Chapter 145: What the Frog Said
Kermit might have been technologically blind and deaf, but he wasn’t dumb. He had come out of backstage without knowing exactly what was wrong, but the wrongness of it hovered over him like a poisonous cloud, noxious and disquieting. He had left the stage area and stood, not quite willing to walk through the gauntlet of press backstage, wondering if it were actually possible to simply slip around and away and call an end to this ignoble evening. He knew Scooter would hate that—would chide him for it at least, and he knew that Marty would be disappointed with him if he turned tail and ran, but he wondered if it might not be worth a shot to ask. He could ask—couldn’t he? He could ask if he could just go home and call Piggy and talk about nothing until he felt better….
He stood there, torn between responsibility and weariness—not yet aware of the weight of ignorance that lay about his neck like a millstone.
He could text Scooter and say, “I’m bushed. Can I go home?” and Scooter would be unfailingly honest with him. That cheered him just a little, so he took out his phone and…
…stared.
Stared and stared and gaped with horror. He had 248 texts. His voice mail was full. His “Missed calls” minder was full. For a moment, Kermit was transfixed by dread—something must have happened to Piggy!—but then, in mind-numbing clarity, Kermit suddenly realized that the only thing that had happened had happened to him. By proxy at least, he had happened to Piggy, and if his voice mail and texts were overloaded, then Piggy already knew.
He had not warned her, and she surely already knew what had happened.
He felt cold and feverish at the same moment. He would have taken a shot of brandy if one had been offered, but there was noone to offer. He was, in every sense of the word, alone.
Piggy…. Kermit’s heart ached with misery. He should have told her. Scooter had said so. Sara had looked her agreement at him. Even Joan had teased him about getting on a first-name basis with the finest chocolatier in New York, but he had not imagined…he had not known…how could he? How could he have known what must have happened…. He stood there, shivering in the stuffy backstage, wondering if he should start with the texts, or the voice mails, or look to see who had called him—or simply call Scooter and ask what to do first. Or—and here he hesitated—should he try to call Piggy? She was surely out of her show by now, wasn’t she?
Hopefully, he scanned through the missed calls and texts, but none of them were hers. None. Nada. Zip. Why hadn’t she called him? Why hadn’t she—oh! Oh! Kermit’s face was flushed crimson as he saw the picture for the first time on his screen. It looked…it looked terrible. It looked worse than terrible. It was horrendous, scandalous, damning. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted Scooter. He needed Scooter but, in reality, the only thing he truly wanted and needed at that moment was Piggy. Piggy in his arms, listening to his apology and explanation and telling him that it was okay, that she understood, that it was…perfectly normal to have your picture splashed across a tabloid website with your arm around some strange woman’s tush? Suddenly, he didn’t think he could bear to talk to Piggy, either. He stood there a moment, in a perfect funk of misery, dismayed because the Earth wasn’t obliging by opening up and swallowing him whole, and wondered what on earth he was going to do.
The forces had been mobilized, but the general was not there. Scooter frowned in consternation, remembering a hat they’d once gotten Kermit at Disneyworld that said, “I’m their leader—which way did they go?” It had been funny then. It was not funny now.
“He can’t have gotten away,” Scooter muttered, and Sara wondered if he was aware of the irony of what he was saying. Her Sweetie was bemoaning the fact that Kermit appeared to have given them the slip, but he was also hoping that Kermit had managed to avoid the hordes of reporters foaming at the mouth at the thought of getting a sound bite. Sara thought grumpily that the brainless entertainment reporter she’d temporarily replaced had been noticeably reluctant to be “stuck” interviewing Kermit. Huh—showed what she knew. He’d turned out to be the most coveted interviewee of the whole event. Usually soft-hearted and kind, Sara hoped that this misstep proved to be a career-killer for the gravity-defying BrandEe.
“He wouldn’t have gone home, would he?” she asked. Scooter didn’t hear her, but Rizzo answered from the vicinity of her kneecap.
“Naw—he might have wanted to go home, but he wouldn’t do that to us.”
Sara tried to look at the rat, but the impressive underpinnings of the dress actually prevented her from bending over. Or breathing. She bent her knees and dipped—Playboy-bunny-style—and wiggled her fingers at him. “Come up here and talk to me. I can’t see you.”
Rizzo grasped her thumb and swung himself up with an agility that usually only surfaced when a buffet was announced, then ran up and perched on her elbow.
