Kermie's Girl (ushy-gushy fanfic)

[Ruahnna]

Aw...Thanks you guys (and gals)! I'm so glad you are enjoying it. It means a lot to me.

I will post more story before I go to sleep tonight, but there's not guarantee that I'll make the actual birthday....

 

[The Count]

So long as you post, that's the important thing. *Cheers for another year of twists and thrills in KG.

 

[Ruahnna]

Oh, foo. Not gonna happen tonight. I APOLOGIZE for the false alarm. Tune in tomorrow--I"ll post when I can!

 

[Twisted Tails]

Oh, foo. Not gonna happen tonight. I APOLOGIZE for the false alarm. Tune in tomorrow--I"ll post when I can!

No problem, Auntie Ru! BTW, I don't know why I just call you "Auntie", but I can be patient and let the story stay at the bump of the liog until you do something about it. The Count is one, one vonderful editor, ah ah ah!

 

[The Count]

*Bumps back to top of the pile in need of a fic fix.

 

[newsmanfan]

*bumps again*

What's THIS? Our fulminous favorite fic remains reinless, despite another author's advantageous arrival, hoping to helpfully...er...help along this marvelous missive?

Where is she, anyway?

Beats me. We texted this morning, so she's still breathing...

Technically, the human brain can continue processing a few seconds after all airflow stops...
MEEEEE!

-----------------------

 

[The Count]

And don't think I don't see you, hiding there under the table... I've got you covered.

My little spies report she's brewing a Thoreau rant, researching her Party of the First/Second Part oneshots. Just hope that Kardashian chick doesn't think she can steal the pig's designer away like she tried to steal the spotlight.

Now off with you my pretties, we have only a couple of weeks to meet at Bald Mountain!
*Evil laughter.

 

[Misskermie]

O___O
You guys are wierd.
And I respect that.
Anyway...

WHAT DO WE WANT?

Everyone: UPDATE!

WHEN DO WE WANT IT?

Everyone: EVENTUALLY!


Yeah, what they said.

 

[Ruahnna]

Chapter 144: What The Reporter Saw

Time’s fun when you’re having flies, but Kermit had had neither. Seeing Joan had been an unexpected bright point in the evening, but afterward he’d felt flustered and behind schedule, even though, technically, it hadn’t been time to queue up for his presentation. All the while, Kermit had been determinedly deluding himself that the “Cufflink Caper”—while unsettling—was over, but the rest of the country…well, the world…believed the contrary. The pinterest in the subject would have shocked and horrified him, had he been aware of it, or known what “pinterest” was. He could not have known the number of tweets, pings, and posts—indeed, he did not really know what those things were—which were currently conspiring to make his life—and his pig—completely miserable.
While he hadn’t known what was going on behind his back to make things uncomfortable, he had become pretty uncomfortable with what was going on in front of his front. On assurances that he was fine, Fozzie had been sent out to relay the delay to Scooter, and the brown bear had scuttled off gratefully and left Kermit to his fate.
“I’m not saying that,” Kermit had said flatly, looking over the script. “In the first place, it’s not funny. Actually, in the first place, Piggy would kill me. And in the second place—Piggy would kill me. In the third place—it’s not funny. It’s kind of snarky and mean and I don’t want to do it. Why can’t I just go out there, greet the crowd and announce the award? What’s wrong with that?”
To work backstage with big stars and enormous egos takes tact and aplomb and a certain imperviousness to ridiculous demands from stars and starlets over-impressed with their own PR. The young lady had already weathered one dress that wouldn’t unzip, one gentleman who couldn’t seem to stay zipped and about 67 requests for some other brand of fizzy water. She had withstood thirteen unreasonable demands and ignored 4 anatomically impossible ones, and she had not let one single, solitary wheedle penetrate her calm façade, but there she was—gaping, stuttering—and utterly unprepared to deal with the perfectly reasonable request of a definitely unhappy frog.
She had grown up watching him on Sesame Street. She had become a member of his fan club when she was only fourteen. She had swooned as he had tap-danced his way into Miss Piggy’s arms, and cried at their wedding photos. And there he was, in the flesh—well, in a snazzy tux—and giving her the grumpy, almost-out-of-patience look usually reserved for his wife, his best friend and a certain over-eager furry blue monster.
She had not been able to think of anything to say. “But, but—“ she’d began.
He’d smiled at her. It could have been because she looked wide-eyed with dismay, or it could have simply been the sudden cooling of his anger. It might even have been an attempt to obtain by charm what he could not obtain by a show of temper, but whatever the reason, she’d found herself smiling back.
“Look,” said Kermit, flashing his pollywog eyes. He’d had the good grace to blush over his impudence, but—if anything—that made him even more attractive. “I’ve done this lots of times. I’m not going to adlib or do some horrible joke or make a speech about protecting the swamps,” he said reasonably. “Unless, of course, you want me to mention—“
“No, no,” the woman had stammered, finding her voice at last. “I mean, we’d prefer you just read the script and announce the winners, but—“
“Well, I’ve read the script,” Kermit had said, smiling but firm. “But I’m going to pass on the lame jokes.” His bulbous eyes had fixed on her face.
“Um…okay,” she’d mumbled, feeling as though she were being called on the carpet by Mr. Rogers, or Principle Weatherbee. She’d been rewarded with a wide, open smile.
“Gee…that’s great. Thanks a lot. Tell the teleprompter to take five when you see me go up, okay?”
Dumbly—and mutely—she’d just nodded. There hadn’t really been anything else to do.

