Love Reign O'er News

[newsmanfan]

Part 10

When Gina arrived at approximately two o’clock, the Newsman had already dragged himself out of bed, showered, shaved, dressed, and fixed himself a cup of the tea she’d left in the kitchen. He wasn’t normally a tea drinker, especially not fruity floral stuff, but it did seem to help. When she knocked, he was able to call out, “Come in,” without gobbling, although his throat felt sore and his voice was ragged.

“Oh,” she said, looking him up and down as he sat on the sofa. He looked better than he felt, but he wouldn’t admit to it. “Well…I see you’re all better. Good. That’s good.” She stood just inside the door, fidgeting. “Any fever?”

“I’m fine,” he lied. His stomach was churning. He hadn’t felt up to going out for food, and nothing was left in the apartment.

“Oh, um. Okay.” Gina shrugged, embarrassed. “Silly me. I thought you might still be feeling weak, so I brought over some takeout from Kubla Khan’s House of Stir-Fry and Bananas, but if you don’t want it…”

He was already drooling. Trying to maintain some semblance of manners, he stood up, but too quickly, and lost his balance. Gina caught his arm, and they stared at one another. “Hah…so…not so good yet. It’s okay,” she said. Feeling flushed, the Newsman sat back down, and she joined him, edging onto the corner of the sofa and placing several wondrous-smelling white takeout cartons on the low coffee table. “Hungry?”

“Thank you,” he managed, and she smiled. She wasn’t wearing the mask today. Alarmed, he almost reached out to touch her face. “Uh…shouldn’t you…”

“Oh, it’s okay. I went down to the El Cheapo Medico Shot Clinic this morning and got inoculated for turkey flu.” She had turned pink. “Um, hey, guys? I brought stuff for you…moo goo gai cheese and fried rice with, um, more cheese.”

More rats than the Newsman had suspected even frequented his apartment poured out of nowhere, seizing the cartons with excited squeaky chatter. In seconds they’d spread their haul out over the carpet in front of the TV and had turned the box onto some trivia game show. “No loud noises,” Gina warned, and Rizzo bumped the elbow of the rat nearest him.

“Hey! She said keep it down for the geek! What’samattayou? Sheesh!” Taking the remote from his companion, Rizzo turned the TV volume down about two notches.

“You brought them food?” the Newsman asked, confused.

“I brought you food. It would be rude to leave your roommates out, wouldn’t it?” Gina asked, opening the remaining cartons. She held one up in each hand. “Mongolian beef with bananas, or General Nose chicken?”

“Uh,” he mumbled, taken aback. “I don’t think I’ve ever had either.”

“Go with the beef, then. It has hot peppers…good for your sinuses.” She flashed a smile at him.

The bananas turned out to be spicy as well, and provoked another sneezing fit, but at least he wasn’t gobbling. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely, when their immediate rush of hunger was sated, and both of them were picking at the contents of their cartons, “but you should stop doing this.”

“Oh,” Gina murmured, looking away.

“No, no, I mean…you can’t possibly afford this. You’ve done so much already.”

“It’s okay, really. I don’t mind,” she replied softly, with a shrug.

“Don’t anymore. I don’t want…I don’t want anyone to do more than they really have to. I don’t want anyone feeling obligated for me.” He tried to keep his voice gentle, a difficult thing for him even when in the best of health; he could hear how gruff he sounded.

The Newsman noticed Rizzo gesturing for his attention. When they made eye contact, the rat made motions at him as if handing him something. What the heck? Give him…? Oh. Give her. Give her what? He shot the rat a puzzled frown, and Rizzo sighed, and made a motion with one paw moving away from his mouth. Tell her. Tell her what? Shaking his head with a frustrated groan, Rizzo took a fortune cookie from a pile of them and broke it open. When he read the fortune he laughed, and ran over to hand it to the Newsman. The note said: You will have nothing unless you tirelessly seek the truth.

“What’s your fortune say?” Gina asked, not having seen any of the transaction.

“It’s silly. Who believes these things, anyway?” He glanced over at her, saw her abashedly not looking at him, and was suddenly unable to stop sneezing. Excusing himself, he went to find the tissue box. When he could finally breathe freely through the entire length of his nose, he came back to the main room. The sofa was empty.

He looked around, although there wasn’t anyplace a person could hide in his apartment. Rizzo and a couple of the male rats stood in the middle of the room, glaring at him. “What?” he coughed at them.

“You are pathetic,” Rizzo stated. “Com-pletely!”

Immediately furious, the Newsman picked up a mostly-empty carton to chuck at them. “Hey, hey, don’t throw food! It’s too valuable to waste!” Rizzo screamed, getting out of range quickly.

“Out!” he yelled, though it hurt his throat.

“Don’t know why she bothers with you!” the rat taunted. The Newsman did throw the carton then. Rice bounced all over the rug.

“Out!” he shouted louder, hearing his voice rip like a brittle piece of paper. The rats fled. Panting, fuming, the Newsman stood in the center of the room, feeling what little recovery he’d made ruined, tired, hoarse, worn out. Dejected, he looked around at the remains of lunch. What had he said? Why had she left? He had to sit down again, suddenly exhausted.

She hadn’t even said good-bye.

He must have fallen asleep right there on the sofa. He woke up to the sound of humming, and forced his eyes open, focusing slowly. Gina? No; it was that female rat. Rhonda. All the food mess had been cleaned up, and the little rat, wearing a maid’s outfit, was humming as she wiped down the coffee table with a tiny rag. When she saw him staring at her, she stopped, set her tiny paws on her tiny hips, and glared at him.

“You,” she squeaked, “are an idiot.”

She ran when he threw the can of dusting spray at her.



He spent all of Monday hanging around the apartment, absently watching news shows but not really absorbing any of the information they imparted; he went into the kitchen a few times and looked at the box of tea, but didn’t fix any of it; he lay on his bed in his pj’s and robe and stared at the ceiling. He didn’t bother getting dressed. None of the rats showed so much as a whisker all day. Maybe they’d abandoned him too. Good. He didn’t want anyone around.

Tuesday afternoon, he felt certain the flu was entirely past, and prepared for work as usual. Still no rats. No food left, either, so maybe they’d stay away this time. He checked to make sure he had enough cash in his wallet to get something to eat on the way, and went out the building’s front entrance, walking along the street to a vendor’s cart. The pita sandwich was nowhere near as good as the Chinese food Gina had brought him. He pushed that thought out of his head, getting a bland cup of coffee from another vendor and continuing on to the front of the Muppet Theatre, trying to refocus his thoughts. Had everyone else recovered? Had anything bizarre happened while he was at home in bed? More bizarre than usual, that is. Had any news bulletins come in? Had someone else delivered them? If so, had anything fallen on them – or was he the only one who suffered for his work?

Distracted by such thoughts, he didn’t see the bicycle messenger until it was too late. A kid hawking the Post stepped back from the curb to avoid a taxi splashing mud up from the gutter, yelling, “Extra! CDC says turkey flu rumors false! Health scare over! Extra!” The bike messenger swerved to avoid the news kid, and clipped the Newsman instead.

He swore quietly, shredded lettuce, mustard, and coffee dribbling down his jacket and tie. The bike messenger pedaled on without so much as a “sorry.” The paperboy stared a moment, then barked a laugh, and continued slowly down the sidewalk, calling out the headline. Fuming, the Newsman tossed what was left of his food in a trash can. Somehow he wasn’t hungry anymore. Pulling off his jacket as he strode angrily through the lobby door, he got as far as the door to the auditorium when a large monster in a tiny red pillbox hat halted him with one enormous paw on his chest.

“Sorry, buddy. Can’t go in without buying a ticket, and the box office isn’t open yet,” the usher rumbled at him.

“I work here!” he yelled. He tried to go around the usher, and once more was pushed back.

“No one in ‘til showtime,” the monster growled, showing very large yellow teeth. It had shaggy brown fur and seemed to be mostly mouth. The Newsman didn’t recall having encountered it before.

Trying again, he insisted, “I work here. Now let me through!”

“Nope, nope, no one inside yet. Not ‘til showtime. Buy a ticket,” the monster repeated; clearly this one had not been hired for his brains.

The Newsman looked around, but no one else seemed to be up front yet. Just this genius. He stared up at the fierce-looking beast, trying to come up with some argument it would comprehend. He heard the front door open, and creaky voices; turning, he saw the two old guys who always sat in the box coming up the lobby steps. “Uh, you two…would you please tell this guy I work here and to let me through?”

Statler looked at him, then at Waldorf. “You ever see this guy before, Waldorf?”

The other grumbled, “No, no, can’t say as I have.”

“What?” the Newsman choked out, his voice hoarser than before.

“Nope, never seen him,” Statler informed the usher, who then growled at the Newsman.

“You’ve seen me almost every night!” the Newsman cried. “I do the News Flash!”

“Well…can’t say as I remember that,” Waldorf said, looking puzzled.

“I’m drawing a complete blank,” Statler agreed.

“You never had anything to draw from in the first place! Oh, ho ho ho!”

Frustrated, the Newsman tried to dodge around the monster while those old fools were distracting it. It didn’t work. In seconds he was laying stunned on the cold marble floor of the lower lobby, the breath knocked out of him, coughing badly. Giving up, ignoring the two old-timers laughing at him, he got to his feet and left the lobby. Fine. He’d walk all the way around the building and go in the rear entrance, the route he usually took and what he should’ve done in the first place.

The alley was blocked. By a garbage truck. At this hour?

In mounting anger, the Newsman sought a way around the truck. It seemed to have broken down, perhaps earlier on its scheduled run, and no one had come to retrieve it yet. It fit so tightly in the old brick alleyway that there wasn’t enough room on either side of it for him to squeeze by. No one was in the cab. The Newsman looked at his watch. He was supposed to be there for cast check-in within fifteen minutes. Sighing, he squinted at the truck, judging the height of it. He was no mountain climber, but he could see handholds all along the top of the truck. Maybe he could go over it? He checked the clearance beneath it, immediately rejecting that path. Too small, and far too filthy. Speaking of filthy, the smell off that truck… Wrinkling his nose, he took a few paces back, opened his mouth wide for a deep breath of relatively fresh air, got a running leap and landed more or less on the front fender of the truck. He scrambled up it, grabbing anything he could for help in going up: the antenna, the wipers, the top ridge of the cab.

He almost fell when he reached for the topmost handhold, and involuntarily breathed in through his nose. Eeeeyuck! What good was having a nose for news when it meant he also had to smell things that foul? Wincing, straining, he pulled himself atop the truck, and had to pause, panting, trying not to let a whiff of that awful reek into his nostrils. He checked the time again. Seven minutes to go. He could make it. Carefully he crawled forward, reaching for the next handhold, thinking to shift position and swing himself down slowly.

He couldn’t see from that angle that the back hatch was open.

He screamed as he fell, immediately regretting it as rotten food, shreds of paper, dust from a hundred mops and who knows what else covered him. He rose, howling in disgust, spitting out things and madly fighting to reach the edge of the hopper. He practically threw himself out of the hatch, landing hard on his shoulder on the bricks below. Gasping, crying, tasting horrible things, breathing worse ones, the Newsman forced himself to crawl away. He was shaking badly by the time he reached the loading dock. Scooter came out the back door right as the Newsman dragged himself wearily up the back steps. “Oh, hi, you’re late,” the gofer told him.

The Newsman made no reply. He started to go into the theatre, but the boy held up a hand. “Eee-yuck! You really should’ve cleaned up before you came in, Newsie! You smell terrible!”

The Newsman glowered at him, still panting. “If you,” he gasped, “or anything else stands between me…and the shower…right now…someone besides me…is going to feel some pain.”

“Uh…okay,” Scooter said, getting out of the way.

The shower wasn’t working. The Newsman stood in front of it a long minute, still mostly clothed, trying not to cry. Slowly he trudged into the green room, where immediately people complained and moved away, waving their hands in front of their noses. Giving up, he went back out to the loading dock. Fozzie came up from the alley. The Newsman looked oddly at the bear; there wasn’t an ounce of trash on him. “You’re…just now…getting here?” the Newsman asked, unable to breathe well.

“Oh no, I signed in earlier and went to get a soda,” Fozzie said, then pulled back at the smell. “Wow! What happened to you?”

“How did you…how did you get past…the garbage truck?”

“What garbage truck?”

“Stuck…in the alley,” the Newsman huffed. Fozzie looked quizzically at him.

“There was no garbage truck stuck in the alley. I saw one being towed away a minute ago, though.” He held his nose. “Wheee—oo! You know, if you aren’t over that turkey thing yet, you shoulda just stayed home!”

Dispirited, the Newsman looked away, and Fozzie shrugged and started into the theatre. “Wait…bear,” the Newsman said, an idea forming. Not a great idea, but an idea. “Do you have seltzer bottles?”

“Sure!” Fozzie said enthusiastically. “I got all kinds of seltzer bottles! You wanna use one in your act?” He shook his head. “Ya know, I don’t mind if you want to borrow one, but I don’t see how that’ll help do the news. Or keep things from falling on you.”

“No,” the Newsman growled, making Fozzie nervous. “Hit me with one.”

“Hit you?”

“Spray me. Please.”

Fozzie scratched his head, then shrugged. “You want lemon or lime?”

“Just spray me!”

“Yessir, yessir, okay!”



Half an hour later, the reeking clothes tossed in the trashbin outside, the Newsman was forced to borrow something else from Fozzie: one of his terrible polka-dot ties, which he managed to make into a fair ascot. He’d been able to scrounge up a change of clothes and to find a comb for his hair, but the wardrobe room had nothing in the way of ties for some reason. He finished dressing right as the opening music started up. Hearing it, the Newsman hurried upstairs. No turkeys were in evidence anywhere, so everyone else must have recovered fine. Kermit saw him and nodded, but was busy as usual. Piggy sniffed as she passed the Newsman backstage, and wrinkled her snout. “Sheesh, Newsgeek. What is that, Eau de Lemon Compost?” He bit back a retort. His shoulder still hurt from the fall out of the truck.

Floyd paused as he sauntered past a few minutes later. “Hey, man, check out the preppy threads! An ascot! I thought ‘Scooby-Doo’ stopped making new episodes years ago – hah hah hah!”

The Newsman glared, but Floyd, immune, kept strolling.

All right, the Newsman told himself, so you lost yet another set of clothes. So you’re hungry and tired and aching. So you still have the stink of refuse in your nose. So no one’s even asked how you are. So Gina ran away again. So what? You still have a job to–

His mind snapped back. Gina ran away again.

No, no, stop that, he thought, starting to pace anxiously. What difference did that make? Sure, she was nice, but she was only doing what she thought she had to, because of whatever weird gypsy thing it is she said she has. A sense of obligation, and pity. You set her straight, and she left, and that’s that. She saw you as pathetic. Even that terrible little rat said so. She…

She was nice. Very nice. With such soft-looking hair, and such delicate hands, and…

“Newsman! You’re on!”

Startled, he almost stumbled going onstage, blindly grabbing the bulletin from Scooter. When he tried to announce the news as he always did, he found he’d lost his voice almost completely. “This is…a Muppet News Flash,” he wheezed. Oh, no. People in the front row were frowning at him. “A new study…finds that college students…too often rely on caffiene pills…to get through their exams.” He had to gasp between every few words, his throat raw and painful.

“What?” someone yelled.

“Speak up!” shouted another voice from somewhere out in the auditorium.

“Scientists have linked…these drugs…to side effects…” He paused for a deep breath, forcing sound from his mouth. Even the mic couldn’t pick up what wasn’t there. “Which can be detrimental…to the students’ health…when the drug wears off…”

“Come on!”

“We can’t hear you!”

The audience seemed to be growling at him. With another deep breath, the Newsman pulled what strength he had left into his voice, and yelled as loud as he could, “It is followed by a hard crash!”



“Like, you should gargle with salt water before you go onstage,” Janice was saying to him when he came to. He squinted at her. Great. Another pair of glasses smashed.

“Yeah, man,” Floyd agreed. “That’d stop this whole frog in your throat thing.”

“I thought it was a horsey throat?” Janice asked.

“No, no, it’s like an expression,” Floyd corrected smoothly. They continued discussing it over him.

The Newsman lay on a pile of the old sandbags and rope coils backstage. He couldn’t move his head without feeling like it was splitting open. He coughed harshly but silently, tried to ask them to leave him alone, and absolutely no sound came out. Between the garbage and the yelling, he’d completely destroyed his vocal chords. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the ridiculous argument going on right over his prone form.

I am a grown man. I will not cry. I might scream but I will not cry.

The discussion shifted to whether gargling with one or another brand of mouthwash tasted better. The Newsman sighed deeply, and suddenly they remembered he was there. “Oh like hey, Newsie,” Janice said. “We thought you might want this back.” He opened tired eyes, felt a piece of paper being pressed into his hand.

He couldn’t ask what it was. He just looked at them both. Floyd said, “Oh yeah, man. Figured you’d wanna get rid of that before a certain diva sees it and goes all inter-pigalistic-missile on you, heh heh.”

His head hurt too much to focus. He gave up, closing his eyes again. He heard the musicians saunter off. “’Course, everyone else has seen it now! Heh heh heh!”

“Well, I thought it was sweet, for sure-ly!”

Everyone else ignored him, too busy frantically getting their own numbers ready, or trying to salvage the numbers foundering onstage. Eventually the Newsman half-rose and dragged himself to a quieter corner, caught Beau as the janitor came by with a mop-bucket, asked for one of his spare pairs of glasses, watched indifferently as Sweetums’ clumsy feet knocked over the abandoned mop-bucket, and suffered another coughing fit at the scent of the cleaning fluid as Piggy stepped into the slippery puddle in her new high-high heels and went shrieking, sliding across the backstage area uncontrollably, plowing into Kermit.

Just another night at the Muppet Theatre.

Beau brought him the glasses, then looked around in bewilderment. “Now, where’d my bucket go?”

The Newsman settled the new lenses in front of his eyes, feeling the scrap of paper still in his right hand as he did so. He unfolded it. The paper was the same fine, cream-colored linen as the note Gina had left him. It looked like the same handwriting… He peered closely at it, trying to see past the pounding in his skull. It was a missing piece of the note! He stared at it until the letters resolved themselves for his blurry vision.

“I truly adore you.”

It took a minute to sink in. He had been hit pretty hard by whatever had crashed on him.

When he understood, the Newsman got to his feet. He clutched the precious little paper like a lifeboat. He lunged toward the back door. I have to find her, good grief I have to find her, I have to find her –

He passed out and tumbled down the back stairs. It had been a very large crashing object.

 

[newsmanfan]

note on continuity

I've been told that the Sara/Scooter relationship explored in other fics here is accepted Forum Canon, so to avoid stepping on any toes (fictional or otherwise!) I beg readers to either ignore the continuity problems which will arise in comparing my fic to others', or assume this takes place at an earlier point. I was interested in exploring the idea of a Muppet/non-Muppet relationship in a vague Civil Rights context, so...

Anyway. Here's the next installment.

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 11

At five p.m. the tech director called it a day. Gina took the cables they hadn’t used back to the electrics closet, making sure they were coiled properly for easy retrieval, and then joined the other crew of the small theatre in sweeping up the stage. She’d done all sorts of tech work, but liked lighting best, and was pleased that for the upcoming production, she’d be the master electrician. Granted, there was only one other electrician besides the lighting designer – who was also the set designer. Small crews doing multiple tasks was one of the hazards of small, non-union theatre. But they let her design occasionally, even though she’d never been able to afford to go back to school for her MFA, which was almost unheard-of in this city. Scott the designer, a tall white-blonde version of a young Alice Cooper, slapped her on the back as they left the building. “Nice work, Gina. This is gonna be a great Scottish Play.”

“No jinxes,” she told him, smiling.

He grinned widely back. “No way. Hey, are you doing anything tonight? Me an’ James an’ the Hat were thinking about a poker game. You want in? I’m buying the beer.”

Gina hesitated. She liked the guys all right; they’d at least accepted her as one of them, after only a few intial ribs about her gender. Maybe it would get her mind off her recent stupid actions if she spent more time with her colleagues, and less hanging around the Muppet Theatre. Scott continued, as they walked out the backstage door, “C’mon, it’ll be fun. You’ve been spending too much time away from everyone else lately, and look, I can tell you’ve been down. Why not come out for a night?”

She sighed. She felt weary all over after a day spent crawling around the lighting grid, putting in new fixtures in order to hang another flyline. She had dust on her clothes, dust in her tightly-tied-back hair, and felt generally grungy. She was about to tell Scott she really didn’t feel up to it tonight when she spied the man standing a few feet away. She stopped; Scott took another step, realized she wasn’t moving, and turned back to look as well.

The man waiting for Gina was perhaps three and a half feet tall, with yellow-golden skin, reddish-brown hair, a plaid check sports jacket neatly buttoned over his dark brown tie, smartly creased gray pants and shiny Oxford wingtips. His eyes for once looked more hopeful than tired behind those conservative hornrims, and with both hands he held up a single long-stemmed red rose. When she saw him, he gulped visibly, looked from her to Scott, and seemed unsure whether to approach.

“Oh…my…gosh,” Gina murmured. Scott glanced between the two of them.

“You, uh, you know this guy?”

“Scott? Tell everyone I’m sorry. I can’t come tonight. I,” she began to smile, “I have plans.”

Scott watched, puzzled, as Gina walked slowly over to the shorter man and accepted the rose. Shrugging, he said, “Okay. See ya,” and headed home.

Gina brushed the petals of the rose with her fingertips, loving the soft silkiness of it. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” the Newsman replied. He wasn’t sure what to do next. “Is it…do you like it?”

“It’s lovely.” She wasn’t sure how to ask this. “Um…do you…know much about flower language?”

“You speak flower as well as Mock Swedish?” He was impressed. “You’ve got me at a disadvantage there.”

She could only imagine Muppet flowers gurbling at one another. Shaking her head with a smile, she said, “No, not like that. I mean, flowers can symbolize different things. Like in Shakespeare: rosemary for remembrance…”

“Oh, yes, yes,” he nodded.

“Um. Well…a red rose…means one thing, usually.”

He swallowed dryly, searching her face for some clue as to how she felt about that. “I know it does. I did my research.” She looked surprised. Dismayed, he asked, “Should I have found out what flower means I’m sorry I was an idiot?”

Gina dropped to her knees so she was face-to-face with him. The Newsman was startled when she embraced him; awkwardly he put his arms around her in return. He felt her cheek next to his, felt the warmth of her body against his, her breath on his ear. Overjoyed, he hugged her tightly, but she suddenly pulled away. He thought he’d done something wrong, but then she tilted her head, her much smaller nose brushing his, and put her lips against his.

She seemed willing to stay there and kiss him indefinitely. He closed his eyes, holding her, indescribably happy.

She tasted like cinnamon. To him, that seemed absolutely perfect.



“You’re right,” he admitted happily. “These are the best seats.”

“See? Trust the techie.”

Gina was sitting with Newsie above the balcony in the front-of-house lighting bay, she crosslegged on an old plywood piece which served as a walkway along the cramped space where numerous far-reaching light instruments hung to illuminate the front of the stage, Newsie next to her with his knees drawn up. He’d never been up here; in fact, he wasn’t sure either of them were allowed, but Gina had persuaded him to climb the ladder up from the flyline loading rail (a landing about twenty feet above the stage floor on stage left) into the upper catacombs of the theatre. They’d managed to reach this bay without anyone onstage or in the audience noticing. The Newsman had a healthy wariness about heights, and kept well back from the opening where the lighting instruments hung; he doubted the thin chickenwire tacked up between lights would keep him from falling the twenty-five feet or so to the seats below. Gina seemed perfectly comfortable. “I explored this whole place when I was sneaking around,” she told him in a low voice. “I’ve watched shows from up here before. Maybe next time we can bring up some drinks?”

Newsie nodded. He’d watched new acts audition from the house seats before, most memorably when Steve Martin had visited years ago, but this perspective of the stage was fantastic. He felt a little nervous as the house lights dimmed and several of the instruments near them pinged, warming up as they turned on for the opening. He really shouldn’t be up here. Kermit was probably too busy to notice he wasn’t backstage, but Scooter would at some point. Especially if a News Flash came up. He doubted he could get back down to the stage with any promptness if he was suddenly needed. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked Gina.

In reply, she smiled at him, her eyes shining in the reflected light all around them, then leaned over to kiss him again. “Mmn,” he muttered, gasping when she released him. “You’re right. This is a great idea.”

She giggled.

She’d tucked the rose over her left ear; when she leaned close he could smell it. Gonzo had tried to convince him to use some of his “Old Mice” aftershave splash, which Newsie refused. He didn’t think dusty rodent scent would be appropriate for a first date, should he be granted one. Sitting next to this beauty, playing hooky from his job, seeing a little of the sort of world she usually moved in, was amazing, and he knew the rose had been the right idea. He watched and listened as Kermit stepped in front of the red curtains to welcome everyone and introduce the first act, a silly can-can by the chickens. Gina giggled again. The Newsman looked up at her in wonder. He couldn’t believe she was actually here. He couldn’t believe he was here, and for a second wondered if he was perhaps still feverish.

“Why didn’t you go out with your friends tonight?” he whispered to her. His throat still felt sore, but he’d been sucking cough drops for the past twenty-two hours, and his voice had come back, at least.

Gina turned to look at him directly. “You’re kidding, right?”

He shook his head. He’d apologized for not having read the entire note, for refusing her help, and for being gruff with her when she’d brought him food. She’d waved away his attempts at humility, told him she was glad he’d come, and insisted they go to his theatre.

She scratched the top of her head, looking embarrassed. “Newsie…I didn’t think you’d want to go out with me. Ever.”

“What? Why would you think that?” He was stunned. Despite his professionalism, his dedication, his perserverance for the ideals of journalism, and his stylish haircut, girls simply didn’t seem interested in him. He’d long ago resigned himself to a bachelor life, and dreamed only of doing the perfect story, the Emmy-winner, the -- dare he hope? – the Pulitzer which would enshrine him with the greatest reporters of the world.

“Um.” She looked down, ignoring for the moment the show going on below them. “Well, like I said before, you’re a Muppet…”

“I thought you said you had nothing against Muppets?”

“And,” she continued, gesturing at the stage, “I’ve watched you guys. It’s pretty clear, even from out there, that you’re a very tight-knit bunch. Backstage, I was able to see some of the relationships going on. Miss Piggy and your frog boss. That blond guitarist and that furry-faced bassist. Gonzo and his chicken friend.” She looked into his eyes. “Not one of you is dating an average person.”

“Well, no,” he responded, thinking it over. “I think that shrimp tries to date supermodels. I don’t think any of them have actually gone hot-tubbing with him, although he claims otherwise…”

“You see?” Gina said softly.

It dawned on him what she meant. “You…you thought I wouldn’t be interested in you…because you’re not a Muppet?” Gina nodded, giving him an abashed smile. “Oh good grief,” Newsie sighed. “Look…Gina…all my life I have been a staunch supporter of equal rights! I would never discriminate against you or any other non-Muppet!”

She stared at him. He stared back earnestly. She started giggling again.

“Did I say something funny?” he muttered, bewildered.

“Kiss me, you wonderful man,” she murmured. He leaned up to do so, amazed again by the feel of her mouth on his. She didn’t seem to mind how often his nose got in the way, bestowing kisses upon it as well. “You do realize that makes you one of the liberal media,” she teased.

“Hmf,” the Newsman snorted. “Here I thought I was one of the few trying to uphold standards of reality and normalcy on this show!”

“You and Sam,” Gina laughed.

He had to protest. “Hey, don’t compare me to that stuffy bird!” But she kept laughing, putting one hand over her mouth, trying hard to silence herself. A couple of heads below turned up, hearing something. Desperately Gina tried to laugh silently, bent over, shaking.

The Newsman felt somewhat affronted. “Are you…are you saying I’m too uptight? Or too liberal?”

She could only shake her head at him, still trying so hard to hold in her amusement that tears were forming at the corners of her eyes. Concerned, he touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Newsie,” she gasped, recovering a little, “Oh, Newsie. You have no idea how adorable you are.” She hugged him tightly; bewildered, he tried to return the gesture, although she was pinning his arms.

“Adorable is laughable?” he muttered.

“No, no, no. I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. I’m really not.” She released him, kissing his nose again. “I’m sorry. It’s just…look at it this way. You try so hard to be serious, to do your job well…” He gave her a nod, still confused. “And all around you, the most ridiculous things happen on this show…”

“You’re telling me,” he agreed.

“What I’m saying is, I admire you for trying so hard all the time. Not you, nor Sam nor anyone else is ever going to make this a haven of ‘normal’ culture, no matter how hard you try. But I love it that you do.” He searched her eyes in the glow the instruments at their feet cast back into the narrow space. She didn’t appear to be mocking him.

“Do you think it’s futile for me to be a serious journalist in this venue?” he asked, worried. He’d often wondered the same thing.

“No. No, it isn’t futile.” Gina smiled at him proudly. “It’s noble.”

Feeling warm all over, Newsie initiated the kiss this time. She held it a long while.

As the audience applauded Miss Piggy’s Gilded Age sing-along below, Gina suddenly broke away, looking startled. “Oh no. Oh, crap.”

“What is it?”

“Oh…” she let out a few choice curse words. Surprised, Newsie stared at her as she scrambled to a crouch, unable to stand upright fully in the low-ceilinged light bay. “We need to go downstairs. Now.”

Confused, he hurried after her; she could move surprisingly fast bent over like that. He guessed techies had to be in prime condition to move agilely in all the tight spots of a theatre. She didn’t bother to put her feet on the rungs of the iron ladder down, using her hands and the inside curves of her athletic shoes to slide down, and cursed again under her breath as she waited impatiently for him to navigate the ladder more slowly. She caught his hand as he hit the metal-grid floor of the loading rail. He panted after her: “I didn’t know you knew words like that!”

“Yeah, sorry…techie habit. Techies evolved from sailors, you know.” Together they raced down the spiral staircase to the stage floor; Gina pushed open the stage-left exit to the tunnel as quietly as she could, grabbed his hand again, and practically pulled him along. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” he said, trying to keep up. “You might not want to use them around the folks backstage, though. This is a family show.”

“Guess I won’t show them my tattoos, then!”

“You have tattoos?” he gulped, but they were already at the back door to the green room. No sooner were they inside than Scooter spotted the Newsman.

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“Sorry,” Newsie panted, grabbing the bulletin from the gofer and sprinting upstairs to go onstage. Gina and Scooter followed only slightly more slowly.

Gina stopped just offstage, watching the Newsman begin his report. She noticed Gonzo at her elbow. “Oh, wow! So what’s going to happen to him tonight?” the odd creature asked her.

“I can’t tell,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “I hope it’s not too bad.”

“I hope it was worth being late,” Kermit muttered.

“That was my fault. I’m sorry,” she told the disgruntled frog.

Sam poked her shoulder. When she turned her head to see him, he told her haughtily, “I hope you realize that keeping someone from doing their legitimate work is a serious breach of responsibility!”

With a breathy laugh, Gina nodded at him. “Oh, yes, Mr Eagle. That was terribly bad of me. Won’t happen again.”

“Hm! I should hope not!” Sam leaned in, curious. “Scooter looked all over the theatre for our Newsman. Just where was he hiding?”

“With me, in the lighting bay front-of-house.” She hoped Kermit wasn’t hearing her. She didn’t want to get Newsie in trouble. She hadn’t felt any sort of uneasiness earlier which would have alerted her that something was going to happen to him in a News Flash tonight, and that worried her. Maybe it just meant this would be one of the non-violent ones.

Sam looked out at the ceiling over the audience, startled. “Up there? What could possibly be of interest to a serious journalist up there?”

Gina couldn’t resist. “Oh…me. Kissing him.” She grinned at the eagle’s instant shocked recoil, and returned her attention to the stage.

Finishing up a report on a philanthropist donating a fortune to public television, the Newsman read from his notes: “…And Mr Hunt said he’d happily give what he could, although he noted humorously, quote, ‘Not even I am made of money.’” Ah, a nice safe story for a change. He moved to his next sheet of copy. “In other news today, the board of the Museum of Modern Art made their final selections…er, their final…ah…” Distracted by an odd feeling in his hands, he looked at them to find green bills of money growing out of his sleeves. “Erk!” He pulled at them, and with sharp little tugs they broke from his skin, fluttering down on his desk. More immediately grew. His hair and cheeks and neck felt tickly and odd as well, and he could feel rustly things beneath his shirt. “Oh, good grief,” he moaned, trying to shake off the papery growths.

Rowlf laughed in the orchestra pit. “Hey, looks like dinner’s on Newsie tonight!”

Animal popped up, eyes wide. “Din-ner?” He turned to stare at Newsie. “Din-ner!”

The Newsman saw him coming only just in time to flee. “Aaagh!”

Gina caught him as he ran offstage, swinging him up onto Kermit’s desk with surprisingly strong arms. “Animal, no! Down! No!” Kermit yelled, but the drummer barreled over him, trying to jump up and reach Newsie, who cringed behind Gina. After a few minutes of what looked like a rough basketball game without a basketball, Floyd managed to drag the excited drummer away by his chain, although as Floyd walked off he plucked a twenty from Newsie’s collar, chortling.

“Ow,” Newsie groaned. He held up his hands, looking at the now-thick stuffing of money coming out of his sleeves. He could feel growths like whiskers on his chin, and every move he made rustled all over. “This is ridiculous.” He hadn’t felt so absurd since the time Kermit had insisted he dress in that silly Town Crier outfit for the “Robin Hood” production.

Gina stared at him, biting her lip. Gonzo started giggling. Kermit shook his head, dusting himself off and sending his nephew Robin onstage to do a song. Fozzie came over, looking the Newsman up and down. After a moment he said, “So the other day I asked Newsie for a loan. He says to me, he says: what, do you think I’m made –“

“It’s been done,” Gonzo, Kermit, and Gina chorused at him. Fozzie held up his paws defensively.

“Sheesh, okay! Hey, uh, hey Newsie? Can you spare a twenty for a starving comic?” Fozzie asked.

The Newsman glared at the bear. Gina took his hand, tugged a bill off it, and handed it to Fozzie. Newsie winced, but Gina immediately kissed the sore skin. Fozzie laughed. “Hey, thanks! Now I can go get that honey roll I wanted!” He trotted off happily. Gina helped the Newsman down from the desk.

“That hurt,” he told her. She pursed her lips, then bit them again.

“Well, at least nothing fell on you.”

“Don’t even say it,” he sighed. He closed his eyes, grimacing, bracing himself. “Will you please get these off of me?”

It started with Gina pulling the bills off, but quickly became a free-for-all as other Muppets heard what was happening and hurried up to get their shares of the free cash. Gina smacked as many hands and paws away as she could, with Newsie trying to block every grab: “Ow! Hey! Ow! Knock it off! Ow!” Fighting desperately, he called to Gina, “Dressing-room!”

“Good idea!” she said, and bumped aside MahnaMahna to give Newsie a shot at escape. He ran for it. Gina had to hold back a couple more of them, but finally he wound up in his cramped dressing-room, with Gina standing guard at the door. When she waved a broom around and threatened to use it, the crowd dispersed with many disapointed murmurs. She knocked on the door. “They’re gone. Are you okay?”

“Just…ow…great. Ow.” He yanked the bills off his skin, one by one, each separation leaving a tiny sore spot. He imagined a chicken being plucked would feel much the same. He pulled off his jacket and tie and unbuttoned his shirt, dismayed at the large cluster of bills on his chest. “Oh…” He used a few of the words she’d spoken when they were running for the stage.

Worried, Gina called in, “Are you okay? Do you need any help?”

“No,” Newsie sighed. “Although some soothing lotion would be a good idea…”

“Okay.” There was a long pause from outside. The Newsman rested a moment, unwilling to resume the money-plucking. Finally Gina asked, in a more normal tone, “So…do you want to go out for dinner after this?”

“Sure,” he replied. “Apparently we can afford it.”

He heard her giggle. With a heavy sigh, he steeled himself, took a deep breath, grabbed firm hold of a handful of the twenties on his chest, and pulled.

“Eeeyaaaaaaaaaagh!”

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 12

“So like I brought the party favors for all of yous, okay?” the King Prawn called out, cheerfully greeting everyone as he breezed through the backstage area, tossing cheap fake-flower leis at all he encountered.

“Hi, Pepe. How was Spring Break?” Kermit asked politely, looking up from his ledger. He was in a better mood since the Newsman had donated half his unusual windfall of cash to the theatre; it meant they could pay the electric bill well into next month.

“It was wonderful! Oh, Kermins, you should have seen all the sexy womens, okay? All of them laying around on the beach in their bikinis, rubbing suntan oil on my back…” Pepe bragged.

“Uh, Pepe, why would you need suntan oil?”

“Okay so maybe it was sunscreen. I don’t needs to burn, you know?” The diminutive prawn strolled around, tossing the remainder of his souvenirs over the newel post to the dressing-room stairs. “So, you were very very bored without me, I know, but not to worry, ‘cause I am back!”

“Actually, it’s been pretty crazy around here,” Kermit told him.

Taken aback, the prawn repeated, “Crazy? Ah, ha ha – you are joking I see! That’s very funny, Kermins! Crazy around here! Without Pepe! Ha ha ha!”

“No; we had an outbreak of turkey flu; Crazy Harry got tied up and electrocuted; the theatre had ghosts…”

Pepe shook his head, rolling his tiny eyes. “Oh, you are funny, funny frog. There’s no such thing as turkey flu, okay?”

“…And I think the Newsman has a girlfriend.”

Pepe kept chuckling, dismissively mumbling a repetition of the events Kermit was telling him, but suddenly did a double-take. “Who has a girlfriends?”

“The Newsman.”

Pepe leaned in, touching Kermit on the arm with one tiny claw. “No, no. You see, the way you do comedys is, you make it at least sound believable! Because you almost had me for a minute there, and then you had to go and ruins it, okay?”

Kermit shrugged. “Well, believe it or not, all of that is exactly what happened while you were gone.”

“I do not believe it.”

“Suit yourself.” Kermit went back to his accounts ledger.

Pepe hopped down the stairs to the green room, where a few people called out hellos and asked about his vacation. Setting himself up on a table, the prawn effusively apologized for the past lack of his sparkling presence around the theatre, but there were co-eds on the beaches of Cancun who simply would not take a “No” from poor, in-demand Pepe…

The Newsman emerged from his dressing-room, saw the small crowd in the center of the dining area around that braggart shrimp, and with a frown went to the other end of the room in hopes it would be quieter. He opened the book he’d bought today, The Backstage Handbook, and started reading. The key to any good story was research. He wanted to be able to keep up with Gina; she’d expressed a desire to introduce him to her tech theatre friends, and he didn’t want to appear a complete ignoramus around them. He’d be the first to admit he didn’t know a board from a batten, or a double washer from a front-loading one, but he was determined to learn. He’d been in the Muppet Theatre for decades and had never bothered to learn any of the technical side of the productions. He’d had no reason to – he was, foremost, a journalist. (He was in too good a mood to think about his other basic function, that of unintentional comic relief.) The past two evenings spent in her company had buoyed him, and he studied the drawings and definitions listed in the handbook with a light heart, despite their complete unfamiliarity to him. New things normally made him anxious.

He became so engrossed with this study that he didn’t hear her coming down the stairs into the green room, and Pepe spotted her first.

The prawn zipped to the side of this gorgeous redhead in the purposely tatty gypsy skirt and loose silk blouse tied closed at her slim waist. And those shoes! Open-toe golden-hued sandals, and toenails painted rose! “Hhhello,” he purred at her silkily, glomming onto her foot mid-step. “Are you looking for company, beautiful girl with the shoes I cannot resist? You know, I cannot help but notice your hair is the same color as mine! Tell me, do you believe in…destiny?”

Startled, Gina froze. “Uh…hi.”

Hearing her voice, Newsie looked up, and saw Pepe drooling on her. Angrily he strode over and tapped the shrimp on the approximate spot where his shoulder might be. “Claws off,” he informed the shrimp.

“Hey, I saw her first, Woodward and Bernstein in a bad, bad jacket,” Pepe returned. Staring up at Gina, he tried again: “Would you like a lei, señorita with the hair like the sunset over the beach at Acapulco?”

“Would I like a what?” Gina asked, incredulous.

“The flower things, okay? I brought back a plethora from Spring Break,” Pepe explained, showing her the three or four draped around his neck.

“No, I’m good,” she said, biting back a grin.

“Hey Pepe, do you actually know what a plethora is?” Dr Teeth joked, overhearing the exchange.

The Newsman took her hand as she came the rest of the way down the stairs, leading her away to the corner bench where he’d been sitting. He threw a scowl over his shoulder at the shrimp. Pepe’s jaw dropped as the two of them sat down together, and the beautiful girl leaned over to kiss the Newsman…right on his large mouth. For a long time. Seeing Rizzo come up next to him, Pepe murmured, “I am not believing this, okay! Tell me I am having the hallucinations!”

The rat shook his head. “Tell me about it. You shoulda seen her goin’ all Florence Nightengale on him a few days ago. What a waste!”

“What is it? What? It cannot be the clothes,” Pepe mused, watching the firey lady and the awkward-looking newscaster holding hands as they sat close together and talked softly. “Maybe she has a thing for noses?”

“Eh, whatever. So what’d ya bring me, pal?” Rizzo asked.

“Oh, here, have a lei.”

The rat looked contemptuously at the small necklace of fake flowers in bright colors. “What? You promised me phone numbers of gorgeous co-eds!”

“Well, you know, I was busy, okay? Am I gonna stop a beautiful womens from rubbing oil all over my back to ask for her to dry her hands off and write down a phone number for you?” Pepe demanded. The two of them wandered off, arguing.

“Are you trying to do homework on me?” Gina asked Newsie, picking up the handbook.

Embarrassed, he shrugged. “I don’t know a great deal about your work. I didn’t want y…your friends to discover my ignorance.”

Gina smiled, and with slender fingers stroked his hair back. It felt remarkably intimate, and he glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Naturally, several Muppets were. “Uh…” he said, unsure how to react. Gina noticed the stares, and stood, offering her hand.

“Why don’t we go out back for a bit? We can tell Scooter to come get you if they need you,” she suggested. Relieved, he agreed at once, and they left the green room. Scooter agreed to look for the Newsman outside if he was required for a news sketch, and soon they had reached relative privacy out on the loading dock. There, they brushed off an area on the edge of the dock and sat next to one another. The evening air was cool but not unpleasant. “I take it you’re bothered by them staring,” Gina said once they were settled.

Newsie fidgeted uncomfortably. “Well, you…you understand…I have a certain professional standard to uphold at work…”

“Do you not want me to kiss you when any of them are around?”

He looked up; her gaze was serious, and a little disappointed. “No, I – I mean yes, you can certainly – I mean…” He swallowed, at a loss for words. “Maybe if we could…just be a little more…discreet?”

“I don’t see anyone around right now,” Gina observed.

Newsie darted suspicious looks all around, but she was right. Everyone else was inside, with the curtain about to go up. He nodded. Suddenly she’d slipped an arm around his waist and was kissing him deeply. “Oh,” he mumbled helplessly; then closed his eyes, returning the kiss, his right hand gently touching her cheek, feeling how soft her skin was.

A flashbulb went off. Startled, they broke apart. Fleet Scribbler stood in the alley, grinning up at the pair. “Man, what a scoop!” the hack cackled. “I can see the headline now: ‘Yellow Journalist Caught in Compromising Liplock!’” He pointed up at the Newsman. “I think that photo captures your best side, too. I could see right up your nose.”

“Scribbler!” the Newsman yelled, outraged, shooting to his feet and resisting the temptation to leap down and pummel the gossip-obsessed flack.

“Why are you taking pictures of us?” Gina demanded. She held onto Newsie so he wouldn’t lose his balance and fall; he was clearly furious and not thinking about his own safety.

“Sister, are you kidding? I haven’t seen a kiss that outrageous since Guy Smiley got busted in the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders’ dressing-room! This is going right to page one of the Daily Scandal!” Fleet promised, and took off running.

Newsie was tugging at Gina’s hands. “Let me go. I have to stop him!”

“Wait, wait, wait. Hold on,” Gina said, trying to calm him. “So he got a shot of us kissing. So what? How does that compromise you in any way?”

“I am a serious journalist!” the Newsman protested. “That…that hack will write some terrible story to go with that photo, and damage my reputation!”

“Newsie,” Gina said softly. She had to touch his face to get his full attention. “Newsie. Are you ashamed of being seen with me?”

“What? No! No, of course not.”

“Then what difference does it make what some rag prints?” She looked at him pointedly. He stopped and thought about it. Maybe she was right. She continued softly, “If his scandal sheet makes up a story about you being involved with me, who cares? I don’t mind being romantically linked to you. Do you mind it?”

“No,” he answered, slowly sitting down again.

“Is it scandalous for a Muppet to date a non-Muppet?”

“Well, it’s…” He thought about it. “It’s…unusual.”

“Are you saying there would be prejudice against me? Or against you?”

“I should hope my colleagues would be more enlightened than that!”

“Well, I’d hope so too.” She held his hand, gently stroking his fingers with her own. Her touch relaxed him instantly. He gazed up at her, realizing his worry was unnecessary. He nodded at her, then lifted his head to offer another kiss.

Just as their lips met, Pepe groaned from behind them, “I cannot believe this, okay? You two little lovemonkeys need to break it up! The frog, he says you gotta news chalkboard.”

“A news chalkboard?” Gina frowned.

“He has to go read the news, okay?” Pepe yelled, frustrated.

Sighing, Newsie got to his feet. Gina stopped him before he went, pulling him down to her and planting a quick kiss on the middle of his nose. “Don’t break a leg,” she murmured. Feeling wonderfully flushed, Newsie smiled at her, then hurried inside.

“He smiled,” Pepe said, shocked. “He smiled! I have never, ever seen that guy smile! He would not smile if you told him he had won a million pesos and a month’s stay at the All-Wimpy-Newspeople’s Casino! Unbelievable!”

“It’s a great smile, isn’t it?” Gina said, smiling herself after her adorably reticent Newsie.

“I can show you a better one,” the prawn murmured at her, gazing up at her with adoring eyes.

Gina shook her head, pushed the prawn away, and walked into the theatre to see how her fearless journalist would fare tonight.



Just before curtain, in the lab tucked between the old prop storage room and the tool room just off the tunnel belowstage, Dr Bunsen Honeydew held up a readout screen and frowned. “Beaker, have you been playing with the OscilloPsychaThromboScope?”

The lab assistant denied this with a firm swivel of his long head. “Uh–uhh.”

“These readings don’t make any sense,” Honeydew muttered. “I’d expected to see a peak in the 300 megahertz range when we set off the test for radioactive cockroaches earlier.” Beaker just shook his head, tiredly returning to sweeping up the bits of glass and straw which had been the result of the chemical cockroach test explosion a half-hour before. Honeydew checked the results of the test against some other instruments. “That’s odd…not only was there nothing in the 300 range, but we’re picking up strong fluctuations in the 1200 –to-1500 megahertz portion of the scale!” Beaker shrugged, really not caring. It had taken him some time to pluck all the glass shards from his nose. “Beaker, do you know what this means?”

Beaker sighed, attempting interest. “Mee mee, mee mee meep?”

“No, you silly goose. It means we have a conjuction of dangerous energies here in the theatre!”

The word dangerous definitely got Beaker’s attention. “Meep meep?”

“Yes! We need to find the source of this astoundingly high reading at once, or something terrible may happen! Now…let me just adjust that…” Honeydew frowned again. “Beaker, hand me that A-wrench, would you? The adjustment knob on the ‘Scope seems to be stuck…”

Beaker tried to wrench the stubborn knob himself; on the third attempt, with a grunt of “Meep!”, he turned the knob all the way to the other end. “No, no, not so far! That’s too high! It may –“

BOOM!

The scientists stood with their faces blackened and smoke wafting from their heads. “Feed back,” Honeydew murmured, and sank to the floor unconscious. Beaker’s eyes rolled up and he sighed down into a faint as well, both of their heads ringing with the aftershock of the soundwaves from the OscilloPsychaThromboScope.

Across the room, three different instruments measuring strange energy fields within the theatre suddenly spiked, their needles jumping crazily as if an earthquake had just gone off under the building.



“Here is a Muppet News Flash! Congress continues to debate the national budget.” The Newsman paused, staring confusedly at his notes, a growing pleasure in his mind. A real story? A serious current events report? “Er…The debate has been dragging on for weeks, with both sides insisting upon their own terms, unable to reach a compromise. Leaders in the House of Representatives say they are still determined to slash the budget – yeek!” He ducked as he saw an enormous sword coming at him. It sliced so close over his head he could feel the wind from its passage. Nervously he glanced left and right, but saw no sign where it had gone. Great. Checking the bulletin, he resumed, feeling less confident: “Uh…Although the Senate has agreed to increase the amount of money which will be cut from this year’s budget – aaagh!” He dodged to one side to avoid a large pair of scissors which flew straight at him, impaling itself in his backdrop, points spread open and quivering with the force of the strike. Shaken, Newsie finished the report. “Ah…uh…Both sides have yet to agree on the exact terms which will settle the issue. All this is a matter of some concern not only for the present ficsal year, but for its implications for the upcoming debates on next year’s budget, where members of the House are promising to introduce measures which will severely chop a number of – aaaaaagh!” Newsie ducked and dodged as a fire-ax, apparently of its own accord, appeared from nowhere and began chopping at him. When he ducked below his desk, the ax attacked that, swiftly reducing his nice wood desk to kindling. Newsie fled the stage, terrified; the ax whirled end over end after him, embedding itself in the floorboards just offstage with a loud THUNK.

“Newsie!” Gina ran to him, and for a moment he wasn’t at all ashamed to cling to her, looking back at the ax. It had barely missed him. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he panted, slowly releasing his grip on her arms; she kept hold of his shoulders, staring at the weapon, its handle still vibrating. “Fine. That was closer than usual…”

“That was deadlier than usual!” Gonzo exclaimed. “Wow! Are you trying to upstage me, Newsie?” Gonzo was about to go on with another motorcycle jump; this time, he was using nitrous in the bike, and hoped to reach the balcony.

“You can have it,” Newsie muttered. He kept staring at the ax. Gina kissed his forehead, and he took her hand in his, not caring if anyone saw.

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 13

Saturday night, Gina had to attend a full run-through for the crew of the show her theatre was doing. “It’s a rehearsal for the actors, but all the rest of us who’re going to be running it are supposed to come watch, so we can get an idea what the final production will look like,” she explained to Newsie late Friday. “If you want, I can see if the tech director would mind you attending after you finish your show.”

“No, no, don’t go to any trouble,” Newsie demurred. “Could I…could I meet you afterward?”

“Absolutely,” she smiled, bestowing another of the amazing kisses upon him. “Oh…I need something from you.”

“Anything,” he agreed instantly.

“A lock of your hair.”

“A lock of…? Why?”

“Just trust me,” she smiled at him. “It’s a Gypsy thing, okay?”

“Sure,” Newsie said, allowing her to gently cut a bit of hair from over his right ear with a small pocketknife she carried. That was the side that usually fluffed out of control anyway. He gave her a puzzled look, but she wouldn’t elaborate.

Instead she asked, “And what are your two favorite colors?”

“Hunter green and indigo blue,” he said, then felt silly when she laughed. “Are those bad choices?”

“No, those are gorgeous! I just would’ve thought…you know…red and brown.”

“Why?” He blinked at her in confusion.

“Uh…no reason, I guess.” They stood a moment in silence, in front of Gina’s apartment building. Though not ritzy, the Newsman could tell at a glance it was far nicer than where he lived. Old, but it looked well-maintained. Gina smiled at him, brushing her hair back. “So…thank you for another wonderful night.”

They hadn’t done anything besides go have a late dinner together in a café where the pig waiters all spoke Mock Greek, but Newsie had enjoyed it immensely as well. “You didn’t mind the waiter smashing your plate on the ground during the dance?” he asked her.

“Well, I wasn’t really done with it…but no. It was fun.” She leaned down to kiss him. “Thank you, Newsie.”

“Thank you,” he responded. “You know, I’ve never…I mean, no one else has ever…that is…” He sighed. “Look, Gina, I can’t even begin to understand this, but you have made the past few days the happiest of my entire life. So whatever your…your reasons for going out with me…thank you.” He gazed earnestly up at her, hoping this dream wouldn’t end anytime soon.

She gave him a wicked grin. “What do you think my reasons are?”

Having tentatively ruled out the pity motive, the Newsman had no idea. “I couldn’t begin to guess,” he told her honestly, anxiously tugging down the hem of his jacket and smoothing down his tie.

“Come on, you’re a great catch!” Gina said, touching the bridge of his glasses. He readjusted them nervously. “I’m just happy no one else snagged you first.”

Newsie thought of the one chorus girl he’d asked out, some years back, after she’d been in a couple of dance numbers at the Muppet Theatre. Not only had she been cute and blonde, she’d been clueless about his job, and had told him directly that she didn’t want to be known as “the girl who’s dating the mook who gets flattened every other show.” Wincing at the memory, he looked at the sidewalk. “I just don’t…I hope you won’t…get bored with me.”

“How could I?” she asked, and knelt to meet his gaze. “Newsie…I’m thrilled you want to go out with me, okay? My friends think I’m too straitlaced.” His eyes opened wider at that; good grief, what must her friends be like? “A serious guy like you is just what I need. Okay?” She smiled at him, one hand caressing his jaw. He melted inside.

They kissed goodnight. She made it a very passionate kiss, so much so that when they finally parted he was almost too dazed to wave good-bye to her as she went up the stone steps to the building’s front entrance. “See you tomorrow at Cutter’s! Remember, I probably won’t be there until ten!” He nodded. He wouldn’t forget. “Good night!”

“Good night,” he responded, and stood gazing raptly at the closed door for some time until someone else passed him going up the steps. They gave the Newsman a curious look, which shook him out of his trance.

Walking home, he started whistling the lively tune the Mock Greek pigs had been dancing and clapping to, softly at first. By the time he reached his own door, he was adding little flourishes and modulations to the song, happy at the recollection of Gina swirling her skirt around and grabbing his hands to pull him onto the floor.



“Oh are you kidding me?” Rizzo groaned, staring at the scene before him.

“Unbelievable,” Pepe agreed, thowing his antennae back.

Hearing them, the Newsman turned around, smoothing down the front of his new sports jacket. “I just spent two hundred on all this,” he protested. “I don’t want to hear it! I’m not accepting any fashion critiques from a rat and a shrimp!”

“King Prawn, okay?” Pepe bristled.

Newsie scowled at him. “What are you doing here, anyway?” He was used to seeing the rat around his apartment by now, but the shrimp was an unpleasant addition. Turning away from the tiny pair, Newsie tried to check his appearance in the bathroom mirror. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see more than his head and chest. He straightened his new tie. Looking down at himself, trying to judge objectively, he thought he looked professional enough. It was odd not to see tan and brown and gray, but he’d really wanted something a little more colorful to wear for Gina.

“Oh, he’s wit’ me,” Rizzo said. The two of them, uninvited, jumped up on the Newsman’s bed to stare at him while he continued to fuss in the doorway to the bathroom. “Man, oh, man. I didn’t think anything could be worse than that ugly old plaid thing!”

“How about a new ugly plaid? Looks like, what, Saint Pippy’s Day at the furniture salesman’s golf game?” Pepe offered, and he and Rizzo snickered.

“You mean Saint Paddy’s Day?”

“Whatever. But definitely golf, no?”

Newsie tried to ignore them. He rather liked the deep-green-and-blue plaid check pattern of the jacket, the matching indigo tie with widely spaced tiny green pinstripes, and the solid charcoal-colored pants. He’d even bought a pair of green argyle check socks to go with the outfit. “I’ve never played golf,” he told them huffily.

“Well, in that, you should be announcing it!” Rizzo chortled.

The rat grunted as Newsie backhanded him off the bed. Pepe cringed, then hopped down. “No vermin on the bed!” Newsie growled at them, and strode from the room.

He paused by the front door, making sure he had a small comb, his wallet and keys, and a packet of breath mints tucked into his pockets. He noticed Rhonda staring at him. “Well?” he demanded.

Rhonda bobbed her head at him. “You look very handsome.”

Pleased, Newsie nodded at her. “Thank you. I’ll be late; don’t wait up.”

“Have fun!” the little rat squeaked, waving as he left the apartment.

“Sheesh,” Rizzo complained, rubbing the back of his head. “Kiss-up!”

“Yeah? That’s why I get the leftover cereal in the morning and you get slapped around!” Rhonda smirked.

Pepe elbowed Rizzo with two arms. “Hey, Rizzo, he must have a big date, no? We should go see how badly he flops.”

“Good point,” Rizzo said. The two of them hurried out the door. “I’ll count the number of people laughing at his jacket, you count the number of times he has to stand on tiptoe to talk to her!”



The Newsman was handling the evening fine until a bulletin came in for him to read. He’d paced the green room, nervously trying to keep down the butterflies in his stomach with a mango turnover from the Muppet Theatre kitchen. It helped somewhat, although he first had to beat the turnover into silence; it kept trying to sing “Born Free” while he was eating it. He’d acknowledged the compliments from Gonzo and Lew on his new threads, although it annoyed him a bit that no one else said anything…at least, not to him. And that dratted rat and shrimp dogged his footsteps all evening. He kept checking his watch. In four hours he would see Gina…in three and a half hours he would see Gina…

“News Flash!” Scooter yelled from the top of the stairs. Feeling more energetic than he had in years, Newsie bounded up and snatched the paper from Scooter before he could yell a second time, and sprinted to the stage. A newly constructed desk had only just slid into place when he reached it.

“Now for a Muppet News Flash!” he barked out, glancing at the paper in his left hand. “A tanker truck filled with corrosive acid collided with a truck from the Muppet Paper Company earlier today! Fortunately no one was injured in the crash. Traffic on the highway was blocked for hours, but eventually all the mess was cleaned…uh…” He blinked, then peered closely at his notes. The paper seemed damaged; the last few lines were missing. Well, whatever… He set it aside, reading from the next sheet: “In other news, Muppet Labs has perfected a new kind of acid for coating paper. The Self-Shredding Document Acid is inert and harmless until it reacts with the oils commonly found in skin – hey!”

