Kermie's Girl (ushy-gushy fanfic)

[The Count]

What about the ripped brownish tux he wore when he showed up at the very tailend of Joan's 1995 red carpet review? Yes, I still remember that, sometimes I swear I have an immediate memory recall button.

Ask and ye shall receive.
Ch 123 Thoughts.

1 Chapter 123: Comings and Goings: Airports, Hotels and Bars.
Nice. Reusing older chapter titles, but with a further titling making this seem like a sequel/follow-up of sorts. And the last Comings and Goings did take place at the Vegas airport, when Ms. Star landed to try and combat Scribbler's published penmanship.

2 "Your mother's in town? Did she come to see your show?" "She's seen my show," Chad said dismissively. "She came to see yours."
Heh, this is such a RAunt Ru turnaround joke.

3 Yes, a measured snack of chocolate at times does make everything better.
*Already had my supply for the day.

4 "She might be a diva but she was on excellent terms with her agent, her designer and her frog—regardless of what the tabloids said."
Superb sentiment, glad to know she's got good standing with the important people in her life.

5 "Moi likes clothes and he likes to make them for me." "Sounds like a match made in heaven," said Chad, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Almost," Piggy admitted. "When Kermie pays the bills, then it's a magic triangle!"
Another Aunt Ru joke, and dern if it doesn't make us the readers laugh too.

6 Rory shows his sneakiness in going behind Piggy's back to get the other girls from the cast to take her back to the Grill. But it's for the diva's own good I guess.

7 "Not my date," Chad said primly. "She's married and I'm spoken for." "Spoken about, more like!" Kristen teased, and they all laughed. "As long as they're talking about you, it doesn't matter what they’re saying!" Chad sniffed. "Oh! But it does! It does!," Piggy thought
More joking around, reminds me of the bit from Jason's SNL monologue... But I have to agree with Piggy's inner admonition, Chad really needs to be caught up on everything to know the grim severity of his "bad pub is good pub" statement.

8 Appreciate the subtly shaded tug between Tricia and Clifford.
All he's doing is offering to help and get things done well and quickly.
And all they're saying is they've got it, cause there's that feeling of perfectionist familiarity that gets off-set if someone else does it instead, even if they're just trying to help.

9 Yeah, let's just sit down over here out of the womenfolks' way.
*Trying to imagine who was hired to keep bar. So long as he doesn't go clubbing, we shouldn't have any trouble.

10 Enjoyed Cliff's and Rowlf's banter back and forth.
George: But does he have a license to drive?!
Of course I do, I'm the one driving this sketch.
George: That's not what I meant!
Also, I should apologize for Junie biting Rowlf, Rhonda and Foo are bad influences on her. J/K.

11 Erm, another doubt, cause I don't understand the spaced exclamation in parentheses after the airport kissing moment.

12 Everybody seems to know a guy!
I'd rather know a girl okay.

13 : Still with the dissing of Piggy's hair? Sheesh, I hate a running gag.
Speak for yourself frog, so long as it helps Ru write/post more story.
What does she write about anyway?
The stuff that dreams are made of. Now go back to your shroom snap-bug pizza.

14 And we end on another fabulous Ru-like joke. Thank you for including me in this section of the story again.

15 Another thing I've come to expect from Ru's writing style... She gives us one angle like how Piggy's affected psychologically by another girls' night out, and then she gives a second contrasting angle with the physical effect following.

16 "He noticed his grip on his wine glass was too tight, and relaxed it with effort."
Wow, just like Harry's aunt Marge at the beginning chapters of POA before he runs away and gets picked up by the Night Bus.

17 Another glass of wine, that puts me in mind of the song Hooked On A Feeling, but since it's Seymour we're talking about, that just adds a layer of unwanted creeperness.

18 She march home with him this instant? Forgotten she's married bucko? And not to you, cause she can do sooo much better.

19 Rhonda: D'you believe the delusions of grandeur this guy has?
Me: Yeah... Getting better acquainted with her knocked out after attempting to choloroform her in the process of pignapping, right.
BTW: How's Kris?
Rhonda: Fine, getting around in that rental.

20 "Seymour might have been delusional, but he wasn't stupid."
Rhonda: That's debatable.

21 And Seymour's creeperness continues, thinking Piggy's putting out signals when she's already spoken for. Excuse me, she "Moved" to New York to be available to you? You do know she's going back to Cali as soon as her Broadway engagement's finished—oh never mind, this maroon can't get his head outta the gutter what with his unhealthy fixation on Piggy.
On another topic, we jokingly kidded master Muppet figure customizer Quinn Rollings of the same crime, but that was just jokingly because of all the Piggy variants he's made. Little would we know there'd be someone to actually make a Piggy obsession appear repugnant.