The atmosphere in one particular New York hotel room had, from time to time, been steamy. Now it was more correct to say it was heated.
“Sweetheart,” soothed Autumn. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. Don’t fret so—they’ll get everything sorted out between them once the show is over.” She sat down on the couch next to Ed and rubbed his arm.
“I don’t know what that idiot thinks he’s doing,” Ed said through gritted teeth.
“Only a scumbag like Scribbler could turn something lovely and sweet into something tawdry and slimy.” He made a sound of disgust. “I don’t care what the picture looks like—I know what I heard, and there is no way that Kermit was faking that mush with Miss Piggy.”
“Of course not—“ Autumn began, but he went on in a torrent of indignation.
“I don’t know how that Kardashian…woman ended up in a compromising photo with Kermit, but I’m sure it wasn’t what it seemed.” In the back of his mind, behind his fury, Ed was imagining what Miss Piggy must be suffering over this indignity. It was impossible to have been in her presence—regardless of how magnificent that presence was!—and not be aware of the fragileness beneath the enormous glamor and talent. It was an aura much like Marilyn was rumored to have had.
Although Piggy had shown remarkable chutzpah and strength dealing with bad press and ignorant reviewers, she did indeed have a lovely vulnerable quality that made you feel protective—even if she packed a mean left hook. As a red-blooded male of the species, Ed felt that ancient and primal impulse to protect the (arguably) weaker sex, which—unbeknownst to him—was endearing him to another strong woman.
“Darling, if I’d known how incensed you’d be, I wouldn’t have described the picture in such excruciating detail!” Autumn practically wailed. “I’m sure it’s nothing—just Hollywood fluff that doesn’t mean anything.”
“Of course it doesn’t mean anything!” Ed snapped, then was immediately contrite. He reached for Autumn’s hand and held it in both of his. “I’m sorry,” he said, taking a couple of deep, slow breaths. “Autumn, I apologize. Nothing should make me raise my voice to you.”
Autumn’s voice was low and teasing. “I rather like it when you get all worked up, Ed darling, but I must say, I think you’re taking this a bit too much to heart. Miss Piggy is no stranger to odious men or bad press, and she’s very strong and grounded.” Autumn paused, happy to note that while Ed’s cheeks were flushed, his heart rate was returning to normal. “Besides, she’s had a lovely conversation with Kermit, and I’m sure he called her to let her know about the photo op and reassure her before she even heard about it. Miss Piggy might get worked up if she was there, but there’s no way she’d be worried about Kermit with a little advance warning.”
Ed said nothing, but Autumn saw a flicker of uncertainty in his expression. She did not know that he was thinking back to the early days of The Muppet Show, to the tears and schemes that had proceeded all the happily-ever-after moments, and Ed did not elaborate.
“Tell me again about his expression,” Ed said. “Do you think he was surprise—“
Ed was surprised, but he was getting pretty good at improvising.
“Later,” Autumn had murmured between kisses. “As soon as Piggy’s show is over tonight, I’m sure she and Kermit are going to be giggling and murmuring sweet nothings at each other over the phone.”
“Sweet nothings, huh?” Ed murmured, amused. He was thinking of a few sweet nothings himself.
“Oodles of them,” said Autumn. “Enough to drown in.”
“Speaking of drowning,” Ed teased, but was interrupted by giggling. A few minutes later, the remote winked the television off. There was no more interest in the Oscars that night.

