part with Gonzo acting as Kermit's chauffeur. You know, I wonder why 80s Robot has been forgotten, wasn't he meant to be Kerm's personal driver? *Keeps reading that same part... *Cheers in hurrah at learning what the whatever's planned.
C'mon Kerm... Do it, do it, just do it! You get on that plane and don't worry about tomorrow, because the troubles of, sorry, lapsed into classic movie quote there like the frog did at the end of "Bop To The Top".
Take that Scribbler's boss! He won't be around for you to mess up his flight on Wednesday because he's already left. And it looks like Seymour might be getting his little plans upsot as well what with one of his main partners from The Palace flying out to look at that same penguin act.

The best part though is the first portion with Mabel and Clifford, I've come to rully like what you've done with that angle and Tricia and the band and everything his stay in Vegas has brought about.

Oh ho, it looks like miss Sandra D's going to be trading in her full body leather suit for a gaberdeen and deerstalker. Kristen's on the case of the the origin of Scribbler's little patent-pending poison-filled pen. Good luck sleuthing him out.

And hey, the layout gods have got nothing on the typo gremlins, unsure if I'll be able to fix the small bits of warping here and there, will attempt later though.
Thank Ru for updating, this is a vonderful chapter and hopefully more will come.


Well-Known Member
Mar 24, 2012
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Thank you for posting this today Aunt Ru. I needed it after a long very first week of college. :smile: