Love Reign O'er News

[newsmanfan]

Part 6

Monday was the weekly “dark day,” the only day with no shows running at the Muppet Theatre. Tuesday night, Scooter bustled around turning on lights and unlocking doors as usual. When he switched on the lights in the green room, a mutter came from the couch below the landing. Scooter leaned over the railing and saw the Newsman groggily sitting up. “What are you doing here? Did you stay here yesterday?”

“I went home Sunday, but the rats were throwing a tailgate party. Couldn’t sleep,” the Newsman mumbled, bleary-eyed, his tie undone and jacket rumpled.

“Oh,” Scooter said. “College hoops, huh?”

The Newsman put his glasses on and gave the boy a puzzled look. “You follow sports?”

“Oh, sure! I love the Golden Gophers!” Scooter came downstairs and made a quick pass through the kitchen, turning on the lights and ventilation fans – a necessary requirement anytime the Chef might be cooking.

Wearily, the Newsman rose from the couch and went to fetch the change of clothes he’d brought, hoping to beat everyone else to the shower. Going into it and shutting the door, he laid his things aside, stripped, and stepped into the old tiled stall. He’d barely slept. Beauregard had been kind enough to let him back in before locking the theatre Sunday evening, and he’d spent the better part of that night sitting in the green room in the dark, replaying the events of the past few weeks over and over in his mind. Monday he’d decided not to even bother leaving the building, and wandered the back areas of the theatre, wondering where Gina was, what she was doing, what she might think of him. He’d lain on the couch all last night, shifting position a thousand times, unable to find any comfort, any relief from his thoughts. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done a show barely awake. He turned the knob for the water. Nothing happened.

He tried again, turning the knob back and forth. He tapped the showerhead. No water. Cursing it under his breath, he gave it a solid whack with the flat of his palm. “Ow!” something groaned. Startled, the Newsman looked up to see a giant, elephantine thing with green fur glaring at him over the top of the stall. Its nose was sticking through the hole where the showerhead was supposed to be.

He screamed; it howled; he grabbed his towel and clothes and glasses and fled.

Before curtain, Kermit noticed the Newsman’s less-than-professional appearance, and told him, “Hey, try to find time to shave before you get here, please?” He was gone before the Newsman could react.

Rats at home, things in the shower here…the Newsman was growing tired of having no space of his own. Even his so-called dressing-room was chock-full of mops and cleaning bottles and piles of rags. Standing just offstage as the low murmur of the audience filtered through, he noticed that bizarre scientist and his skinny googly-eyed assistant looking out through the curtains at the side of the proscenium. “No, I don’t see her. Rats! I thought for sure there wouldn’t be one tonight.”

“Mee mee mee meep, mee mee,” Beaker said, sounding smug.

“Yes, all right,” Honeydew sighed, as the pair made their way back into the wing. “What did we agree to? A day without an experiment?”

“Meep mee! Mee mee mee,” Beaker argued.

Honeydew stopped, crossing his arms. “Oh, we agreed no such thing! It was one day! You should be ashamed of yourself, Beakie.” As they passed the Newsman, Honeydew exchanged a look with Beaker, and they both startled snickering. “Oh, good evening, Newsman.”

“Meep mee,” Beaker added, waving lightly. The pair sauntered off, still giggling. The Newsman had the disturbing impression they were laughing at him. Humiliated, he would have blushed if he could. Had everyone heard how Gina had run away? How she didn’t seem to be able to look at him? Grimly, he walked over to the pile of crates under the dressing-room balcony and sat down on one. Obviously, judging by her Muppet comment a few days ago, she didn’t really want to be associated with him. He was too short, too nearsighted, too odd-looking, too…well…too Muppet for her. She was only delivering nice things for him because she felt sorry for him. Well, he didn’t need that!

He paid no attention to the chaos all around as acts went on or left the stage. Suddenly Kermit was yelling at him. “Newsman! Yeah, you! You’re on!”

He hadn’t even heard the wire go off. Steeling himself for more of the usual, he grabbed the news copy from the frog and ran to his desk onstage. Whatever it was tonight, he would bear it. He wouldn’t accept any more reluctant favors from the young woman who clearly regarded him only with the pity one gives a beaten dog. “This is a Muppet News Flash…Police tonight are searching for a William Tell impersonator. This man is said to be roaming the city, setting pears atop people’s heads, then shooting them off with arrows! While authorities say the man, who escaped from the Merry Men Rest Home for Chronic Admirers of Legendary Heroes, is not considered particularly dangerous, it is feared he may accidentially hurt someone.”

A large arrow abruptly thunked into the Newsman’s forehead. As he fainted, he dimly heard someone else onstage saying, “Oh dear! Sorry…my mistake…” And then sounds of struggle as policemen wrestled the archer away.




“There…that should do it. Um…thanks for letting me back here.”

“Oh, no problem. We haven’t had a regular costumer since Hilda retired; it’s nice to have someone around who knows how to use a needle and thread,” Kermit said.

“Okay. Bye.”
Carefully the Newsman reached up, touching his head. The hole the arrow had left had been finely stitched closed again. Blinking, he slowly sat up, finding himself backstage. Kermit nodded at him. “Feeling better?”

The Newsman put his glasses back on, looking around. Satisfied that his newscaster was among the living, Kermit patted his shoulder and went back to his desk, calling for the closing number dancers to get onstage. There was no sign of his benefactor. The Newsman made his way over to Kermit, feeling dizzy. “Where is she?”

“You just missed her. She knocked on the back door right as you went onstage. She waited right here with a sewing kit, and patched you up when they brought you offstage, and then left,” Kermit said. “Hey! You big things! Quit bumping the scenery!”

“She left?”

“Listen, Newsie, I don’t have time right now, okay? I’m glad you’re all right.” One of the larger monsters bumped another, who in turn knocked against a fake tree that went crashing down. “Hey! Hey, watch where you’re stomping!” the frog cried, ignoring the Newsman. The tree hit another piece of prop foliage, which in turn took out a chunk of foam wall, which another monster dodged clumsily, stumbling into the pretty singer who was their guest tonight, who clutched at Sweetums’ fur, who chortled and whirled her aside, plowing her into the foam wall on the opposite side of the set, which came down…and so on…

Turning away, the Newsman slowly went out back. Link and Strangepork were standing on the loading dock, debating plain dried corn versus dried corn with molasses. “I am telling you, the molasses is with too many calories, you know?” Strangepork argued.

“Oh, but it tastes so good,” Link said, looking as though he was about to start drooling. They spotted the Newsman as he trudged past. Link chuckled. “Hey, Doctor. I didn’t get a good look at the shooter. Was that William Tell or Cupid?”

The pigs snorted laughter. The Newsman glowered at them, but didn’t bother to respond. He walked down the steps to the alley and along it, trying to stay straight upright while he was within eyesight of them, but once he turned the corner he leaned on a wall, breathing hard, feeling sick. He doubted either of those porkers could handle even half the things that had happened to him. He could still hear their mocking chortles, though he couldn’t make out any words. When he reached his own door at last he had to pause again, leaning on it, before he could open it.

“Oh…you’re back,” a rat said glumly. Ignoring it, he trudged through the living/dining room, kicking aside crumpled soda cans and a stack of empty pizza boxes. The rat paced him. “Hey, could you refill your change jar soon? We ran out of pizza before the late game last night!”

The Newsman bent suddenly, yanking the rat into the air by the collar of its varsity jacket. He snarled at it, “Touch my change jar again and I’ll be stuffing all of you into it!”

“Hey! Hey! Whoa! Easy, buddy!”

“And clean this mess up! Now!” the Newsman roared at it, blowing the rat sideways. He tossed it down somewhere and stomped into his bedroom. Behind him, he heard the rest of them complaining.

“Sheesh, Rizzo, what’s wrong with him?”

“Ah, you know, probably got up on the wrong side of the broadcast booth or somethin’. Come on, better do what he says. Grumpy people are no fun at all…”

At least the water worked, even if he couldn’t get enough hot water for a decent shave. He cleaned up and dropped into bed exhausted, hearing the vacuum cleaner running in the next room, with thunks and growls as it sucked up who-knows-what on the dirt-colored carpet remnant. His last thought before going under was, Where the heck did they get a vacuum cleaner?

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 7

Wednesday night came and went with the usual friendly anarchy in the theatre, but no News Flash. On Thursday night, the newswire went off, and no sooner had the Newsman dashed onstage with the bulletin when Scooter heard a knock at the backstage door. Opening it, he found the odd young woman with auburn hair standing there meekly, in a simple gray sweater over slim jeans instead of the trenchcoat. “May I come in?” she asked.

“I think so, but lemme check,” Scooter replied, and hurried over to Kermit. “Hey, boss? That fan of Newsie’s is here. Should I let her in?”

“Oh boy,” the frog sighed. “Sure, let her in.” When the young lady joined him a moment later, worriedly peeking around the masking drapes onto the stage, he told her, “Gee, it’d sure be nice to see you around without knowing something bad is going to happen to our newscaster!”

Gina blushed. “I’m sorry. I don’t make it happen.”

“No, I know that. Listen, I’ve been meaning to ask you: what did you mean last week when you said we were all Muppets? Do you have something against Muppets?” Kermit asked, watching her closely.

“I…no! No, not at all!”

“Well then why –“

Just then a howl and a scream came from onstage. The Newsman barreled past, not seeing either of them, and all but dove downstairs. Hot on his heels bounded an enormous wolf. Gina took a large T-bone steak from a bag, and let out one of the loudest taxicab whistles Kermit had ever heard. The wolf braked, looking back. It saw the steak, and sniffed the air excitedly. “Yeah? You like that? Yeah? Go get it!” Gina shouted, throwing the meat towards the rear exit. The wolf raced after it, banging open the back door as it went; thinking fast, Scooter yanked the door shut and locked the deadbolt.

As the young woman pulled a hankie out of a pocket and wiped her hands dry, Kermit nodded. “Good one. Very nice. Did you know it would be a wolf this time?”

Gina shrugged. “I figured that or a lion, but I wasn’t sure.”

“So you were saying about Muppets?”

“Oh, I love you guys! You have the best show in town!” Gina assured him; feeling a bit smug, Kermit allowed himself a moment to enjoy that. “No, I don’t have anything against you. Or Newsie. Any of you.”

“Then why did you run off?” Gina shook her head, looking down, and Kermit waved in the direction the Newsman had fled. “I’ve heard from several people now that he’s been acting very upset lately. He’d had stuff drop on him or knock him down or just make fun of him for years, and he’s never been irritable before. This is all since you showed up.”

“Oh no,” Gina said, casting a desperate glance in the direction of the lower stairs. “Oh, no. I should never have said anything. I should never have left that note for him!”

“Note? What note?”

“I have to go,” she said, backing away. “I’m really sorry. Thanks again. Bye.”

Before anyone could say a word more, she ran to the exit, unlocked it, and went out. Apparently the wolf had vanished as oddly as it had appeared, as Kermit didn’t hear any commotion from outside. Shaking his head, he went back to his desk, making sure Rowlf was onstage with his piano in the right spot for his lighting.

In the broom closet, the Newsman huddled behind the mop bucket and listened, certain at any second the wolf would be ripping the door off its hinges. He stayed there, not daring to check even though he heard the usual bustle and conversation in the green room. For all he knew, the creature was having a cup of java while it waited him out. Eventually, Beau came in and promised him he saw three pigs, but no wolf.

Coming upstairs cautiously, he encountered Scooter. “Oh, your friend was here,” the boy told him brightly. “She pulled a neat trick with that wolf.”

“She was here? Where is she now?”

Scooter shrugged. “Don’t know. She left pretty fast. Hey, at least it didn’t eat you, right?”

The Newsman nodded as Scooter brushed past on whatever errand he pursued. She’d left again? Why was she doing that, when she no longer had to sneak around? She must really dislike Muppets, he thought, depressed. He went to find Kermit. The frog was ushering Fozzie onstage for his routine, but as soon as he turned back to his desk, the Newsman approached. “Kermit? I need to talk to you.”

“Uh, sure, Newsman, what is it? Hey, you missed your secret admirer…although I guess she’s not a secret anymore.”

“Kermit, I think she…I think she’s anti-Muppet.” It pained him to make such an accusation; he’d always hated prejudice of any kind, avidly following the Civil Rights movement years ago. As a person of differently-colored skin, he’d wanted to join the march on Selma, but at the time he was still living at home, and his mother wouldn’t allow it.

Kermit shook his head. “No, I asked her about that. She said she loves Muppets. She said we’re the best show in town.” The frog preened.

Discomfited, the Newsman asked, “She said that? She doesn’t have negative feelings towards us?”

“No, no; she said she doesn’t, and I think she was telling the truth.”

“Then why…then…” The obvious answer struck him. “So…it’s just me she can’t stand.” He felt as though something else had fallen on him.

“Why do you think she can’t stand you? She shows up whenever you get hurt because she’s worried about you,” Kermit pointed out, frowning. Fozzie was getting some loud boos; distractedly Kermit looked out to see if he should end the act early before the bear was pelted with canned tomatoes again.

“She runs. Now that I know who she is, she runs!” the Newsman said, growing more depressed by the moment.

Kermit sighed. “Look, Newsman…look, give me a minute, okay?” He signalled for the band to play Fozzie’s trademark flourish and for the curtains to close, and hurried in front of them to announce the closing number. The Newsman waited, his mind filled with dark thoughts, frowning at Fozzie when the bear clapped him on the shoulder.

“Aaaah, I knock ‘em dead every time! Every time!...Don’t I?” The bear gave him a beseeching look, but the Newsman was in no mood to be supportive, and shrugged his paw off. Dispirited, Fozzie trudged away. As pigs in tutus hurried onstage and the band struck up a delicate Renaissance tune, Kermit returned, shaking his head in resignation, sure the entire number would shortly become something far from ballet. He seemed to have forgtotten about the Newsman.

The unhappy journalist was about to simply leave when a thought occurred to him, and he tapped Kermit’s shoulder to get his attention. “Kermit, if she comes back…tell her I don’t need anything.”

“What?” Confused, Kermit frowned at him.

Speaking low and clearly, the Newsman repeated, “Tell her I don’t need anything. I don’t want any of her pity. Tell her she’s not obligated to try to help me. I don’t want it.”

“Uh, okay, if you say so,” the frog agreed.

Grimly satisfied, the Newsman went downstairs to gather up his coat. The evening had turned chilly. Bundling up in the russet overcoat the same shade as his hair, he didn’t bother saying good night to anyone, and was the first out the back door.

Unfortunately, the wolf was waiting for him.



The Newsman had been staring at the same cold cup of coffee for almost an hour, sitting in the green room away from everyone else, his left shoulder and right leg dully aching from last night’s fight with the wolf. It hadn’t eaten him, but it had beaten him around pretty strongly, and he knew it was lucky he lived close by or he’d never have managed to outrun and escape it. At least it hadn’t returned tonight. He’d eaten something microwavable and shown up at the theatre early with a bitter cup of coffee from the corner convenience store, sat down, and stayed there. He tried very hard to keep his mind empty, simply listening passively to the chatter around him as other performers came and went. Nothing broke through his silent mood until he heard Scooter shouting his name.

He rose and went upstairs, trying to at least pretend some enthusiasm for his job. Reminding himself that as a journalist he had an obligation to report the news, he took the News Flash bulletin from Scooter and forced himself to run onstage with it as if it were something truly important instead of the usual absurdity. “And now a Muppet News Flash… The ShadyCo Telephone Company today recalled two thousand of its model 2200-M telephones. Industry reports claim the telephones have been seen suddenly becoming animate and devouring everything in their immediate vicinity.” He scowled at his notes; honestly, who could believe this kind of trash? “Luckily, says the company, most of the affected phones were still in the factory; only one unit was listed as already having been sold, so the threat to the public is extremely minimal.” Suddenly he realized something was eating his notes; looking up, he discovered the red telephone on his desk hungrily chewing up the paper. Startled, he let go of the paper, and the phone tossed it aside, snarling at him with enormous spiky teeth. It lunged at him; he shoved the mic in front of it, and with a growl it quickly chewed that and threw aside the remains. “Uh…anyone? Is this thing still under warranty? Aaaagh!” The Newsman fled when the phone leaped at him, its cord trailing after like a stringy tail.

It caught him backstage, gnawing on his right shoe. Screaming, he kicked it off, but it pounced again, dragging him to the floor. Everyone scattered, leaving him to fight it off alone. He spotted a broken stage flat nearby, grabbed it and began beating the phone over the receiver with a board that ripped off the flat. Snarling loudly, the phone kept coming, dodging another hit and clamping its teeth around his right arm. The Newsman screamed in fear and pain, trying to pry loose its mouth.

“I’ll help you, Newsie!” Beauregard yelled, rushing over. He aimed a fire extinguisher at the phone, and with a sudden foosh there was white dust shooting all over the phone and the Newsman both. The Newsman coughed, trying to shake the phone loose; it groaned and slowly dropped off his arm. Covered in smoky, swirling dust, shaking and unable to see with the stuff making his eyes tear up, the Newsman crawled to the newel post of the dressing-room stairs and hauled himself to his feet. He looked back at the phone, which shuddered, rolled over, and dropped its receiver to the floor. When it didn’t move again, the Newsman looked at Beau.

“A…a fire extinguisher?”

“Well, I figured it was a hot line,” Beau explained.

That made as much sense as anything else around here. Shaken, his hair mussed and dusted and clothes ripped, the Newsman slowly went down to his dressing-room. No one looked twice at him. He closed the door for some privacy, sank to the floor, and leaned against a shelf of scrub brushes, panting. He didn’t know whether Gina hadn’t come, or whether Kermit had told her to go. No one had said anything about it, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know which was the case. It didn’t matter, did it? He didn’t need her pity. He sat there, nerves jangled, his arm hurting badly where the thing had tried to chew him up. He lowered his head to the shelf, breathing in the faint smell of wood oil soap, his eyes stinging.

He didn’t need anyone’s pity.

 

[newsmanfan]

reviews? anyone? sigh...

Well, I hope you like this chapter, anyway. Think of it as my homage to mallarditis and chickenitis....

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 8

“Scooter, what’s with the turkey?”

The gofer paused by the bird, a plump thing sitting on one of the crates near the short flight of stairs to the rear exit. “Oh, uh, I think the Swedish Chef’s using it,” he replied.

Kermit shook his head. “He doesn’t have very good luck with turkeys.”

Scooter shrugged. “Yeah, well, try telling him that! Anyway, it’s just been sitting there. Not as active as some of his other ingredients.”

“I see that,” Kermit nodded. The turkey in question looked dully at him, then suddenly sneezed. “Eeesh,” Kermit muttered, jerking away from it. “I think this bird is sick!”

“Maybe it’s just allergic?”

“Allergic to what? What would a turkey be allergic to?” Kermit shook his head, resuming his study of the night’s schedule.

“A-choo!”

“Geshundteit,” Kermit said absently. “Hey Scooter, go see if Piggy’s ready. Curtain in two minutes.”

“Gobble, gobble,” came a high voice behind him.

“Enough out of you,” Kermit said, looking back at the indifferent bird. “I have a show to run here!” He looked around; Scooter had disappeared, and Kermit hadn’t heard his acknowledgement to go get Piggy. Kermit shrugged. Oh, well. His gofer had rarely let him down – typically, only when his overbearing rich uncle was around, and that certainly wasn’t the case anymore. Suddenly a glass-shaking shriek sounded from above. Recoiling, Kermit looked up to see Piggy race out of her dressing-room, slamming the door shut behind her. “Piggy? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Kermie! There’s a crazed turkey in my dressing-room! It – aiiigh!” She jumped aside as a turkey wearing a green jacket popped out of the room, its head darting around until it saw Piggy. It hopped toward her, and she fled downstairs. “Aaaiiiiigh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Kermie!”

“Gobble-obble?” the jacketed turkey asked, following with a puzzled look. Piggy and Kermit stared at it. The original turkey looked at it, made a low glub sound, and hopped down from the crate to greet the newcomer. The green-jacketed bird looked at it, then at Kermit. “Obble-urk?”

“What the hey?” Kermit wondered. The first turkey gobbled at the second, then trotted away. Miss Piggy squealed as the other one approached them, and Kermit saw the round spectacles perched wobbly on its head. “Oh no. Oh, don’t tell me,” he muttered.

“What the heck is that thing?” Piggy demanded. One of the stagehand pigs wandered by, saw the turkey in a jacket, and stopped to look at it. The turkey looked back, shivered once, and sneezed.

“Gobble-choo!”

“Gobble-oink?” the pig wondered, suddenly sprouting feathers and wattles atop his snout. The two turkeys stared at one another, making quiet, confused noises.

With a sinking heart, Kermit answered, “I think that thing is Scooter…and I think it’s contagious!”

“Aaaaiiigh!” Piggy shrieked again, and dodged around the birds, running upstairs. “Well keep ‘em the heck away from me!” Her dressing-room door slammed behind her.

“This is terrible!” Kermit cried. “All right, you – both of you – just go over there and stay there where you won’t sneeze on anybody! Go on! Stay there!” The Scooter-turkey and the pig-turkey obediently shuffled into the corner next to the crates. Wildly Kermit looked around. “Where’d that other one go? Oh, no; we’re starting!” He wavered between yelling for someone else and going onstage; the theme music was already playing, the house lights dimming. “Argh!” Frustrated, he hurried onstage to do the opening.



Between numbers, Kermit searched backstage for the sick turkey but turned up nothing; Beauregard and Sam helped look in other areas but came up empty-handed as well. Alarmed, Sam asked Kermit, “How bad is this? Should we quarantine the theatre?”

“I hope we won’t have to do that,” Kermit sighed. “Just keep looking!” He barely looked up as a couple of Whatnots trotted past to begin a song about hope being a thing with feathers. Kermit checked on Scooter and the pig. “You guys feeling all right?”

“Gobble-obble?”

“Gobble-snork-snork-snork.”

Kermit jumped back as Scooter sneezed again. “Yeesh. Let’s hope whatever it is, it’s over soon before we all turn into poultry.” Shaking his head, he looked out at the stage, and nearly had a panic attack. “Oh no! Someone get that bird off the stage!”

The gentlemanly Muppet was singing, “…And sore must be the storm, that could abash the little bird, that kept so many warm,” when he turned upstage to gesture dramatically and saw the large goggle-eyed turkey staring at him, inches away. Startled, he didn’t even have time to react before it gobbled and sneezed on him.

Temporarily oblivious, his singing partner continued, “I’ve heard it in the chillest land, and on the strangest…sea,” she trailed off as she saw first her partner suddenly flapping huge gray wings, then the original turkey poking its head curiously at her. “Ah…ah…ahem. Yet never, in extremity –“

“A-gobble-chooooo!”

“Gobble-obble-ee?”

The audience applauded; Kermit wondered if it was because they liked turkeys, or because the song had abruptly ended. He grabbed Beau by the arm. “Get those turkeys off stage!”

“Kermit, I’ll admit I don’t really understand modern poetry, but do you really have to call them that? I didn’t think it was that bad,” Beau responded. Kermit shoved him.

“Just get them off of there! And don’t let ‘em sneeze on you!” he yelled.

The viral turkey flapped and fled, quickly ducking behind the scenery. Beau chased it, then the other two, confused by the wild circles the birds ran around the stage. Kermit shuddered, watching from the wing. Up in their box, the two old hecklers chortled with glee.

“Well, now we can say they’ve really had some turkeys here!”

“I thought that was every act!”

“Ho ho ho ho!”

Beau managed to round up the Whatnot turkeys and stow them next to the others, but the canny originator of the disaster remained at large. “I don’t believe this,” Kermit fumed. “We need to find that turkey! Everyone, find that mad bird! This is getting ridiculous!” Sam tapped Kermit on the shoulder; when Kermit turned, he shuddered at what he beheld. “Oh Sam, not you too!”

The eagle sported a large blue wattle and a spread tail of enormous proportions. “Kermit, I just…gobble…want to gobble…that this is the most gobble and un-gobble show I have ever gobble, obble, awk!”

“Over there, with the rest of ‘em!” Kermit ordered. Sulkily the turkey-eagle joined the growing crowd backstage. Fozzie came up, eyes wide at the gaggle of turkeys.

“Oh my gosh, Kermit, this is getting outta control!”

“Yeah, no kidding! Fozzie, what are we going to do? We need to catch that bird and stop this thing spreading any further!” Kermit felt ready to pull his hair out, had he been cursed with such an ugly feature.

“I believe I may have a solution,” Bunsen offered, coming over with Beaker in tow. Beaker carried some kind of giant net with wires and lights flashing all over it. “This, Kermit, is the Muppet Labs Automated Viral Poultry Apprehending Device. With this, we should be able to catch your renegade bird without putting anyone else in jeopardy.”

“Wonderful! Do it!” Kermit agreed.

“Come, Beaker. We shall lure the recalcitrant fowl by scattering yummy birdseed,” Bunsen instructed, tossing out handfuls of the stuff as he walked onstage. Beaker followed, holding the net contraption in front of him, looking around nervously. To the audience, Bunsen said, “Hello! Welcome to Muppet Labs, where the future is being made today! It seems we have a dangerous fowl on the loose. By luring him out with my patented Chocolate-Flavored Birdseed, we shall distract him sufficiently for this amazing Automated Viral Poultry Apprehending Device to do its work. Now come, Beaker, turn the device on and let’s get out of the way.”

“Mee meep,” Beaker said, twisting dials on the net until it beeped and blinked steadily. He hurried over to hide with Bunsen behind a lab table full of chemistry apparatus. Neither of them noticed the small pinkish head that popped up around a low bank of computers, just behind them.

“Just wait, Beaker. No barnyard bird can resist my delicious Chocolate-Flavored Birdseed! All my tests show it to be the preferred flavor.” The turkey darted its skinny head all around the computer bank, coming closer to where the scientists hid. Bunsen’s attention was focused on the middle of the stage, where the trap waited. “Oh, I can’t wait to see this! Did you know, Beakie, that the domestic turkey is the most unintelligent of all birds?” Beaker felt a poke on his arm; turning his head slowly, he saw the turkey staring at him, and jumped.

“Meep!”

“Beaker, shhh! You’ll scare it away!” Bunsen said, still watching the trap.

“Gobble-choo!”

Startled, Bunsen looked around to find his lab assistant much the same, but with floppy red wattles hanging over both sides of a beak where his nose had been. Bunsen recoiled, his hand going over his mouth in surprise. Beaker looked at the turkey. The turkey looked at turkey-Beaker. Both of them looked at Bunsen.

“Gobble-obble!”

“Meeep-gobble!”

“Oh! Oh!” Bunsen ran for it, the two turkeys flapping right after him. Suddenly the Apprehending Device snapped shut on top of Bunsen. “I’m not a turkey! Stop! No!”

The two turkeys chorused: “Ah-ah-ah-gobbleobbleobble!”

“Geshundteit,” Bunsen said. “Gobble.”

Kermit groaned. “Clear the stage! Clear the stage! Get that bird!”

“Which one?” Beau asked, confused.

“All of ‘em!”

The Newsman hurried over, a paper in his hand. “Oh, no…news set!” Kermit shouted, and behind the closed curtain a couple of pigs scurried to fly down the news backdrop and push the desk out. The Newsman gave Kermit a nod and ran on, paying no attention to the crowd of turkeys as Beau corralled the newest two off the stage. Weird things were always going on; it wasn’t his concern. Focused on his presentation, he arrived at his desk, checking the news copy.

“This is a Muppet News Flash! Alarming reports of an outbreak of turkey flu are spreading around the city! Everyone within the broadcast area is warned to avoid suspicious-looking poultry.” At last, a serious story! Briefly he wondered if it was as dangerous as H1N1. Looking sternly up from his notes, he continued, “Symptoms resemble those of the more common influenza virus, and may include sneezing, congestion, and fever.” A movement to his left distracted him; he glanced over to see a large turkey staring up at him. “Ah…ahem…Turkey flu is highly contagious, and any contact with infected individuals could lead to –“

It sneezed on him.

Disgusted, he jerked away, and dropped his notes. Flustered, he tried to pick them back up, and discovered his hands were feathered. “Gobble-awk?” he said, immediately horrified at his own voice.

“Turkey flu?” Kermit groaned.

“Wow! Hey Kermit, who’re the birds?” Gonzo asked, sidling up to him.

“Gonzo! They’re not birds! -- Get that turkey back here!”

Harried, Beau chased the Newsturkey off the stage. Gonzo stared at the yellow turkey with brown plaid feathers and glasses perched on its beak. “Uh, Kermit? Did the Newsman get a nose job?”

“It’s turkey flu!” Kermit yelled. “It’s an epidemic! Gonzo, help me catch that turkey!”

“Which one?” Gonzo wondered, staring at the considerable group of fowl squeezed into the backstage area away from Kermit’s desk.

“That one!” Kermit shouted as the viral turkey ran past, gobbling wildly.

“I’m on it!” Gonzo promised, shooting off after the bird.

Sweetums plodded through on his way to the stage, saw the turkeys, and stopped. His eyes grew huge. “Oh, wow! Lunch!” Squawking and gobbling, the turkey flu sufferers scattered as he swiped huge claws at them.

“Sweetums, no! Oh good grief! This couldn’t possibly get any worse!” Kermit cried. It took him several minutes to persuade the monster to not eat his coworkers, and then the abashed troll began rounding up all the birds he had frightened away. Meanwhile, Fozzie hastened through, jumping away from every turkey he encountered, so frazzled by the chaos that he forgot his opening joke.

“Wokka-wokka-wokka! Hiya folks! Well, its…it’s some night, huh? It sure is…aaaaah…”

“Gobble!” came a ragged voice from the box seats.

“Yeah…gobble-obble!”

Fozzie’s spirit sank as he looked up. “Oh no. Not you guys too!”

Kermit noticed someone coming up the rear stairs. “Oh, Gina, you can’t be here! Didn’t I tell you last night the Newsman said he didn’t want your help anymore? Besides, we have kind of a…kind of an epidemic going on here,” he sighed.

“Oh, that explains it,” the young woman said. Kermit saw she had a filter-mask over her nose and mouth. She touched it, nodding at Kermit. “I wondered what this was for, but something told me I should wear one.”

“Well, good. Got any more?”

“No, but I brought this,” she replied, opening a huge bag of unpopped popcorn and dumping it out on the floor. Taken aback, Kermit tried to come up with a question or a protest, but the milling, excited turkeys shoved between him and their visitor. “This too,” she added, sprinkling something from two different pill bottles over the corn. The turkeys began pecking up the kernels.

“What is that?” Kermit asked. Fozzie trudged off the stage, dejected, stopping as he saw all the birds gobbling up the feed.

“Hern de hoo der gobble-obbly urn,” the Swedish Chef remarked as he passed. He waved a cleaver triumphantly at Kermit. “Chop-chop der hugenbird!” He dragged a large turkey with him, heading onstage.

“Oh good, good,” Kermit replied absently, relieved.

“It’s vitamin C and echinacea,” Gina told him. “I’m guessing it’ll speed up the recovery. Did you say turkey flu?”

“Yep, that’s right,” Kermit said, watching the birds snark up all the corn. Gina poured more out, again sprinking it with the vitamin and herb. He heard the Chef’s music begin, and wondered if he ought to warn the unobservant cook about the viral bird he’d just taken to its presumed execution. Then again, given the Chef’s record with live animals, he was pretty sure he could predict the outcome.

“Well, I hope it helps. I felt like I ought to bring you a lot of it.” Gina looked over the turkeys curiously. “I know what you said last night, but this feeling of danger was just so…so strong…um, where’s Newsie?”

“Uh, well, he was right here with the rest of ‘em,” Kermit said, checking the features of each bird. Gonzo appeared, laughing triumphantly.

“Ha ha ha! Got it!” He held up the scrawny neck of the original turkey.

“Gonzo, be careful! Turkey flu is highly contagious!” Kermit said, backing away a step.

“Oh, I know. I had it as a kid,” Gonzo said.

“That must’ve been awful,” Fozzie said, gulping as he looked at the frenzied, pecking turkeys.

“Oh, no! Best three weeks I ever had!”

“That explains a lot,” Kermit muttered. “Uh…Gonzo…that looks like the foul fowl that started it all.”

“It is! Isn’t that the one you told me to go after?”

“But if that’s the original bird, then who – eesh!”

“Newsie!” Gina cried, running onstage. After a few seconds of terrified gobbling and loud protests by the Chef, the Newsturkey came running into the backstage area, closely followed by the Chef waving his cleaver, and then Gina. She dodged the swinging knife and placed herself between the angered Chef and the terrified turkey. “No, stop it! Stop it, Chef! That’s not a turkey!” she yelled, but the Chef was determined, taking several swipes at the brown-and-yellow bird and shouting unintelligibly. Suddenly Gina planted her feet in front of him and yelled at the top of her lungs, “Foo Hoos de Flugendegus de Booden und eet Efolbegus de Boogan Fol de Boo!”

Shocked, the Chef stopped, lowering his cleaver, staring at Gina instead of the Newsturkey. “Where’d she learn to speak Mock-Swedish?” Gonzo murmured, impressed.

“Where’d she learn the Chef’s real name?” Kermit wondered.

“Der turken nooooo is guben der chop-chop!” Gina scolded the Chef. “Eet no is turken! Is Newsie!”

Puzzling it out, the Chef pointed to the Newsturkey, who was slowly peeking around Gina’s legs. “Turken…ist der hoobden der tumpen-tumpen?” he asked, miming things falling from above with his hands.

“Ya! Is Newsie!” Gina nodded. The Chef looked at the Newsturkey, beginning to laugh. “Boodengus de noooo chop-chop!” Gina added, and the Chef nodded, chortling.

“Turken-newsie!” he said, beckoning to the afflicted Newsman. Warily the turkey edged out from behind Gina, and the Chef tickled his wattles. “Ooh hoo! Ooh hoo hoo hoo! Newsengobble! Hoo hoo hoo!”

“Hey Chef, you might not want to do that,” Kermit tried to warn him. “He’s extremely –“

“Gobble-chooo!”

“Contagious,” Kermit finished, sighing. Stunned, the Chefturkey stood there trying to peer from under his poufy hat. The Newsturkey started laughing; it sounded more like strained gobbling.

“Um, if it’s okay with you, I’m taking him home to recover,” Gina said, picking up the poultryfied Newsie.

Kermit shook his head, looking around at the turkeys. “You might as well. I don’t know how we’re even going to close the show tonight.”

“Uh, Kermit, if I may make a suggestion?” Gonzo asked. “You know I am a good dance instructor for things besides chickens…”

“Great. You’re on,” Kermit sighed. “I hope the effects don’t last long. A turkey revue every night is going to get old fast.”

“Oh, it should only take a couple of days, if they keep eating that vitamin corn,” Gonzo promised. Startled, Kermit glared at him.

“I thought you said you had it for three weeks?”

“Well, yeah…but I kept getting my friends to sneeze on me. It was fantastic!”

“Eeesh,” Kermit moaned. “Fine! Just get ‘em all out there and dance – all except that one! Lock him up!” As Gonzo stuffed the original offender in a slatted crate and rounded up the others, the frog turned to Gina. “You might want to keep him isolated. I’ve heard of fast-moving, but this thing is ridiculous.”

“I’ll get him well as fast as possible,” she promised. The Newsturkey looked up at her, relieved by her interventon, but wondering if he looked less offensive to her as a large domestic bird. She stroked his backfeathers, making him gobble softly. Gina sighed. “I’m really sorry. Come on, let’s get you home.” She paused. “Mr Frog? Do you know which building he lives in?”

“It’s just Kermit. I think his is the second one on the left if you go down the alley, before you hit the main street, but I have no idea which apartment,” Kermit said, waving a flipper in the direction of the back exit.

“Direct me, okay?” she asked the Newsturkey. He nodded, deeply embarrassed by the entire situation. Yes, take him home, let him crawl under the covers and stay there a week or so. He didn’t particularly want her to see how shabbily he lived, but also didn’t like his odds in reaching his apartment safely on his own right now. Ashamed, he allowed Gina to carry him in both arms out the back door.

Shaking his head, Kermit looked back to the stage, where Gonzo was cheering on a line of dancing turkeys while the band played a jazzy version of “Turkey in the Straw.” Not one of the birds, he noticed, was anywhere near on beat.

 

[The Count]

Hee... Thas a good imitation of the other malladies that plagued the Muppet players. Even those two old guys up in the balcony got a dose of their own medicine, or at least they will after eating the vitamin cornseed. Poor Newsie... At least he's in good hands.

BTW: As for your question of Muppet/non-Muppet love scenes... You might want to read through ReneeLouvier's Sadies Stories (links to each are provided in the FanFic Library Index or FLI thread) for the relationship we've sort of taken as fic-cannon between her (Sara) and Scooter. Or you might want to read Kermie's Girl which features that pairing throughout, but that's a much longer novel so the choice is yours.
*Breathing out of Jack Palance voicechanger: Make... The right... Choice.

 

[newsmanfan]

Palance...oh don't get me started...ever see "Outlaw of Gor?"

Thanks for the romance writing tip. I shall check out both.

Glad you liked the epidemic. I had that whole scene envisioned long before it went on paper...er, screen.

 

[The Count]

Outlaw of Gore? Nope, just the one named Outlaw which was one of the last Joel saw as well.
*Goes off to play with the pinbolus machine.

Pointer Sisters: Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiix!
*Pulls knob back, then lets it go launching the glowing meatball.

 

[newsmanfan]

LOL a fellow Mystie! EX-cellent!

Yes, that's the one, my bad. The pulp trash of a book "Outlaw" was based on is indeed "Outlaw of Gor." The whole series of those are like really, really bad Conan...

Glad you're liking this so far. Would happily welcome reviews, comments, critiques or suggestions from anyone else. Yeah, you readin' this lurkin' in the shadows, I mean YOU.

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 9

The rodents scattered as soon as Gina opened the apartment door. At least, the Newsman noted, they hadn’t trashed the place again since he made them clean it up. Gina set him on the carpet and looked around. “So…all yours, huh?” she asked.

Glumly, with a soft gobble in reply, the afflicted Newsman looked around as well, seeing as he imagined she must: secondhand tweed sofa facing the third-hand TV, a small table and chair next to the kitchenette, dull tan walls enlivened only by a framed print of Jacek Yerka’s “Illegal Light-Making.” Dim illumination came from the two ceiling lamps and a streetlight below outside the single shaded window. He’d tried keeping houseplants once, but they’d died without enough sun. Cautiously Gina stepped in, checking through the kitchen cupboards until she found two shallow cereal bowls. She ran water into one, using the filter tap on the sink. Small noises in the kitchenette made her look around quickly; the Newsman spotted a rat peeking out at her from a cupboard up high. He glared at it, but it looked just as curiously at him, and he realized the rodents weren’t going to give him any respect like this. Not with feathers and this ridiculous floppy thing hanging off his nose…er, beak. Gina poured some of the corn into the other bowl, treating it with the vitamin C and echinacea, and brought both bowls over to him, setting them on the rug.

“Here. Try some of this, okay?” Another skittering noise drew her attention; she rapidly glanced from the table to the low counter of the kitchenette to something wriggling behind the TV. “Uh…Newsie? I think you have rats.”

He sighed. It came out as a gobble.

“Do you have a thermometer anywhere?” she asked him. He gestured with one wingtip through the bedroom door, and waited until she was out of sight to peck at the corn experimentally. He heard a startled squeak, and Gina popped back out of his room. “Okay…that’s a big rat,” she gasped.

“Hey, sister, you’re no tiny tina yourself!” Rizzo barked back at her, appearing in the doorway. He saw the Newsturkey and trotted over. “Oh hey, you brought us dinner!”

“Gobble!” the Newsman protested, doing his best to look threatening. It didn’t work as well as it usually did.

“No. This is Newsie. He lives here,” Gina corrected, warily watching the rat.

“What? No, no, no! The nerd who lives here is taller, and wears glasses, and has yellowy skin, and…uh…” Rizzo peered closely at the Newsturkey, who in turn glowered and snapped at him.

“He’s not a nerd, and I prefer to think of his color as golden,” Gina said firmly.

“Uh. Okay. What…what happened to him?” The other rats were gathering around, keeping their distance from the stranger, but curious about the bird.

“He has turkey flu.”

“Flu!” Rizzo exclaimed, jumping back. “He’s got the flu and you brought him here?”

“He lives here!” Gina argued. The Newsturkey gobbled agreement, feeling completely mortified.

“Just keep him outta my way, sister!” the rat declared, huffing off.

Gina shook her head. “Come on. Let’s see how bad the fever is.”

As she lifted him onto his bed, he had to admit he was feeling terrible, and not just from the sheer humiliation of it all. He felt disoriented and a little overheated, although he knew the apartment was somewhat chilly; the super had turned the furnace off last week because spring had arrived, despite the still-shivery nights. “Don’t bite this,” she cautioned him, carefully placing the end of the thermometer under his tongue. He sat there, waiting, embarrassed for her to be moving around his tiny bedroom looking at the few personal belongings he’d placed there to relieve the depressing claustrophobia of the narrow space.

Gina read his framed Bachelor of Arts degree from the Columbia U. School of Journalism, looked at the photos of Cronkite and Jennings from charity dinners he’d attended just to meet them, paused before the other Yerka print he owned – one of the few expensive items here – and studied it a long while. The title was “Double Life,” and the classically surrealist painting depicted a tiny shack on an island in the center of a huge walled reservoir overflowing with dark water…but also the duplicate tiny shack, far below it at the bottom of the reservoir, surrounded by lush gardens and transparent sea creatures undulating past. The colors of it, murky green with barren sandy rocks surrounding the high walls of water, had always calmed him. She stood there as he sometimes had, studying every tiny detail of the painting. He wondered if that meant she also liked it. It was the only colorful thing in the room.

Finally she stepped back to the bed and checked the reading on the thermometer. “Owch! One hundred two!” She gave him a querying look. “I’m assuming that’s high, even for you?”

She meant, even for a Muppet? Discouraged, the Newsturkey nodded. Gina leaned over and gently pulled down the thin blanket and sheet of his neatly made bed, displacing him, then tucked them up around him. He sneezed, and hurriedly looked up at her, worried, but the mask seemed to be protecting her so far. He could tell by the way her cheeks went up that she smiled at him. “Cute bunnies, huh?”