Oy vey! What a week! What a weekend! What an ever-loving day!
Marty muttered a non-Sesame-street word and glared at his phone, which was ringing again. Even with the Swan sisters—only two of them this time—he was having trouble clearing one phone line before someone else called. This one was his cell phone, and there were a limited number of people who had this number. He was not a big fan of technology, but he had to admit it was helpful to know who was calling. When he saw Scooter’s name flash up on the phone, he almost bellowed with relief and hit “Send”.
“Kid!” Marty started, but Scooter’s voice was calm and succinct. He and Sara had sat through Kermit’s presentation, but that had used up the last bit of patience either of them possessed. They couldn’t afford to wait until Kermit emerged from backstage—time was wasting—so they had slipped out into the hallway and found enough privacy to call the best help they knew.
“I know it’s bad,” Scooter said. “Just tell me what we can do and I’ll do it,” said Scooter. He smiled at his fiancée, and Marty heard the smile. “Sara’s here, too.”
“Good—glad she’s on our side,” Marty quipped, then, “I got a couple of ideas.”
“Me, too,” said Scooter, “but I’d like to hear yours first.”
Marty grinned and clutched his burning gut almost absently. “Sure thing. Now listen up—“

If trouble comes in threes, mortifications apparently come in twos. Usually, a job well done merits a pat on the back, or at least an “Attaboy!” thrown like a sop at your feet. Scribbler had not even expected that, despite the arguable brilliance of his article, but it wasn’t the first time that night he’d found himself in the wrong. The first had been when he’d been putting the finishing touches on his article. He’d just uploaded the pictures of Kermit all snugged up to the bejeweled backside of the other woman when he felt the steady gaze of someone on his face. He looked around nervously, saw noone, and was about to hit "Send" when he chanced to look down. Scoop stood looking at him with an expression that was hard to read.
“It’s not right,” said Scoop. “We’re supposed to be champions of the truth.”
Scribbler snorted. It was ludicrous to expect the same standards of them who worked the tabloid press and yet… “Pictures don’t lie,” he’d muttered, but could not look the little rat in the face. The gerbil’s expression, which had been placid and unexcitable all evening, had been determinedly disapproving, but it was nothing to the look—the look—that Scoop was giving him now.
“That picture is just a picture,” said Scoop, looking at it over Fleet’s arm. “It would be one thing to show it and let people draw their own conclusions.”
“People will always draw their own conclusions,” he’d muttered. Nobody knew that better than him.
He felt Scoop’s little hand on his thumb, much the way Harve would have done, and he sighed and grew still.
“But you’re not going to let people draw their own conclusions, are you, Fleet?” Scoop had asked. “You’re gonna show them that picture and tell them what it means.”
Fleet felt defensive and angry, which was better on some level than just feeling like a total slimeball. “My boss is looking for a particular angle,” he said, and hated the whiny, smarmy way it sounded even to himself.
“What about you?” Scoop had asked gently. “What are you looking for?”
Unexpectedly, his anger surged to the surface, and he pulled his hand away. “I’m looking to stay employed,” he snapped. “I’m looking to go on breathing and eating and I’m looking for a ticket back to New York where the most beautiful pig in the world—“
Scoop had taken a step back, his eyes grew wide and—Scribbler hated to admit it—fearful. He’d look down to find that his fists were clenched and he could feel the color rising in his cheeks.
“Okay, buddy,” Scoop had said, putting his palms out in a calming gesture. “Okay. I don’t understand, but I guess you’ve got your reasons.”
“Pray you don’t ever understand,” Scribbler said, agonized. “I—if I don’t, then something bad could happen to—“
“It’s not worth something bad happening to you,” said Scoop, and the little rat’s loyalty in the face of his duplicitousness was mortifying. Scribbler didn’t know what to say, and by the time he figured out what he wanted to say, Scoop had gathered Leonard and started away. “It’s not about me,” he whispered, but Scoop was too far away to hear by then. “Something bad could happen to Missy.”

Jolalene was nibbling on Rowlf’s neck, and she was particularly good at it, so it took her a few minutes to realize that Rowlf had stopped noticing. She pulled back, surprised, and started to growl out a question, but at that exact moment, Rowlf seemed to notice her at last.
“One moment, Darlin’—something’s going on.” Without any further explanation, Rowlf slid out from under her and padded over to stand closer to the television. Kermit was on again, and Rowlf watched him with an unsatisfied frown on his face as he went through the motions of presenting the award. He was obviously off-script, and his warmth and sense of humor were dead-on, Rowlf would have argued, but there was more than a little noticeable restraint in the reaction of the crowd. The lone amphibian—and he looked very alone without Piggy out there batting her eyelashes and mugging shamelessly for the crowd—appeared to be playing to a dead audience.
Rowlf felt a flash of discomfort and genuine fear. The only thing that will strike more fear into the heart of an entertainer than watching another entertainer play to an unresponsive crowd is playing to an unresponsive crowd themselves. Rowlf watched until Kermit presented the award, on through the not-quite-speechless Oscar winner’s speech, and finally as Kermit disappeared backstage, swallowed up by the curtains. It didn’t feel right—the whole evening had felt wrong, except, of course, for when Kermit and Piggy had been talking to each other live, but even that had gotten off to a wonky start. What the deuce had gone wrong?
Rowlf looked up, surprised, when Jolalene appeared behind him and draped her arms around him. He looked up, grateful for her understanding, and she kissed him and handed him his phone. Surprised, he looked down at the screen and saw that he had 27 text messages. The first few were sort of “Call me” texts from various folks from the studio, but the eleventh one was a picture. A picture and an article. Rowlf let out a low whistle, and Jolalene’s pointy little ears perked up and she looked down at what he was looking at.
“That doesn’t look very straitlaced,” she said, unnecessarily, and Rowlf could only nod. He pulled his phone out and dialed.