“You don’t think he’d try to escape from…you know?”
“Where would he go? They’re probably already camped out on his lawn. Heck—some of them haven’t even left since this morning.”
Sara put a hand on her forehead, flabbergasted to remember that had only been this morning. Sheesh! What a weekend. “So—you think he’s hiding?”
“I hope so,” Rizzo said. “If the tabloid jerks get ahold of him….”
“Poor Kermit,” said Sara, and felt tears prick her eyes.
“Poor reporters,” Rizzo snorted, and Sara looked at him in surprise.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Kermit’s a nice guy and all, but have you ever seen him really steamed?”
Sara thought for a moment. “Well, during the Christmas show—“
Rizzo pondered, his pointed little head cocked to the side. “Eh, maybe a little,” he said. “But those were little baby-quakes. I mean, have you ever seen an arm-waving, eye-bugging breakdown in person?”
Sara’s eyes were wide, and she shook her head wordlessly.
“Well, take it from me—he may have the longest fuse in show-business, but when he finally pops his cork…whooee! He’s liable to punch Scribbler right on the nose.”
“Piggy already did that,” Sara said faintly.
“Yeah, well get ready for part deux,” Rizzo said. “Unless we find him first.”
“Then we have to find him first! Help me!” Sara cried. Rizzo nodded and held on tight. She picked up her skirts and moved.
“I can’t get anybody,” Clifford was saying into the phone. He paced in Mabel’s small kitchen for six steps, then turned and paced back. Mabel had gone in to make tea and had only managed to escape a hit-and-run by waving the white tea-towel of surrender and getting the heck out of Clifford’s way. “No—I tried Scooter. Look—I even tried Fozzie, but noone’s answering. You’re the only one I can get.”
Rowlf merely grunted. They had talked about the picture. They had talked about the article—well, articles, now—until there wasn’t much left to say. Cut off from the scene, they had pooled their ignorance and now waited in miserable camaraderie for someone to call and clue them in.
“Maybe they aren’t calling cause there’s nothing to tell?” said Rowlf, but without much hope. This was big news, and there was no reason to think the small-minded had lost interest in this burgeoning scandal.
“Man!” said Clifford disgustedly. He might have said something different, but he was mindful of the feminine ears behind him. “Is it just me, or does it seem like someone’s out to get them?”
“You mean besides Scribbler?” muttered Rowlf. He scratched behind one ear thoughtfully. “I don’t know, but they sure seem to have had more than their fair share lately—but then, they’ve always been like this.”
Clifford frowned, making the end of his mustache droop. Watching him anxiously from across the room, Tricia was filled with affection. Clifford might be the coolest hipster on the planet—well, besides Floyd Pepper—but he was a real softie at heart. “I don’t follow,” he said.
Rowlf sighed, trying to choose his words carefully. “Kermit and Miss Piggy have always been trouble magnets—not individually, but once they got together, well, people just couldn’t seem to get enough. People have always been kind of obsessively interested in what was going on between those two.”
Clifford thought about it. There had been more than a few openly speculative conversations backstage about the comings and goings at the The Frogs household—most of them told in a tone of reverence. There was a story circulating now about exactly how Kermit convinced Piggy to take the job in New York…. “Hmmm. Maybe.”
“No maybe to it,” said Rowlf. “Since he started dating Miss Piggy, Kermit has never been on an interview where someone didn’t ask, "So, what’s up with you and Miss Piggy?" It used to torque Kermit proper, back when he was pretending there wasn’t anything going on. It was one of the reasons they fought so much in the beginning—one of the reasons Kermit was so reluctant to plunge in and take the fall.”
“Because of the publicity?” the bass player mused. “Kermit’s in show-business—how can he not like publicity?” He heard Rowlf grin.
“It’s not that he doesn’t like publicity—he’ll talk to you about the show or the next movie or newest song all day. He just wasn’t quite sure about having an intimate little relationship with Piggy and the whole blooming world.”
Clifford grinned. “Well, the world does seem to think Piggy belongs to them.”
Rowlf’s voice was dry. “And Kermit isn’t all that keen on competition—not where Piggy is involved.”
They were silent, both thinking the same thing. If the scrutiny had always been too much, this was going to be too much times infinity. They spoke together:
“If you hear anything—“
“If anyone calls you—“
Both men laughed.
“No problem.”
“Will do.”
They hung up. At the moment, there was nothing else they could do.
“Look behind that door, Beakie,” said Bunsen Honeydew. They had emerged, sans trophy, to help in the manhunt, er, froghunt going on behind the scenes.
Beaker trotted over to look, just as the door swung open. With reactions borne of myriad unhappy and unhealthy experiences, Beaker dropped, backwards, and managed to slide out of harm’s way. A doorknob in your ribcage is nothing to look forward to. Bunsen trotted over and surveyed his red-haired assistant
lying supine on the floor.
“This is no time to be lying down on the job!” he said sternly. “We’ve got to find Kermit!” He bent and hauled a sighing Beaker to his feet.
“Are you sure you won’t come with us?” Stacey had urged. She knelt down next to where Piggy sat on the couch, taking off her high heels.
Piggy shook her head, her platinum hair swinging in loose curls. Her face was pouty and determined.
“No, I just can’t,” Piggy said. “Moi is so tired I can’t see straight, and tomorrow is a big day--”
“I wish you’d let your friends stay here with you,” Trudy ventured. “They seem awful nice.”
“They are very nice, but they will be much happier at their hotel. Moi will be much happier sleeping here in her own bed.” The thought of her own bed—her actual own bed¸with her own sheets and her own frog on it—made Piggy’s eyes fill with tears, but she was looking down and her voice was brisk and business-like. “We’re meeting with the potential buyers tomorrow, and Moi must look fabulous.”
“Yeah,” said Kristen. “Like that’s hard.” She put a hand on Piggy’s back, feeling the tension there. “You really want us to go and leave you alone?”
“Yes.” If Piggy’s voice were muffled, or perhaps choked with repressed sobs, her friends were too kind to mention it. They exchanged looks over her head and Piggy, knowing it, shot to her feet and began to motion them towards the door. “Come on, move along. Lots to do tomorrow,” she said gruffly, and they allowed themselves to be herded toward the door. Whatever Piggy was suffering now, she obviously wanted to suffer it alone.
“Tell Moishe—Mr. Finkel—that I’ll be waiting tomorrow morning,” Piggy said. “And tell him thank you.” Finkel’s skillful driving had brought them all safely to Piggy’s door—unfollowed and unfettered—and he had just returned from depositing Howard and Thoreau at their hotel. The girls had done everything they knew to do in the interim, but unless they could transform themselves into Piggy’s “Kermie” there was nothing left to do.
“Get some sleep, sweetie,” said Trudy. “Things will seem brighter in the morning.” Piggy thought of morning, and the early editions of hundreds of papers, then gritted her teeth and powered on through.
“No doubt,” she said. She kissed them all and shut the door in their worried faces.
It was Gonzo who found him a half-hour later, huddled into the edge of the curtains and looking at the texts. Gonzo did not try to coax him out, but sat down beside him on the backstage floor. Noone noticed them where they sat. There were advantages, sometimes, to blending in with so many ordinary things.
“Tough night,” said Gonzo.
Kermit made a slight, defeated gesture that might have been a shrug. Gonzo nodded.
“Yup. So…whacha gonna do now?”
If Kermit had felt better, he’d have snapped, “I’m going to Disneyworld! What do you THINK I’m going to do now?” but he didn’t have the energy for it. He let out a long sigh.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m open to suggestions, as long as they don’t involve a cannon—wait. Scratch that. A cannon would be perfect.”
Gonzo sighed, too, and reached out and put his hand on Kermit’s back. “Eh, Betsy isn’t the answer to your problems,” he said thoughtfully. “I think you’ve had quite enough of other women tonight.”
Kermit groaned. “Oh, don’t Gonzo. I…it’s such a mess. I don’t even know what to do first.”
“Have you tried calling her?”
“She was supposed to call me,” Kermit mumbled, and his friend turned and looked at him in the dimness.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Gonzo said. “You tried calling her?”
Kermit shook his head and shrugged hopelessly. “She’ll be mad at me,” he whispered. “Today—this morning—when the press tried to make something over her breakfast she…she called me to warn me. Well, she called Marty, who called me to warn me.” Kermit looked up, his face suddenly animated with hope. “Marty will know what to do!” He started to dial his phone, but Gonzo reached out and put his hand over the screen.
“Not Marty. Call Piggy first. Let her be mad at you. Admit you were scum.”
“But I wasn’t!” Kermit said, suddenly indignant. “It wasn’t—I didn’t do anything!”