22 She called Kristen a "dear friend"? Oh, and there she proves she's earned Piggy's trust to banter that term around, picking up on the way harsh vibes. Knew there was a reason Piggy, and we in turn liked her costar.

23 "The warning in the woman's eyes froze him in his tracts and made him step back with an almost inaudible hiss, drawing out the "yesss"."
Good. Something's letting him know not to mess with the frog's woman.
Woman? Where woman?
Nah, settle down, just munch on some chips.
* sits down, breathing his signature rhythm.

24 Yes Piggy... Please add a mental sticky note in caps to look back on the icky feeling you got when surprised by Strathers when you and Kermit were castle dancing in Vegas and the feeling you've gotten now at the Grill and how they're so similar, so very very similar.

25 Sending the other couple of boys watching out for her champagne and a muffin basket, now that's being a little minx in the right way, not the way Seymour's thinking about.
Rhonda: Wonder how we can get one of those baskets sent our way.
Me: Make nice?
Rhonda, putting hands on hips: Easy for you to say, you've already got someone to make nice and feed your pangs.

26 "The finest Musketel in Idaho."
: Should be, for 95¢.

27 There cookies too?
Huh wha?
Oh brother, now you've done it.
*Feeding frenzied furry things flash past to the table.
Hey, don't forget about me!

28 Okay, I'm not familiar with either of the sayings Howard quoted.

29 Blotto? What that?

30 *Laughs at the observations on Minnie's hostess style, now that was clever. Though her basic outfit hasn't really changed, you see what the DDG (Disney Design Group) gets her to model for all those pins and other things they sell down at the parks.

31 Uncle D: I hate to say it, but it looks as if the noose is tightening around Piggy now that Mr. Strathers has found her apartment. Well, not the actual apartment itself, thank frog, but the building itself.

32 *Follows the breadcrumbs Ru leaves... As in answer to Seymour's plea, his luck was changing, for the worse.
*Chuckles.

33 Confucius say...
Man who grabbies at pig's Asian rolls soon find himself with sore dumplings.

34 *Is already under the spell of the song and Tricia's intro.

35 Aw, there there Gossimer. *Pats the orange monster's shoulder. She'll come back, but you gotta give her a reason—and a good one—to come back. *Is proud of Clifford's defensive stance, he might just make a good monster himself.

36 Heartwarming to find Fozzie stayed with Kermit while he slept.
The short--?
Somebody said 'short'?
Nooooo!
leaves, mift about no unexpected explosion.

37 "Hi Piggy. It's me." "Hi me."
: Cute, cute joke.

38 Oh, still keeping secrets from each other? Sunday night after the awards can't come soon enough.

39 And there's that conversation on the phone between the power couple we were waiting all the way back in the previous chapter.

40 Just because you leave us wanting more.
*Deposits next-to-last of the double chocolate muffins I apparently got yesterday to hand out.

 

[Twisted Tails]

Oh my gosh, I was half execting that Seymour guy to just... Kiss her or something...
Bleah! Her lips belong to Mr. Frog!
And then there's a drama end. Oh Ru, I'm such a bug a boo, but please do more!

Oh! That gorg brain should stay from that Muppet pig. Stupid gorg! Get off you hands of that famous pig. BTW: This is a great story. Kissing a gorg and an awful SC named Seymour? Bleech! (Groans)! That is much worse than kissing a normal silly creature (groans with disgust)! Don't remind me guys. I am talking and acting Fragglish. (sighs)! More story please! I'm about to use the "patience button" right now. Hmpfh!

 

[Ruahnna]

Last muffin in my basket--I promise!

Ed, you know "sanguine" means: cheerfully optimistic, hopeful, or confident: a sanguine disposition; sanguine expectations. The word comes from when Hippocrates advanced his theory that there were four humors or temperaments which caused human emotions. (This is a gross oversimplification of the theory). According to the theory (which is inaccurate), if your predominant body fluid was blood (as opposed to yellow bile, black bile or phlegm), you would be ruddy of complexion and predisposed to be jolly and content. To be sanguine means "to be full of blood." And given that you are called The Count...well....

It is also where we get the term "phlegmatic" from, which means: not easily excited to action or display of emotion; apathetic; sluggish. To wit: Although he was a frog of deep emotion, Kermit was usually rather phlegmatic.


And for any of you who were wondering: Yes. I do do this sort of thing for entertainment. Seriously.