The second time came with his second trip to the boss’s office. Scribbler was currently longing for Fang’s huge hands on his shoulders. In fact, he would have preferred anyone’s hand on him—even Fang’s—rather than feel the familial, proprietary grip of his boss’s hands on him.
He had thought that being vilified and reviled by his boss was the worst experience on the planet, but Scribbler was discovering that being fawned over by his boss was worse—far worse. The first had been rife with abuse and the threat of violence, and the second was full of a much more disquieting camaraderie than Scribbler thought he could stomach for long. Still, if it would get him on a plane back to New York….
“—wasn’t sure you still had it in you. I don’t know how you managed it, but that is the most damning, incriminating photograph of someone’s hubby with his hand on the…the cookie jar that I’ve seen in a while. So what’s the story? When the pig’s away, the froggy will play?”
“Nice title,” Scribbler cracked. “But not very original. I can’t see using that unless we run out of steam.” He stepped back with a slight cough, moving artfully out of range of one of those long arms thrown around his shoulder. In the state he was in, he did not think he could stand to be touched. He felt reckless and sick and full of rage, and he was not at all sure that he could hold it all together before he got out of here.
He tried not to think about what Missy would say. He tried not to think about what she would do, but actually, the thought of her karate-chopping him into next week was almost appealing. He would rather she hit him than hate him, but there was a good chance she would do both. He thought of her, warm and trusting with his arm around her, and the way she had looked at him….
“—to see the follow-up,” said his boss, and Scribbler started, coming suddenly back to the present.
“Follow-up?” he said blankly, and was rewarded with a sharp elbow in his ribs.
“’Follow-up?’ he says!” Fang’s horrible breath blasted in his face and he braced himself against the guffaws of his boss and the brainless minions. “Har-de-har-har! That’s rich! I’ll bet you he’s got something even worse planned for tomorrow, doncha!”
Tomorrow? He was going to have to come up with something tomorrow? His head swam, and he blinked, feeling drunk and light-headed. He wished he were drunk, suddenly, and looked around for the bottle of champagne that he’d seen earlier. He wished for something stronger, but anything would do at this point—anything would be better than this amazing clear-headedness that showed him the immediate future.
Desperately, his mind groped for something to say, something he could use to put them all off the scent. Not that the scent was cold. The website had been getting thousands of hits on his article—and his twitter account was almost overloaded. Every time he’d checked this evening, #KERMITKARDASHIAN #CHEATINGFROG and #PIGGYFREEATLAST? were trending. Every entertainment website, some news organizations and every Hollywood player or wannabe had commented or retweeted it at least once that night. While his article had been sketchy on specifics, the picture was damning enough to get the job done. Now…if only he could get done with the job and be on his way back to New York….
“Actually,” Scribbler said, his voice elaborately casual. “I was thinking I ought to let this thing play out the way it’s going, post a few more pictures and some copy on Tuesday or so, and then follow up at the, um, the end of the week with Mis-Miss Piggy’s reaction to her two-timing amphibian. Don’t you think our readers would like to hear from her?” He cocked an eyebrow and held his breath. He doubted Missy would be talking to him by the end of the week, but the sooner he started….
“I don’t think you should wait until Tuesday. This is hot now, and I don’t want some other stupid reporter—I mean, I don’t want some other paper to get the scoop on the story. Are you sure—are you sure there isn’t anyone else with photos like these?”
Scribbler felt sweat break out on his scalp and under his arms. He felt the razor focus of those crazy, hot eyes on his face and tried not to whimper. But in that fear-induced blaze of adrenaline, he saw it—saw his chance and his salvation—and he jumped for it.
“Just a couple of rats hanging around,” he said, his expression off-hand. “And who knows what they saw from down there, right?”
“Right,” said Bruno. “Stupid little vermin.”
Yes, you are, thought Scribbler, but he kept on grinning like a maniac.

The internet is full of pictures of cute kittens piled together for warmth and comfort, and while it is easy to jest, there is something healing about the simple creature comfort of being next to someone. There were three someones on Mabel’s couch, all mashed up together, each with a phone in front of them. There was not a lot of talking, but there was a lot of leaning on each other as they worked their way through the photos and innuendo which were spreading like wildfire through the technological world.
“—got to be an explanation, but I can’t get Scooter on the phone.”
“He’s bound to be doing damage control, right?” said Mabel.
“Scooter’s the cute redhead, right?” Tricia asked. “Kermit’s assistant?”
“Yeah,” muttered Clifford. “The geek with the—cute? What do you mean, cute?” the dreadlocked bass player demanded.
Tricia didn’t even look up from her phone, but she patted his leg fondly. “What I said—he’s cute. Geeky cute. Not my type, but I’m not blind….”
“Uh, yeah,” Clifford said sourly. “Well, he’s got a girlfriend.”
“Good for him. What about you?”
“He’s not my type, either,” Clifford said, but when Tricia looked up with an annoyed expression he laughed. “But then, I have a girlfriend, too….”
Even with 98% of her attention on the screen in front of her, Mabel’s little round ears perked up. Well, well—they’d finally called the thing for what it was. Good. Good for them.
“Scooter’s probably going to be on the phone until tomorrow morning,” said Mabel. “Try texting him.”
“I did, but I’ll bet he’s buried under texts and tweets and stuff.”
“Me, too,” said Tricia. Clifford looked at her in surprise, wondering that her friends would be so intent on the drama unfolding, but she just wrinkled her nose at him and smiled. “I’ve signed in to Mom’s twitter account,” she said. “She hardly ever does.”
“What’s the word, then? I’m stuck on the news sites—“ Mabel began.
“Nothing very original. Snarks about people’s dresses. Comments about the awards.”
“So it’s not big news on twitter?”
“It has five of its own hashtags on Twitter,” Tricia informed him grimly. “#BOOTYFROG is the worst, but #CHEATINGFROG is pretty brutal, too.” Clifford let out a low whistle. “That can’t be good,” he said.
“It’s not,” said Tricia, “but it could be worse. It’s so overblown, it’s not that big of a story after all.” She grimaced. “Well, it’s big enough, I guess. O’Brien covered it in his monologue tonight, and Fallon can’t be passing up this chance—at least, I don’t think so. Didn’t you say he sort of liked Miss Piggy?”
“I think he does like her—Kermit, too—but this is news, real news. You sort of can’t blame him.”
“I can,” said Mabel, and nobody wanted to ask her if she meant Jimmy Fallon, or Kermit.