Inwardly, Gonzo sighed. If he could have slapped the pride out of Kermit at that moment, he’d have done it, but that wasn’t really the solution, either.
“I know. I heard. And Piggy will believe you—she will—but you’re just going to have to suck it up and let her be hysterical and mad for a little while.”
Kermit was silent for a moment, thinking. When they were together, arguments frequently spiraled out of control, with bouts of tears and shouts merging seamlessly into bouts of passion, but there would be no happy resolution tonight with them snuggled happily into each other’s arms. At best, they would put today’s demons behind them and try to brace for the storm that followed—and follow it would.
“She won’t…she won’t believe any of that, will she?” Kermit asked. “I mean, Piggy knows I wouldn’t…it was just one of those freak things….”
“You called?” Gonzo said, smiling. He stood up and offered Kermit his hand.
Kermit took it and stood up. “Not yet,” he said. “But I’m going to—right now.”
“It’s rully them all right,” said Janice glumly. “I was hoping maybe, like, it was one of those celebrity look-alike things but….” She trailed off, and everyone was quiet.
“Ah,” Animal panted. “Bad. Baaddd.”
“Looks that way,” said Teeth. He let out a long sigh. “Here’s the thing,” he said after a moment. “There’s nothing we can do about it, and Kermit and Piggy will undoubtedly work out whatever happened. They always do.”
“Yeah—fer sure,” said Janice. She reached for Floyd’s hand. Despite his tendency to never miss an opportunity to irritate Piggy, he seemed as genuinely distressed by this harbinger of bad news as the rest of them were.
“True,” said the bassman. “The pig usually gets what she wants.”
Eventually, thought Teeth, but maybe not tonight. But he didn’t say it out loud.
A slim green finger pressed “Send”, and an unobtrusive green amphibian waited anxiously for what would happen next.
She answered on the first ring. “Hello Kermie,” she said, and Kermit felt relief and affection wash over him like a tidal wave. Her voice was full of tears, but she had called him Kermie!
“Hi Honey,” Kermit said quietly. “I…I messed up, I guess.”
He heard Piggy gasp, or sniffle, and hastened to explain. “But—but it’s not what you think!” he blurted.
“Moi didn’t think—it wasn’t….” She fell silent, and the weight of that silence was almost unbearable.
“I should have told you right away,” he admitted.
“The article said it happened right before we….” He heard her take a breath. “Is that why you were so….” She could not think of what to say.
“I should maybe tell you what happened,” he said, then when she did not reply, “Will you—will you listen until I finish?”
“Moi is listening now.”
Ouch. Her voice had cooled considerably.
“Um, I was waiting with the reporter, um, BrandEe something-or-other, for our talk, and she was…well, there were some delays.” Again, silence, but then, he had asked her to wait until he was finished, and he had hardly explained anything yet. “And while I was waiting for things to queue up, this, um, woman came up to me—“
“She came up to you,” Piggy said. There was absolutely no expression in her voice. Kermit wished he could have seen her face, or held her in his arms while he explained, but if wishes were horses, well, he’d have ridden one to New York by now.
“She, um, did. I…that was the first time I’d ever met her. Actually, it was the first time I’d ever seen her.”
In spite of everything, Piggy had to smile. She knew he was telling the truth about that, bless him. He was so sweet, so amazingly unworldly in some ways. The smile made her voice warmer. “Moi knows who she is,” she murmured. “Go on.”
Here, Kermit’s absolute bewilderment came to his aid. “I—Piggy, I don’t know how on earth—or why she—I didn’t even know, I mean, she just came up to me and, um, hugged me. Like she knew me,” he finished. She could tell from his voice that he was fretful and worried, knowing his story sounded unbelievable and yet…and yet, it was certainly possible.
“Everybody knows you,” Piggy said gently.
“I don’t know about that…,” Kermit mumbled, half-way pleased but not sure he should be.
“And that’s when he took the picture?”
Kermit made a growl low in his throat. He did not have to be reminded whose credit had appeared on the photo or the article.
“I don’t know when he took the picture!” he blurted, then quieted. He was, after all, still concealed behind the curtain backstage, and the last thing he wanted was to call attention to himself. “I didn’t even see him, cause if I had—”
Piggy could imagine that he was otherwise occupied when the picture was taken, and it may have sharpened her voice a little. “Then how—“
“Scooter saw him earlier, but that was—look, just let me tell you what happened next.”
Piggy was a captive audience. “I’ve been waiting,” she said.