He felt heat in his face, ashamed, but she simply unfolded the throw blanket and tucked that around him as well. “You need to stay warm. This apartment is ridiculously cold. You should complain to the super.”

The Newsman shrugged. It wouldn’t do any good. The rats had tried. They complained more than he did, actually.

“Awww,” one of the rats said from the doorway, drawing annoyed looks from both the Newsman and Gina. The rat, a scrawny thing with a Yankees ballcap, giggled and ran off. “Hey guys! You gotta see this!” They heard whispered commotion in the main room. Just as a group of rodents ran up to the bedroom door, Gina strode over to it and slammed it in their faces. “Ow,” came the lone voice from outside it.

“You also,” she told the Newsman, returning to his side, “need peace and quiet for a few days. I’ll bring the food and water in here for you, and you shouldn’t have to deal with them.” She pushed her hair, which kept sliding down, back over her shoulder. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this. Just try and get some rest.” She frowned apologetically. “I don’t know whether it’s safe for you to take aspirin like this.”

Better safe than sorry, he thought, shaking his head at her. “Gobble-obble.”

“Right.” She pointed a thumb at the door. “Uh, I’ll be right back, okay?”

The Newsman shivered, a chill suddenly going through him. Yes; definitely flu-like symptoms, on top of the indignity of the feathers and beak and ridiculous voice. He huddled down into the blankets. In the other room he clearly overheard Gina laying down the law:

“You’d all better leave him alone until he recovers. No loud noises, no barging in, no waking him up, no eating the corn! Got it?”

“Well what’re we supposed to eat? We cleaned out the ‘fridge this afternoon. He never buys enough groceries!”

Silently, the Newsman fumed.

“Here’s a thought: go earn some money and buy your own groceries! Just don’t eat that corn. It’s medicine…and he’s already touched it, so unless the rest of you want to catch what he’s got…”

“Ee-yuck!” Rizzo spat.

“Oh my gosh I’m gonna die,” another rat moaned.

“I mean it. And trust me boys…you don’t want to mess with me.” A long pause; he wondered what she was doing to threaten them. “Got it?”

“Eek!”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s cool!”

“We got it! We got it!”

Gina reentered the bedroom, a satisfied smirk clearly visible even in her gray eyes. She laid the bowls of corn and water on the floor near the bed. “There you go.” She stood looking down at him; he couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but her smile faded. “Okay, um…I have to go. You get some rest, and eat some of that when you feel you can. It should help. I’ll, uh…I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon to check on you, if that’s all right?”

He nodded, sneezing again before he could stop it. Gina paused, as if about to say something more, then simply gave him a nod. “All right. Well…see you.” She closed the bedroom door softly behind her. He heard the front door open and close, and then a few quiet murmurs from the rats. What had she said or done to make them suddenly respectful? More tired than grateful for the respite, he settled further under the covers, laying his head on his pillow, annoyed that he couldn’t properly take off his glasses. He shook his head and managed to dislodge them so they lay next to him, and nudged them out of the way with his beak so he wouldn’t accidentially break them if he rolled over in his sleep.

He didn’t know what to make of any of this. She’d brought enough of the corn to treat the whole theatre, so she wasn’t concerned about him alone; yet she’d only offered to bring him home, not the others. He was still picking up a feeling of distance from her; she’d barely touched him the whole walk home or up the stairs, and her tucking him in had felt more nurse-like than motherly. Not that he could recall his mother tending to him when he’d been ill much; if anything, she’d been annoyed with him for inconveniencing her. Disheartened and dizzy, the Newsman sank into the aging mattress. That was it. Gina felt obligated. Surely he was an inconvenience to her. Hadn’t she said she worked at another theatre? It must cut into her schedule to run over and do things for him, and if her theatre was even half as hectic as the Muppet Theatre, she must be splitting up her time pretty badly. As soon as I have my voice back, I’m telling her to get back to her life, he decided. She was still acting out of pity, obviously. He didn’t need or want that from anyone.

“Gobble,” he muttered to himself, closing his eyes, hoping all of this would soon pass so he could go back to his old life, the one where things fell on him but he didn’t worry about anyone’s motives in being nice to him, because no one would care. That life, at least, he was used to.



The Newsman felt slightly better when he awoke. Filtered light from the tiny bedroom window told him it was full day; he began to sit up but was seized by a sneezing fit. “Gobble-choo! Gobble-choo! Gobble-choo!” So he was still afflicted. Great. Checking his form, he noticed his fingers visible beneath an overlay of feathers, and by touching them to his face he was relieved to discover his distinctive profile had reasserted itself…although his hair felt like feathers still. He looked down at the bowl of corn kernels, thinking Yuch. When he climbed out of bed, however, a wave of dizziness forced him to climb right back in. With a groan, he wrapped himself in the blankets once more, and lay there wishing the pounding would stop. Then he realized the pounding was in his temples, his own pulse sounding too loud to his fever-addled brain. His door opened a crack; he glared down at one of the rats peeking in.

“Gobble-obble-awk!” he yelled at it. With a squeak, the rat vanished, his door shutting again.

Great.

Some time later, a soft tapping sounded on his bedroom door. He cleared his throat, tried to speak, gobbled again. Gina opened the door to see him scowling, frustrated with his condition. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said. She was wearing another paper filter-mask.

The Newsman shook his head, beckoning her in weakly. “Well, you look a little more like yourself. How are you feeling?” she asked, cautiously approaching his bed.

He shook his head at her…slowly, so as not to slosh his brain around any more than it already seemed to be doing. She brought the cleaned thermometer out and checked his temperature again. This time she just stood there, looking at the few items on his nightstand, while they waited for the instrument to get an accurate reading. She picked up one of the books neatly held between two small brass bookends on the nightstand. “’The House at Pooh Corners’?” she asked.

Embarrassed, he shrugged. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. She set it back in place and took out another. “’Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72’? I wouldn’t have figured you for a Hunter Thompson fan.” Again, he could only shrug, staring down at his feathery hands, wondering how much more of this mortification he’d have to take. She kept checking titles, speaking them aloud: “’Edward R. Murrow: Good Night, and Good Luck, a Biography’, with a lot of dogeared pages… Dickens’ ‘Bleak House’… ’Breaking News’ by Robin MacNeil… and Leo Leonni’s ‘Fish Is Fish’.” She replaced them all the way he’d had them, and looked down at him curiously. “You have some interesting tastes there, Newsie.”

He couldn’t tell her they were favorites from different periods of his life, and he felt comforted by having them all close at hand, to be able to sample whenever he had a bout of insomnia. He just sat there, feeling groggy and extremely unhappy, looking up at her with the thermometer sticking out of his mouth. “Oh…sorry,” Gina said, taking it out and checking it. “It still says almost one hundred. Are you dizzy?”

Slowly, he nodded. She frowned. “Okay. Hungry?” Another nod; she picked up the bowl of corn, and he shook his head, waving it off, then had to sit very still a long moment. Ow…ugh. “Oh, no, obviously you can’t deal with this stuff. I’d say that’s a good thing, though, right? I brought you some soup. Hang on, I’ll go heat it up.”