The "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie" and "If You Give A Pig A Party" books are written by--get this!--Laura Numeroff (how's that for a last name!)--and they are charmingly written and wonderfully illustrated. (You can find the texts for them online, if not pictures from the actual books.) Since I am a person who spends a lots of time with, um, pogs and frigs--my own and others--I am aware of and fond of these books.

To be "blotto" means to be intoxicated. Thoreau and Howard do not get drunk, but they do get tipsy and silly.

The "magic triangle" (which I was sure someone here would call me on) refers to the set of the eyes in relation to the nose and mouth on a muppet. (See Muppet Wiki for quotes I don't want to attribute because I'm too lazy to do it correctly tonight!)

Can I tell you I laughed out loud when you mentioned the barkeep "going clubbing" because all I could imagine was the barkeep going around clubbing people. Lol! I may have to use that....

I think that's that. (And no, that was not a shameless reference to my other recently posted mini-fic. It was a shameful reference to my other mini-fic.)

Now--I have officially posted a longer reply to Ed's comment than the last umpteen comments on my fic, I will decease muffining my own thread and try to write some more story.

 

[The Count]

Heh, you got the clubbing joke exactly.

The thing I didn't understand in the airport scene was that you had one sentence end, then a space, (!), space, and another sentence start. The humors I know of as they lend to the Rule of Four.

If you get the chance, check a story that has a place dear to me because of the memories attached to when I bought it as a child in New York with my dad, called St. Alphabet, a version of the classic Christmas Eve's night tale.

Enjoy the weekend, we'll be here for when you post more.

 

[newsmanfan]

-------------
So...a lovely long post deserves a good long review!

First, let me state how happy I am that throughout not only this chapter but this entire work you’ve portrayed the various couples as simply People, regardless of gender or orientation or species...and made a contentious delineation a non-issue. Rory and Chad, and Howard and Thoreau, if a bit fey, nevertheless avoid being offensive stereotypes. I wish more people would practice simple coexistence and tolerance...peoples is peoples, as a wise man once said.

To the chapter in question: I’m amused that the worldly pig would console herself with bonbons and a trashy book (Harlequin? Red Dress?) – though it does harken back to the boa-fluffing, extravagantly-posing diva of TMS days. Makes me wonder if she’d consider reading fanfic to unwind! Also tickled that she may be a diva, but she’s a shrewd one, staying on very good terms with her designer and her agent as well as her main croak – uh, squeeze, I mean.

Yes. I caught the “magic triangle” joke. A certain journalist I favor is a perfect example of just that principle. I believe Don Sahlin actually coined the term?

Hmm. Not happy that Piggy is scheming how to broach the news of the “mugging” to Kermit, still leaving out details. Methinks much more heck is going to break out before she even has the chance to do some ‘splainin’...

Piggy considering calling Fleet, and wondering what he might print about her, means that the message from Harve has NOT yet been delivered, no? Ooh, that’s gonna mean one annoyed rat and one very worried tabloid hack!

To Clifford and co.: monster truckers! LOL. Sounds like a good reality show! Love the riffing between Rowlf and Clifford: “Who bit you?” “Don’t know her name...” Hah! And it must be serious, if Cliff is finally talking!

Wondering what Autumn does for a living, to travel that much. International woman of mystery? High-powered model? Professional assassin? The kiss was cute...and yes, I laughed at the sanguine pun. Yay for wordplay! (That’s actually one of my fave words, but I’ve never found a good place to use it well. Nicely done.)

I loved Alexey, both for his charming, pert insolence and his acrobatic skills when tripped by the vicious Seymour. Now if only he would notice the creep drooling on the tablecloth! Seymour, as always, is a piece of work: crazy as a cowbird, slimy as a nightcrawler, and distasteful as week-old cafeteria lunch meat. His one-track internal monologue is pitch-perfect stone-cold crazy...reminds me more than a little of the Peter Gabriel song “The Intruder” (see below). Piggy “thrilled to find herself in his thrall”? Uhhh...insane much?

Hoping Piggy puts the shivery little pieces together fast, for her sake. Wasn’t Seymour’s too-fond hello kiss enough of a clue as to his utter creeptastic status, if not his role as hopeful abductor? Kristen clearly instantly has her creepdar alarm going off with a full-blown Defcon 4...surely she’ll say something to Piggy about it? Soon? Now?

I LOVE the line “He grasped desperately at his decorum and smiled.” Immediate mental image is of a man on a sinking ship clambering over the bodies of his crewmates to reach the lifeboat, no matter the cost. (This guy WOULD, too.)

The scene with Howard and Thoreau is touching, innocent, and, yes, romantic. I like your observation about how traveling with someone you don’t know perfectly yet tends to bring out quirks and strange conversations. Cute reference to the kids’ book series...surprised you didn’t also use “If You Give a Moose a Muffin,” given the gift basket! The transition from awkward to silly to blotto, as you succinctly put it, is very funny...and very honest. Nicely painted.

**** at the little old Asian lady giving Seymour a lesson in manners the hard way. When he wakes up tomorrow, he’ll have to do his plotting through a hangover and a few very sore bones. And the egg roll bit was hilarious! But...now the creep has a street address...and will certainly be lurking for her...

Kermit and Piggy still doing the dance of denial is frustrating to witness. Sooner or later, their friends are going to rat them out to each other –

Rhonda: Hey! Language!

Can I do ONE review without you guys butting in?

Rhonda: You may, if you amend your gutter mouth.

*sigh*...Fine...anyway. I’m betting that Marty talks to the frog, or Gonzo talks to the pig, or something, fairly soon...hopefully before a pignapping or a frog stew.

And it sounds like Tricia’s band may get a recording contract? Er...what’s an agent doing hanging around a monster truck stop? Is he a monster trucker moonlighting as a recording studio rep? Well...I guess stranger things have happened...

: Understatement championship! Final round!

I really must remember to LOCK the door.

WONDERFUL, this latest pair of updates! Stir that pot and thicken that plot!

: Is it soup yet?

NO! She’ll TELL you when it’s freakin’ soup!

For those of you kiddies who have no idea who Peter Gabriel is, check this one out. The whole album is wonderfully dark, from back in his early solo days after Genesis (which used to be an art band, not a pop band...for those of you who even recall the ‘80s). Might be a good theme song for Seymour:

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

 

[Muppetfan44]

Sorry it took me so long to respond but wow! What a roller coaster of a chapter!! so much great stuff going on and now that Seymour knows where Piggy lives!!!!! Tons of dramatic tension and heart at every turn. I find myself conflicted between the writer in me and the ush-gush adorer in me: i want so terribly for Kermit and Piggy to finally tell each other everything and face their respective demons together, but as I the fanfic writer I delight in the literature torture of the dramatic tension continuing to be built, haha!

You have me on the edge of my seat and I can't wait to read what happens next, although in my heart of hearts I do hope the frog and the pig will be reunited soon

 

[Twisted Tails]

Sorry it took me so long to respond but wow! What a roller coaster of a chapter!! so much great stuff going on and now that Seymour knows where Piggy lives!!!!! Tons of dramatic tension and heart at every turn. I find myself conflicted between the writer in me and the ush-gush adorer in me: i want so terribly for Kermit and Piggy to finally tell each other everything and face their respective demons together, but as I the fanfic writer I delight in the literature torture of the dramatic tension continuing to be built, haha!

You have me on the edge of my seat and I can't wait to read what happens next, although in my heart of hearts I do hope the frog and the pig will be reunited soon

I couldn't agree more, Muppetfan44. I want more please! My advice: Piggy or silly creature, stay away from that terrible Seymour. You may not know what he is really wants to do for you.

 

[Ruahnna]

I just wanted to say that this next post is a little rough and give you all some warning. Read with a friend....


Chapter 124: Out of the Frying Pan

The meeting with his boss wasn’t as bad as Scribbler had feared. It was worse—much,much worse. The plane had disgorged him, rumpled and gritty-eyed and desperate not to be too late. There was no time to go by his locker for anything fresh, but the futileness of such a gesture was obvious the moment he walked into the bullpen—such as it was. Bull was right, but the predominant smell was rotting fish. Scribbler looked with consternation and fury at the pelican leaning back in his chair with his big, dirty flipper-feet up on the desk, but he had become steeled in the past few years to almost any humiliation.
Or so he thought.
The pelican seemed to feel the scrutiny and half-turned, gulped, then hung up abruptly, bringing his feet to the floor and the chair to an upright position with a crash.
“Oh, um, hey,” said the pelican. “I’m Jonesy….” He held out a not-very clean wing. Scribbler bared his teeth in what would have to pass for a smile. He did not extend his hand.
“I’m Scribbler,” he said, then jerked his head toward the boss’s office. “Got to take a meeting,” he said, and crossed the room and walked up the three steps at the end. The fury carried him forward, and he paused outside the door and gathered himself with effort. He raised his fist to knock, but the door seemed to open of its own volition, and Scribbler stepped—literally and figuratively—into the darkness.
Rough hands grabbed him the moment he crossed the threshold.
“Hey!” he protested, then “Hey!!” as his arms were pinned behind his back and he was frisked with more thoroughness than was strictly necessary. He was not packing anything—it had not occurred to him—but he was considering it now as one of the two big goons who’d greeted him turned out the contents of his pockets. Scribbler struggled and his arm was wrenched behind him so hard he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out, but he managed to soldier on until he was slammed unceremoniously into a hard-backed chair in front of the big desk. One of the thugs stood behind him, huge hands on the back of the chair and Scribbler felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
“Here’s his phone,” said the other thug, and tossed Fleet’s business phone over to the boss. Scribbler had expected as much, but managed to look affronted.
“Looking for something?” he snarled, and one of the big hands on either side of his head reached out and thumped him one on the noggin. It made his ears ring and he bit his tongue, tasting blood.
“Just what belongs to me,” said his boss, scrolling through every single message—sent or received—while he looked on, helpless. His boss thumbed through the pictures, grunting occasionally, but there was nothing to impugn him with. There were no pictures of Piggy that he hadn’t already sent—no messages that might incriminate him in any way. Scribbler offered up a quick prayer to the god of paranoia, glad his new phone—his real phone—was residing safely in the potted plant in the lobby of the office building next door.
“I don’t belong to you,” said Scribbler, and the big hand would have slapped him again but the boss held up a finger—just one well-manicured finger on a well-kept hand—and the behemoth behind him subsided.
Any illusion that this was for Scribbler’s benefit was quickly dispelled. “I need him to be able to talk,” his boss said. “And I need him to be able to listen. Wait until I’m done…?” The threat hung there in the air and Scribbler felt his heart thump painfully as the huge hulking personage behind him slowly subsided. Things had changed. Things had definitely changed since he’d last been here. The ante had been upped while he’d been gone, and this place was not only as horrible as he remembered it, but worse and—now—dangerous. If the boss thought he could be man-handled like this with abandon, then something dark and terrible and new was going on. For a split-second, Scribbler wondered frantically if anyone would look for him if he disappeared.
“So talk already,” said Scribbler. “Or I’ll talk, but call off the gorillas already,” he said, glad his voice didn’t quaver. “I’m up in a rat-hole (a savage burst of grim humor bloomed in his brain) in New York digging up dirt on the frog’s marriage, you give my desk away to some bottom-feeder and now you’ve got your trained dogs (the man behind him actually growled) trying to feel me up.” He crossed his legs and leaned back, faking casualness, and wished he had a cigarette, even though he didn’t smoke. “I’m more of a word man, myself,” he said, and rolled his eyes. “If it’s information you want, you’ll get more by asking than by trying to give Johnny-boy here permission for a close encounter.”
There was a moment—an awful moment—when Scribbler thought he might just have pressed too many buttons on the elevator and was about to plummet to his death, but then his boss looked at him with narrowed eyes, impressed by his sangfroid (or the appearance of it) and waved airily at the two men.
“Stand down, Bruno—you and Fang take a…a lunch break. I’ll call when I need you again.”
Scribbler didn’t know why this elicited grunts and snuffles of humor, but the sound of it made cold chills run up his spine. The two men shuffled out and left him alone with the devil himself.