“Well, she hugged me and said she liked my work on Sesame Street.”
“Moi thought she was older than she—“
“No—she said it like she thought I was on there now. She didn’t even know I haven’t—I mean, it’s been—well, let me finish, Piggy—please?” He sounded befuddled and unhappy and desperate and—had she been there—Piggy would have been tempted to take him into her arms and smother him in kisses until all of that angst just melted away, but…well…. Still, thinking of it softened her emotions again. She made a small sound of encouragement.
“And then, when I was trying to get away—I mean, um….” He could feel his face flaming with heat, and was trying to think how to broach this description when he heard something he didn’t expect to hear.
Piggy giggled.
“Get away?” she teased, and he could hear the amusement in her voice. It made him equal parts relieved and indignant, but the mix of emotions was swirling around inside him now, making him lightheaded.
“Yes—get away,” he huffed, and Piggy tried desperately to stem her mirth. “I mean, I’m just trying to do an interview and she was all…all….”
“Up in your gills?” Piggy said. Her voice was dry, and Kermit scrunched his face up in consternation because he knew that she was amused. He couldn’t decide if he should be offended by that or not—well, not offended, but…something. He felt touchy and grumpy and wished that Piggy was here, because—even if she tweaked him in the process—she could certainly cure him of the grumps without fail. In fact, sometimes it was fun to pretend to be grumpy just so she would….
“Kermie?”
Guiltily, he startled, realizing she was waiting for him to continue.
“Yeah.” He sounded sulky, and Piggy rushed in to comfort him—verbally, at least.
“Oh, Mon Chere!” she cried. “Moi was just—“
“I’m having a pretty tough day,” Kermit said, “and you’re…you’re laughing at me.” Piggy knew without seeing him that he had one hand on his waist, and his face would be drawn down into a wonderfully appealing scowl.
“No, Sweetie,” Piggy murmured. “Moi is not laughing at you—I am laughing near you!”
It was a line from one of Robin William’s stand-up routines, and they had passed it back and forth too many times to count when something should have been funny but wasn’t funny quite yet. In spite of himself, Kermit grinned.
“Oh yeah?” he said, some of his spirit returning. “Well, I wish you were laughing near me right now!”
“Oh? Pray tell,” Piggy teased, playing along.
“Yeah! Cause if you were, then you wouldn’t be laughing.”
“Is that so?” Piggy asked. Kermit knew she was twirling a curl around her satin-gloved finger, could imagine that her pursed lips were just millimeters from the phone….
“That is so,” Kermit insisted. “You’d be drowning in passion!” he said, full of joy and playfulness. It was a little louder than he meant it to be, and he shushed her and himself almost immediately. “Shhhh,” he murmured. “Um, you’d be drowning in passion right about now.”
“Moi already is.”
Piggy’s voice was like a tonic, like a salve to his savaged ego and frayed nerves. “Oh, Piggy,” he said, and that was all he needed to say.
Scribbler scowled, looking at his watch for what felt like the 37th time. This was not a corner you wanted to be seen on in the daytime, and noone with good sense would linger at this ungodly hour of the night. Well, he’d never been accused of having good sense.
“C’mon,” he chanted to himself. “Be the kind of guy I think you are! Don’t stand me up now!” He did not realize he’d spoken out loud until he felt someone tugging on the hem of his trousers. He whirled and looked down, relief and gratefulness on his face.
Scoop looked at him, his expression downright unfriendly. “Got your message,” he said. “What do you want?”
If looks could maim…. The little reporter was glaring at Scribbler, and Scribbler’s smile faded. He swallowed, stung a little by the change of attitude, but clothed it in practicality. He became businesslike.
“I have something I…I need you to see. Something I need you to…have,” Scribbler said gruffly.
Scoop’s hands stayed firmly in his pockets. “I need to know a little more. I’m not sure you and I are in the same business after all.”
Ahh. That one had hurt—like a knife going in, sleek and sharp against his ribcage.
“Could be,” he said shortly. “Are you a reporter, or not?”
“I’m a reporter all right,” said Scoop. “Champion of the truth, and all that—remember?”
“Yeah, yeah. How’s your eyesight?”
“My eye—what? What are you getting at?”
“Can you tell what you’re looking at?”
“Look, Scribbler, I don’t have time to—“
“Give me your phone.” The little rat was wearing it over his shoulder like a backpack.