It was sacrilege to even think about technology after seeing Les Mis, and Howard and Thoreau did not think twice—not once, really—about what might have happened since they’d seen Piggy staring dreamily into her husband’s bulbous eyes on camera. They had, in fact, had an evening almost entirely free of drama—well, the personal sort, anyway—since leaving her at her theater and arriving, flushed from their haste, in the atrium of their own theater. They had slid into their seats blissfully, spellbound as the story unfolded, and had only emerged when the lights came up, thrusting them abruptly into space and time. Lemming-like, they had exited the theater with the other patrons, enriched but subdued by the climactic ending. They wandered down the street idly, humming snatches of song and talking animatedly about what they had seen. When a likely spot presented itself, they would drop in for a drink and a little something to feed their bellies, but there was no hurry. No hurry at all. They shared the same congratulatory air that parents feel when their baby has been successfully put to bed, and they are left free to pursue their own interests, or pleasures. Other children and ideas are often born out of this sort of mood.
Only the necessity of checking the time made Thoreau reach for his phone. He had long since given up wearing a watch despite the fact that they were an acceptable form of male bling because, in his line of work, one snag can bring a week’s work to naught. You could boo-hoo all you wanted if it happened, but there was no restoring a pristine garment that had been marred, no magic to erase what had happened. Even the slimmest phone can cause unsightly bumps and bulges, so Thoreau had tucked his inside his tuxedo jacket pocket. He fished it out delicately with two slim fingers and turned it on.
“Maybe find a bistro while you’re at it?” Howard suggested. Thoreau nodded as the screen bloomed to life, but the reflected glow of the phone plainly showed the look of agitation that crossed his face almost at once.
“What?!” he said, his forehead puckered. “That’s not—what on earth…?”
“What?” said Howard, stepping forward and peering at the little screen. “What is it? Something wrong with your phone?”
Thoreau shook his head but did not look up. “No,” he muttered, flipping through the screens hastily, looking and frowning at what he saw. “It’s not the phone—it’s Piggy. Something happened after we left—at least, I think it happened after we left, but—oh. Oh.” The quietness of his voice alarmed Howard more than hysteria would have. Howard stepped around to Thoreau’s side, his hand on Thoreau’s back, and looked down at the picture that was showing on the phone. His swift intake of breath was the only sound he made, but Thoreau felt him flinch and he began to read out loud.
“…cozy encounter ended with Ms. Kardashian smiling and Kermit looking troubled, and no wonder. The obviously overextended amphibian barely had time to deal with his accommodating female companion before going on camera with his not-so-accommodating wife, Miss Piggy, who is currently tucked securely away on Broadway. Although Miss Piggy’s star turn on Broadway is long overdue, the timing couldn’t be better for hubby, who obviously has his hands full here in L.A. One wonders if the substantial salary that Miss Piggy brings to the union is enough to bankroll more than one diva at a time….”
“Oh, Thoreau. How dreadful.“
Thoreau’s eyes were practically flaming, his mouth a thin, hard line. “I can’t believe Kermit would dare—“
“But he didn’t! He wouldn’t!” Howard cried, horrified by Thoreau’s assumption. “I’m sure there’s some mistake.”
“It’s right there in living color,” Thoreau said. His pale cheeks were livid with indignation as he gestured at the phone. “The—the absolute cheek of that frog!”
“No!” Howard grabbed Thoreau’s arms, turning him to face him. “Thoreau—it’s not true. It can’t be true. I’d stake my reputation on it.” The earnestness in Howard’s face was hard to ignore, and Thoreau softened in response.
“What makes you so sure?” he said doubtfully, and Howard sighed with relief. He gestured at Thoreau’s phone. Thoreau scrolled up obediently.[/FONT[
“That!” said Howard, pointing. “Right there.” The headline was bad enough, but it wasn’t the headline that Howard was pointing to. It was the byline.
“Scribbler!” Thoreau almost spat. “That miserable little no-talent, no-fashion hack!” He sounded furious, but some of the fire had cooled in his eyes and he looked calmer.
“You can’t trust anything that man says about Kermit,” Howard said, glad to see some of the red haze recede from his friend’s expression. “He may write lovely things about our girl, but he’s completely unreliable when it comes to Kermit. He hates him.”
“I think the feeling is pretty mutual,” Thoreau said. “Although Kermit’s too nice to say it.”
Privately, Howard thought that Kermit might not be too nice to do something about it if the scruffy reporter ever got within range, but that was speculation, and they had more pressing problems. “I don’t know what happened, but I know Kermit wouldn’t step out on Piggy. He adores her.” This last was said with great conviction, but more than one little wriggle of doubt was poking Howard’s conscience. They had been pretty hard on each other while dating, and Kermit had done his share of obnoxious things. True, they had been subtler than Piggy’s hi-yahs that sent him flying across the theater, but they had been just as hurtful. Would Kermit do something like that now? And if so, why would he do it? At a time when Piggy’s popularity was soaring, what would make Kermit…? Howard swallowed, thinking about what he’d heard recently about studio troubles and budget issues. Could Kermit be feeling jealous of Piggy’s success? Of…of course not. But, what if…what would make Kermit do something that would make Piggy take up with the little green monster?
“As well he should!” Thoreau snapped. He grabbed his phone and scrolled frantically through it, looking for signs of contact from Piggy. None. She hadn’t called. She hadn’t texted. She hadn’t…she hadn’t done anything, and her production had been long over before their show was. He started to call her but hesitated, wondering if she had seen the article or not. If not, he did not want to be the one to tell her…although…. If not him, who? Who would warn Piggy of this other public relations disaster so she was not shanghaied by the news?
“She hasn’t called me either,” Howard said, checking his own phone. His expression was somber. “Do you think she knows?”
“I’m sure she knows by now. What…what do you think we should do?” Thoreau, usually so forceful, looked lost, his eyes full of angst. Howard opened his mouth, shut it, then his eyes lit up happily.
“Marty!” he cried triumphantly. “I’ll call Marty! He’ll know what to do.”

 

[The Count]

Delight rains down upon us, a new chapter of KG has been posted.

And now the entire Muppet troop in their various sorted camps know what happened... And we're crying 'foul!' and other things not fit for posting over the latest strike by Scribbler.

So what'll be the fall-out from this episode? Only the Shadow knows. And the lady author too.
Thank you Aunt Ru for making me smile as this fic novel most always does.