Scribbler felt like he’d gone 20 rounds. His head hurt, his back hurt and his arm was throbbing where one of the goons had jerked it up behind him. His boss had been ruthless, dogmatic and razor-focused, challenging everything he’d written, everything he done, everything he’d seen. His character had been called into question more than once, old humiliations piling up like dead leaves as his infamous descent from the top was chronicled in unflattering terms. He had been asked to defend every single charge on his account—especially the cleaning supplies—and they had done everything but pry open his phone to look inside it. He had been called everything in the book, and a few things he’d thought anatomically unlikely, but he had managed with grim determination to answer every question he’d been asked with the same answer every time. This was a chess game of epic proportions, but Scribbler had once been a stellar reporter, a stickler for details and as fearless as they come. Where other’s had fled from Miss Piggy’s wrath, hadn’t he always managed to bring home the story? When other’s dared not believe what he printed, hadn’t he taken the chance and scooped the story? Fleet thought this “story” might be the story of his life, with more riding on it than he could afford to lose.
“You may think you’re out of jeopardy,” the hated voice snarled, “but I’m not through with you yet.” A smile appeared—an evil smile—and Scribbler watched as the interview toggle was flipped. “Go ahead and bring me a tray,” said his boss.
“So what are you going to do?” Scribbler said, smirking but uneasy. Through it all, he’d managed to keep some semblance of dignity, using sarcasm as skillfully as a surgeon to cut the arguments against him without ever daring to touch the touchy thin skin of his master. “You gonna eat your lunch at me?”
“Something like that,” came the silky voice and the door opened and Bruno came through it with a platter and—oh, by the sorry gods of journalism! Oh no…no, no, nonononooo!—it wasn’t! It couldn’t be! It—
Scribbler was suddenly, violently ill, splashing Fang’s size 22 shoes. Fang swore and slammed Scribbler back into his seat, trying to make him watch. But Scribbler didn’t, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t! They couldn’t make him—but it didn’t stop them from trying. Whether or not he watched, he heard, he smelled. The indecent lip-smacking sounds of them eating, the smell of ham on their breath…. If there’d been anything left in his stomach, Scribbler would have thrown up again, but there wasn’t, and he didn’t. He felt light-headed and sick, desperate to get away, frantic about Missy—
Calm down, he told himself, and tried to suit actions to words. This couldn’t have been her. She’s on the east coast, this is the west coast, you talked to her—what—less than 8 hours ago—but why hadn’t she called? Why hadn’t he heard from her?! Concern for Piggy’s welfare almost blinded him to the seriousness of his own situation, but the seriousness of his plight was brought home to him when his boss, done with the sandwich, sauntered around the desk and knelt beside the chair where Fang held him immobile.
“Do you understand now?” his boss asked, the harsh voice silky-soft and dangerous. “I’m not playing. I’m not patient. And I’m not stupid.” There was a pause for this to sink in, and his boss leaned close enough for him to feel the hot, fetid, ham-scented breath on his face. “Either I get what I want, Scribbler—or I will get what you want. Do you understand?”
Ashen, Scribbler nodded, lost and broken.
“Say it!” demanded his tormentor, and Scribbler, like a good boy, croaked out, “I understand.”
His boss straightened and went back behind the desk, walking carefully to avoid the mess on the floor. Fang seemed to have been excused because he left, muttering about his shoes, but Scribbler couldn’t move out of the chair anyway, so transfixed by horror was he. All his hopes, all his dreams of heroism and bravado…they meant nothing. He was nothing. He couldn’t protect Missy—he couldn’t even protect himself. The humiliation of having that brought home to him was excruciating—worse than anything Piggy had ever done to him.
Behind the desk, there was an elaborate sigh. “Well, if you’re going to get some contacts made before the awards tomorrow night,” said his boss in a bright, chipper voice, “then you probably need to get moving. Bruno--?”
But he was moving on his own, lurching to his feet to avoid any further contact with this demon behind the desk or the henchmen who followed those terrible orders.
“I’m going,” Fleet said, and was surprised at how cocky his voice sounded in spite of everything. “And tomorrow night’s gonna be a snore,” he insisted. “I know who wants to be noticed, and who needs to be noticed.”
Behind him, his boss’s voice was mocking and oily. “Just remember what I want, you miserable excuse for a hack reporter!”
“Right,” said Scribbler distractedly. “Got it.” He paused in the doorway, glad to hold on to the doorframe to hold himself up. “While I’m out schmoozing with celebrities, you should probably get the carpet cleaned,” he said airily. “It stinks in here.”
And he was gone, with tatters of his pride flying behind him.

Scribbler stepped unsteadily into the passage and moved through sheer determination to the top of the short stairway. After the smell in his boss’s office, the stench out here was a welcome relief, and Scribbler filled his nostrils and his lungs with it llike it was the last air he'd ever breathe. The pelican—Jonesy—had stood up when he appeared, his expression uncertain, then—seeing Scribbler's ravaged state—triumphant. Scribbler did not begrudge him this pale victory, and his own wan smile was kind. “The file drawer sticks,” he said gently, and walked out the front door.

“Hey, buddy, you okay? I was worried when I didn’t hear from you.”
“How’s Gladys?” Fleet said, avoiding any discussion about how he was.
“She’s sleeping,” Harve said, and the relief in his voice was obvious. “That doc—he fixed her up proper.”
“Good,” said Scribbler. “I’m glad.”
They were both quiet.
“It was pretty bad, huh?” said Harve.
Scribbler let out a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he said, and that was all.
“She call you?” Harve asked. The way he said it made Fleet aware that he hated to ask, had tried not to ask, but the need to know was too strong.
“No,” Fleet said gently. “I guess…I guess she’s busy.”
“Your other phone—your work phone…?”
“Yeah—they looked. Read everything I’d sent, downloaded all the pictures.”
“Tough,” said Harve, but then Scribbler heard him smile. “Good thing you thought of that, right?” the little rat insisted, and the burned out, used-up reporter actually smiled.
“Yeah. I’m Einstein, today,” Fleet mumbled, but he couldn't keep the shadow of a smile across his face.
“You eat yet? You had a long day,” said Harve, and this time the smile actually broke.
“What are you—my mother?”
“Yeah, and I’ll be your bosses mother too if there’s any more trouble!” Harve said, and Scribbler was suddenly and completely glad that the stout little rat was on his side.
“Go tuck Gladys in,” said Scribbler.
“Already done,” said Harve. “I’m just…I’m just sitting with her, you know.”
“I’m sorry, Harve,” said Fleet, and to his surprise, this apology made him feel bigger, not smaller. This apology was felt, was meant, was not coerced and dry.
“When her ribs heal, she’s gonna come out to California and tell your boss what-for,” Harve said.
“Oh, so she’s coming to California, huh? Think you’d like all this sun?” That last was said darkly—Scribbler hadn’t seen the sun since he’d arrived, and it was dark outside the windows of his crummy hotel room now.
“Eh, you know how it is,” said Harve. “The little lady wants something, she gets it, you know?”
“Yeah,” said Scribbler. “I know how it is.”