“My…what? What do you need my—“
“Just give me the darn phone!” Scribbler hissed. Scoop forked it over, still suspicious, and Scribbler took out his own phone.
“I don’t have that bump-the-phones-together thing—“ the rat protested, but Scribbler ignored him.
“Me either,” he muttered.
“—and if you wanted to send me a file, you could have just—“
“I can’t send it! If my boss even knew I was here--!!”
Some of his urgency was communicating itself to Scoop, who looked at him doubtfully, but with a little bit of softening in his posture. “Fleet—what are you--?”
But he could now see what Fleet was doing. He was taking the SD card out of his phone and putting it in Scoop’s phone. Scoop could see that he was saving things, but couldn’t see exactly what from where he was, so he grabbed Scribbler’s pant leg and scrambled up to where he had a better view. By the time he got to Scribbler’s shoulder, the tabloid reporter was almost done. While he watched, Scribbler pried the SD card out of his phone and put it back in his own phone.
“What are you doing, buddy?” Scoop asked. In the moment, Fleet didn’t register that the little rat had called him buddy, but he would remember it later and be glad.
Fleet hesitated, then handed him his phone back. “The question is, what are you going to do?”
“Have you been drinking?” Scoop asked, whiskers twitching inquisitively. Fleet laughed, a bark of laughter without much mirth.
“Not yet,” he said, grinning, then scooped Scoop up in his hand and deposited him, with his phone in his hands, on the sidewalk again.
“Then what do you mean, what am I going to do?”
“You’ll know what to do.”
Wordlessly, bewildered, Scoop nodded. “You’re talking riddles, Fleet, and I don’t know--?” He looked down at his phone, then stared at the screen and his eyes flew wide. “Holy guacamole,” he breathed. “Is that what happened?”
The door of the nearest dive opened, belching out light, stale smoke and the smell of cheap beer. Scribbler stiffened and looked apprehensively at the figure that emerged, but when the drunk staggered into the alley to throw up, he relaxed.
“I have to go—if my boss saw me here….” Fleet tried a smile, but it looked rather ghastly in the dim light from the streetlamp. He stopped and looked at Scoop, and his eyes were sad. “Champions of truth, right? You’ll make sure…?” He did not finish.
Scoop nodded, his expression solemn. “Champions of truth,” he said. He made an “X” on his chest with his finger. “Cross my heart.”
Fleet raised his hand in farewell, turned his collar up, then turned and walked quickly up the street.
They had spent the better part of the phone call in giggles, talking mush.
“Um, Piggy,” Kermit said, sobering at last. He did not know what time it was, but it was later where Piggy was than where he was. “It’s probably going to get worse before it gets better.”
“Probably. It’s okay.” Her voice was resigned, but she no longer sounded hopeless.
“It’s not okay—I’m sorry—“
“Kermie. I’m fine.”
“Well, okay,” said Kermit. "Just remember I love you, okay?”
“I remember. And Kermie—?”
“Yes?”
“Just…just remember Moi belongs to you.”
“Oh, Piggy—Honey….”
“And you belong to me!” There was a fierceness in her voice that made his heart sing.
“I belong to you,” he murmured, centered and at peace.
“And don’t you let any of those Hollywood hussies forget it!”
Kermit grinned, but he heard the warning in her voice. “Duly noted,” he said. “I’ll wear a button next time that says, "Taken".”
“Next time?” Piggy sputtered. “What do you mean--?”
“Love you.”
“Love you, Mon Capitan.”
“One.”
“One.”
“Two.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Three.”
“Bye.”
“Goodbye.”
Kermit watched until the light on his phone disappeared, then put it back into his jacket pocket. He squared his shoulders, plastered a devil-may-care smile onto his face, and walked out to face the press.
Posts: 1,263, Looks: 135,343 May 26, 2013 12:45 am
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Christmas Music
Macy's Thanksgiving Parade
Jim Henson Idea Man
Back to the Rock Season 2
Bear arrives on Disney+
Sam and Friends Book
I couldn't stand one intsny teeny moment of that creep.
: Hey, Colette, my main man. What's this gig all about?
: GIG! GIG!
: This story is sickening and weird?
: Hey! I got this great act and it's so cool!
: Hey! Ya got any cheese left!
: Yeah like where is our gig?
and 
, it says "Beaker managed to" and then it goes to Bunsen chiding his assistant. Er, what hexactly did Beaker manage to? That part's the only little niggling unclear crumb in a wonderful chapter.