She left the room. The Newsman tried weakly to pull his pillow up against the wall so he could sit up, leaning on it. Even that took effort and fumbling. She returned carrying a bowl of soup with a spoon, a napkin, and a steaming mug of something with a citrus smell to it. Gently she placed the bowl in his lap and handed him the spoon. He nodded thanks at her, then tried to scoop up a spoonful of the golden soup. His fingers were shaking lightly, and they felt too thick, and the feathers kept getting in the way. After two frustrating failures, Gina took the spoon from him. “I’m sorry. I know this must really be awful for you. Will you let me help you?”

Oh, how he hated this. But at the smell of the broth in the bowl, his stomach rumbled and his mouth watered. He gave her a reluctant nod, and she carefully brought a spoonful of the soup to his lips. It tasted amazing: rich chicken broth liberally laced with garlic and lemon and sweet bits of corn, and his eyes actually closed as he tasted it. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d even had something fresh-cooked or homemade. “Is it okay?” Gina asked, looking concerned. Oh, yes. He nodded, ready for more, and accepted spoon after spoon of it from her until she showed him the empty bowl. “Good, I’m glad you liked it. That was one of my grandmama’s recipies. She called it her Winter Cold Soup, but I figured it applied fine to your flu. Now try this, okay?”

She helped him drink some of the tea in the mug, which seemed to be some sort of herbal concoction, all floral and orangey. When he leaned back, unable to take in any more, Gina flashed a smile at him. At least, he thought she did; hard to tell around that mask. “Tired?”

He was, actually. He could barely keep his eyes open. “All right. Get some rest,” she told him. He wasn’t about to protest. He felt her tuck the blanket back over him, tugging it up to his shoulders as he leaned against his pillow, falling asleep sitting up. As he drifted off, he thought he felt something else, a brief, wet touch on his nose. He sniffled, and whatever it was vanished.

Soft laughter awoke him. Peering blearily at his window, he couldn’t see any daylight, although there was a lamp on in the main room, and his teddy bear night-light gave him just enough illumination to see by in the bedroom. Sitting up, he suddenly felt itchy all over. Gentle scratching quickly gave way to a frantic scraping everywhere. Bedraggled feathers fell off him like dry leaves after a leap in a leafpile. He brushed them away, annoyed, and kept scratching…until he realized he was shedding what had been his clothes in ragged sheafs. They felt as though they’d stuck to his skin and then dried out. He stumbled out of bed and went into the tiny bathroom to finish shedding them, then turned on his hands and hair, scratching and rubbing every bit of feathering off himself. Disgusted, he turned on the shower and stepped in.

After a long scrub and steam, he emerged in his new plaid robe to find a rat peeking into the bedroom again. Could he not have a minute of privacy? His intended protest came out as more gobbling. The rat shut the door, and he heard noises in the main room. Gina opened the door. “Um…are you decent?”

“Gobble,” he said tiredly, brushing the discarded feathers off his blankets.

She entered. “Oh! You got rid of the feathers. Well, good. How do you feel?”

He blinked at her in confusion. Surely it was hours later; why was she still here? When he didn’t respond, she bent over and felt his forehead. “You’re still pretty warm.” He pointed to the bath, where steam curled out of the open shower. “Oh, gotcha. Hang on, I’ll bring you more rose zinger.” She hurried back out. Bewildered and feeling dizzy again, the Newsman sat on his bed, pulling the throw blanket over his bare feet. On second thought, the room felt cold; he adjusted it to cover most of him as he huddled there. He tried setting his glasses back on his nose, immediately relaxing somewhat when he could see clearly. Gina returned with more of the herbal tea he’d drunk earlier. “Here you go.” She didn’t offer to hold it this time, setting it on his nightstand. At least he’d avoid the humiliation of someone nursing him again.

There wasn’t anyplace else to sit, so she gingerly took a spot on the far end of his bed, watching him as he sipped the tea. The rat who’d peeked in earlier timidly approached the bed; he scowled. They knew perfectly well he’d declared the bed off-limits to all rodents. “Oh, Newsie, this is Rhonda,” Gina said. “I don’t think you and she have actually ever spoken.”

He threw her an incredulous look; why would he speak to them any more than he absolutely had to? He certainly hadn’t agreed to their moving in. They were at best barely tolerated roommates. Rhonda the rat looked up at him, scared, then back at Gina. “It’s okay,” Gina assured her. To the Newsman she said, “Rhonda and I have been talking. She helped warm up your soup –“ He felt queasy. “And she helped me with the dishes afterward. She says she at least is willing to pitch in with chores in return for some food. How does that sound?”

The Newsman glared at them both. “Gobble!”

Gina shook her head at the rat. “He’s not feeling well. Maybe you should ask another time?” she suggested quietly. Nodding, the rat scurried off. Gina brushed her long straight hair back, and the Newsman found himself briefly mesmerized by the way it slid over her shoulder, like a million strands of auburn silk. “Do you want anything else?” she asked him. “More soup, or anything I can bring you?”

He sneezed, startling himself. “Ah. I forgot.” She left the room once more, returning immediately with a box of tissues and a small trash can. “Here.” He nodded thanks at her again, wondering why she’d bothered to stay the evening. He could look after himself. She stood by the side of the bed, nervously massaging her own hands, not meeting his gaze. Finally she said, “Your friend Kermit asked me if I had anything against Muppets. I just want you to know I don’t, not at all. And…and I understand if you’d prefer I didn’t come around to the theatre anymore. I should have realized you must already be close to someone there.” Surprised, he could only stare at her. She still wouldn’t look at him. “I’ll, uh, I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon to make sure you’re okay, and after that I’ll leave you alone. I left my phone number with Rhonda, if you think of anything you need I could bring you. Get better soon, Newsie.”

Before he could think of a thing to reply – not that he’d even be able to – she bent over, her hair brushing his face, and quickly kissed his forehead through her mask, and swiftly walked out.

The Newsman sat there, stunned, hearing the front door open and close again. She’d called him Newsie again. She’d kissed him again. She thought he must be close to someone at the Muppet Theatre…? Movement at the foot of his door caught his befuddled attention. Rizzo stood there, grinning at him.

“She liiiiikes yoooooou,” he sang mockingly.

The Newsman beaned him with the tissue box.

 

[newsmanfan]

soundtrack

Just a quick note, for anyone who hears soundtracks in their head like I do while writing…

I’ve been assembling a soundtrack of sorts for this story, and thought I’d share the list. I don’t have all of the songs, unfortunately, but I have my iTunes shuffling and replaying what I do have over and over as I write for background vibes. Some of the reasons for the songs may be obvious, some not. Some I chose more for their atmosphere than for any direct correlation to the plot. In no particular order:

“Short Skirt, Long Jacket” Cake
“Bouncing Around the Room”, “Rift”, “Poor Heart” Phish
“Why Me” Planet P Project
“Tango” Red Elvises
“Put a Lid on It”, “Bad Businessman”, “It Ain’t You” Squirrel Nut Zippers
“Fever” Peggy Lee
“Belleville Rendezvous” from the Triplets of Belleville soundtrack
“Walk Away” Tom Waits
“Catch of the Day” Clare Fader and the Vaudevillains
“Walking on the Moon” the Police
“Stone Blues” Moby

I don’t regard this as a complete list, but these are the ones which most struck me as somehow appropriate. (Curious if anyone else does this…)