Piggy shifted on the bed, her elbow aching dully. Her conversation with Kermit, which she had longed for all day, had been miserably stilted and stiff on her end, and he had sounded stiff in return. Piggy felt terrible, thinking that instead of comforting him, she had made him unhappy. There was no loneliness on the planet like this. Even in the days when she had loved him not-quite-hopelessly, before he had asked for her hand in marriage, Piggy had never felt totally alone. There had been her work, and there had been…Fleet. Piggy flushed guiltily, feeling that all of her thoughts ought to be about Kermit and what he must be feeling, but thinking of Fleet reminded her of so much. Piggy stopped, eyes widening. Thinking of Fleet reminded her that she had gotten an odd message today, ostensibly from the man who had rescued her, but the man had said his name was Harve…. It had sounded like some hanger-on, but now she wondered….
Piggy got out of bed, toed into scuffs, and went and got her purse from where she’d put it on the coffee table. She dug around in the depths, finally finding a little scrap of memo paper. In spite of herself, Piggy smiled. Memo paper. It was ridiculously old-fashioned, but she had no intention of giving her private cell phone number to someone who might give it away, so the woman at the office had been told to take paper messages. She read the scrawl with difficulty.

A gentleman called about two hours after you came in and wanted to talk to you. When told you were unavailable, he said his name was Harve and that you would know who he was.

Piggy stopped reading and searched her memory and almost convinced herself that she had heard Fleet give Micah the name “Harve.” Almost. She stared at the number dubiously at the bottom of the note. It had a New York area code, which was odd, but she really had no idea where—and how—Fleet actually lived. She knew he worked for a tabloid out of LA, but he was here in New York now…. With a little shake, Piggy resumed reading.

He said he was the one who “saved” you earlier and insisted I give you the message that his phone number had changed. Here’s his number--

Piggy had to smile at the quotation marks around “saved.” Mr. Lowry had been very insistent that noone talk about the incident because Piggy had been very insistent that no one talk about the incident. Piggy was secretly thrilled to find that her sweetly-voiced threat to throw a Class 7 diva hissy fit had been taken seriously. But what to do about this note…. Seven-and-a-half minutes later, Piggy shrugged and dialed. What could it hurt? She could always block the number, or change her number, so what was the big deal?
She couldn’t have known that Fleet had just pushed the “END” button after his phone call from Harve. She couldn’t know how thin a thread of hope Scribbler was clinging to. She couldn’t know that—even now—a man stood outside her building in the cold looking hungrily at the windows. There was so much she couldn’t know that what she didn’t know hardly mattered.
“Yeah, Harve,” said the voice that answered. “What’d you forget to tell me?”
Piggy gasped. She was trying to call Harve, but the person who answered the phone had assumed the phone call was from someone named Harve. She had a wild moment of panic, wondering who she might have called, but that moment was all Fleet needed. He would know her anywhere.
“Missy? Missy—it’s me, Fleet.”
Piggy let out the breath she’d been holding. “Prove it,” she almost growled. “Tell me something only he would know.”
There was a second’s hesitation, and Piggy thought perhaps she had stumped the imposter for good, but then Fleet began to describe, in excruciating detail, the day that he had followed her and Kermit around the park near the Muppet Theater with his camera because Piggy had told him that on that day—she was sure—Kermit was going to propose. Fleet had not been worried—not in the least. He had, in fact, been elated to find his competition for Piggy’s attention proved so completely indifferent to her, and he had not been sorry later to be the one to sympathize and let her cry on his shoulder. Piggy stopped him before he got to the crying-on-the-shoulder part, feeling vulnerable and needy.
“Fleet….” Piggy said, and there was exasperation and hurt and confusion and—oh, so many things!—in the sound of his name on her lips. But she had called him, and Fleet knew from the sound of her voice that she had not forgotten, either.
Ten minutes ago, before Harve’s call, Scribbler had toyed with the idea of making a hole in the San Fran Bay, grumpily concluding that he’d probably just land on a garbage barge. Five minutes ago he had considered ditching it all—ditching everything—and running so far no one had ever heard of him, or his boss, or Piggy, or a certain unnamed frog, (which was very far indeed). One minute ago, he had wondered how many more times he could scrape himself off of the bottom of his boss’s expensive Italian shoe before he finally lost his soul altogether and faded to nothing. Like a drowning man, Scribbler clutched the lifeline she threw him just by being on the other end of the phone line.
“Missy…are you okay? Today was…” Words failed him, and he was having difficulty splicing together his earlier fear for her safety when he’d dashed to her rescue with the way she had leaned into his embrace and the whole montage topped off with his recent harrowing experience with the devil incarnate.
“Thank you,” Piggy said, not willing to put a word to the day either. “Thank you for…for being there, for coming to Moi’s rescue.”
Fleet smiled, his heart twisting to the sound of her voice. “You aren’t really glad I was there. I’ve been the bane of your existence for the past several months.”
“No,” said Piggy calmly. “That would be Pepe.” And in spite of everything, or because of it, they both began to laugh. “But you’ve been writing such terrible lies about him—about Ker—“
“Please let’s not argue about the frog,” Scribbler pleaded, and there was a sudden silence on the other end of the phone. Fleet held his breath.
“Let’s not argue about the frog,” Piggy said. There was distance in her voice now, and he could feel her pulling away from him.
“I won’t,” Scribbler said hastily. “No more comments about the—about Kermit.” It just about killed him to say the name, but he did it, did it to keep that glorious, tenuous hold on her. “Look, I’m back in LA—“
“Now?” Piggy said. “But you were just—“
“I’m covering the Oscars,” he blurted, wanting her to know it wasn’t his choice.
“You’re covering the Academy Awards?” Piggy said, and Scribbler had to smile. AMPAS, the American Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, really got torqued when people called it “The Oscars” instead of “The Academy Awards,” but everybody in the business did it—including Piggy. Correcting him was just Piggy’s way of reminding him that she was going to play prim and proper and by the rules. As far as that went, Scribbler was glad to hear it, but he hadn’t made any promises he planned to regret—yet.
“I am,” he said firmly, “but if all goes well I’ll be back in New York before…before too long.” He did not know what tortures awaited him, what hoops he would be expected to jump through before he would be given a ticket back to the Big Apple, but he planned to cross that bridge when he got to it. “Look—do you know who that wacko was? And are you being careful?”
Piggy shifted uneasily, not wanting to talk about it. “Moi does not know,´she admitted, “but Moi is capable of taking care of herself.” She paused, then added, growlingly, grudgingly, “Moi was glad of your help today. But just because you took a couple of punches for me, that doesn’t mean that--”
“I know,” Fleet said. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Not after that last article, Moi doesn’t,” Piggy insisted. She hesitated, and Fleet knew she was biting her lip and twisting her ring around and around and around.
Just like she was currently twisting him….

 

[Twisted Tails]

Ah ha! Now we know why Scribbler did those nasty articles for Kermit and Miss Piggy, because his evil smirkly boss set him up. Well, my next advice is stay away from silly creatures that grab you and want you to be their prisoner (shudders)! So, I hope Scribbler tries to stand up for his awful boss really soon.

 

[The Count]

Okay, after an additional go-through, I do have some comments.

Uh-oh, Fleet, you've just been called into the big bad principal's office. Behold the great and powerful Oz! And I don't mean Frank.

It seems to me that Scribbler's boss has gotten progressively nastier as the story's unfolded from his first appearance in Ch 14 all the way to here in Ch 124. What happened to the comment in Vegas, that if Fleet did a good job, perhaps he'd get to bring home the bacon like he wanted? The only difference now is that instead of bacon, Scribbler may be left with just chicharrones.

Jonesy Pelican. Heh, the only Jonesy I know is the slacker kid/group leader from the series 6-Teen who worked at every single conceivable job at the Galleria Mall in their fictional Canadian town—and got fired from every job within the same day/episode.

Wait... Seymour's recovered and is still hungrily watching her building? Thought he learned something after Mae-wah gave him the business—and I don't mean her bag of egg rolls—and was going to crawl back to his own hole in the hotel he's staying at. Maybe he needs a bit of the fear of the divine put into him.

Glad that Howard and Thorough will join up with Piggy soon, she could use an extra pair of bodies watching out for her, shielding her from the Strathers.

Now if you'll hexcuse me, I'm taking a powder.
Did someone say 'powder'?
Noo!