He dropped the paper, watching it dissolve into wisps of smoke, then suddenly realized his left hand was burning. “Ow…what the…?” When he held his fingers up for a closer look, they burst into tiny blue flames. “Aaaaaagh!”

“Hey, Goldie! Stop, drop, and roll!” Statler yelled.

“I thought that’s what he’s always wanted!” Waldorf exclaimed.

“What’s that?”

“A really hot story!”

“Oh, ho ho ho ho ho!”

Beau came running out with the fire extinguisher. “I gotcha! I gotcha! Don’t worry!” he shouted. He pulled the trigger; nothing happened. “Oops,” he said, eyes wide. “Guess I forgot to refill it after last time!”

In agony, the Newsman grabbed the nearest thing at hand – Beau’s hat – and tried to smother the flames. Instead, the hat went up. Not only did this hurt horribly, the flames were threatening to start up his arm and take his new jacket with it. Panicked, the Newsman ran offstage, saw a bucket of liquid sitting in the wing, and plunged his hand into it. A huge cloud of steam poofed into the air. The fire went out, but the fumes enevloped his head. Coughing, he immediately swooned.

When he came to, feeling nauseous, he heard Kermit talking to someone else. “Yeah, close call. The drapes almost went up! …No, he’s fine. Here, I see him coming around. Do you want to talk to him? …Okay.” Kermit set the phone receiver down. “Hey, Newsman. It’s Gina.”

Newsie nodded weakly, and tried to get up from the floor. After two unsuccessful tries, he staggered over to the phone on the wall. “H-Hello?”

“Newsie? Oh, my gosh, are you all right? What happened?”

“I’m okay,” he muttered, looking at his hand. It was bright red and even the air was hurting it.

“Kermit said your hand got burned! What happened? I felt something hot, and I felt like I should run over there, and I’ve been so worried…” His eyes closed, and he leaned against the wall, cradling his injured hand. Gina went from worried-sounding to determined in his ear. “I’m coming over. To heck with rehearsal.”

“No, no, I’m fine,” he lied. “Don’t…don’t make your director angry. I’m fine. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Newsie, you don’t sound fine,” Gina argued.

He swallowed, trying to project more confidence into his voice. “I promise, I’m fine. You know this sort of thing just happens to me. I’ve always been accident-prone.”

“It felt really hot. How bad are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Newsie insisted, desperately wanting to get off the phone and go treat his hand with something. “Get back to your rehearsal. I’ll meet you at the restaurant as we agreed. Promise.”

Reluctantly, she agreed. “Can I bring anything for you?”

“No, I think I still have that burn cream you gave me around here somewhere…”

“Burn cream? Newsie, just how bad are you hurt?”

“Gina, it’s not bad, okay? I’ve been through worse. I can handle this. This is nothing.” He tried to sound nonchalant. “Go on. Do your rehearsal. I’ll see you soon.”

He heard her sigh. “All right, if you say so. Just please take care of yourself, okay?”

“Mm-hmm,” he grunted, doing his best not to give in to the pain. His hand felt like it was still on fire. After telling him she was looking forward to tonight, she let him go finally. He leaned against the wall, letting out the long groan he’d been holding in. After several deep breaths, he urged his feet to move, going downstairs to find the salve she’d brought him before. Luckily it was still in his dressing-room where he’d left it, and he slathered it over his entire left hand, then found a clean rag in Beau’s neat pile of them which was long enough to wrap several times around it, although he had to ask Rowlf to tie the end up for him.

“Dang, it didn’t burn the jacket,” Rizzo complained to Pepe, watching as Newsie sat grimacing while the dog gently knotted the end of the rag around his injured hand.

“The night is young, amigo,” Pepe murmured back. “Twenty bucks says the fashion disaster doesn’t make it to midnight.”

“Yeah? And then what – it turns back into a lounge chair?”

They giggled and chortled from the safety of under a table. Newsie didn’t hear them. He thanked Rowlf, then sat glumly, wondering whether it would be better or worse if he unwrapped it before Gina actually arrived at the meeting-place and tried to pretend it was perfectly fine.



Not quite an hour later, he stood staring up at the erratically blinking sign: CUTT RS T VERN. This wasn’t a restaurant, it was a bar! He rechecked the address Gina had given him. Dismayed at finding he hadn’t made a mistake, he debated actually going inside. Maybe he should just wait out front for her. She’d be there in only…he checked his watch. An hour and forty-five minutes, at the least. He glanced up and down the street. Did something just move in that dark alley, right across from him? He quickly removed his glasses, polished the lenses with a handkerchief, and resettled them on his nose. A cold wind swept down the empty street, making him shiver. The forecast had been for a warmer night, and he hadn’t worn his usual plain T-shirt beneath his white dress shirt. His new jacket, though wool, was of a thinner weave than his usual sports coat. He was sure he did see movement then, at the edge of the corner; someone standing motionless, almost invisible on the unlit side of the building, had just tilted their head down to look at him.

The Newsman hurried into the bar. He hadn’t taken three steps into the low-ceilinged room when an enormous bear landed on the floor right in front of him. Newsie jumped back, startled, but the bear only groaned.

“If ya can’t pay, ya don’t play! You know the rules, bud!” snarled a large hog with black sideburns and a spiked collar around his neck. Spikes and chains also festooned his black leather jacket.

“I…I’ll get the money, I promise,” the bear snuffled. Newsie wasn’t sure which of the two he ought to be more afraid of…especially when the bear got to his feet. He wore a rumpled suit and was at least two feet taller than the Newsman.

Maybe outside wasn’t so bad a place to wait…

Newsie suddenly heard a familiar voice. “Aaaaaand with that, Bobo is out of the tournament! Having lost three games in a row and what were probably his life savings, the bear is gone, leaving the crowd favorite, Pinky Studebaker, as the highest-ranking player! Will he go all the way? Stay tuned, snooker fans!”

The Newsman cautiously made his way through the raucous crowd to see Lewis Kazagger standing on a tall flat barstool, mic in hand, chatting with two very large-armed, tattooed men holding billiard cues. “Lewis? What are you doing here?” Newsie asked, completely astonished.

Kazagger looked over and broke into a wide smile. “Hey, it’s the Man with the News! How’ve you been, Newsie?”

“Fine, good,” Newsie replied, still taken aback at seeing the long-nosed sportscaster in a dive like this.

“Did you come to watch the tournament?”

“What tournament?”

Kazagger gestured to a billiards table rigged for snooker. “This is the Elimination Round for the Five Boroughs Worst Pool Dive Tourney! With Bobo gone, that brings it down to just four players – ‘Big Daddy D’ Lazer, Alfie ‘the Shark’ Fatswaller, Pimsley Ffarffahaffnfr, and Pinky Studebaker here. His friends call him Rob,” Kazagger said, pointing in turn to four of the meanest-looking hoods Newsie had ever seen outside of an episode of “The Wire.”

One of them leaned over to ask the Newsman, “Wanna know why dey call me da Shark?”

“Not really,” Newsie said, backing away.

“’Cause I eats little guys like you for breakfasts!” the man said, grinning with enormous and terribly sharp teeth.

“Easy, Shark, easy! Newsie’s not in the Tourney! He’s a fellow journalist,” Kazagger said, tapping the brute’s shoulder. He nodded at a man carrying a camera on his shoulder, held his mic up again, and addressed the camera: “Welcome back, all you pool hall rejects and devotees of the eight-ball! This is Lewis Kazagger live at Cutter’s Tavern, where they’re racking ‘em up now for the first of three matches between Pimsley, known as ‘the Gent’ for his fastidious manners, and Pinky, who is odds-on to win the whole enchilada!”

“They got enchiladas here?” Rizzo asked, ears perking.

Pepe sniffed experimentally. “I only smells beer nuts and beer.”

As the two wove through the forest of chair legs and large-booted feet, the Newsman retreated to the bar, which appeared less crowded. Most people seemed to be on the floor, either watching the pool face-off or playing their own games at other tables. A tough-looking lady bartender planted her hands on the counter in front of him. “Yeah? Whatcha want?”

“Er…cranberry juice?” Newsie asked.

She quirked an eyebrow at him, then shrugged and filled a beer mug with juice. He looked at it uncertainly; he hadn’t been aware cranberries ever foamed over. When the bartender kept glaring at him, he hurriedly fished out a five and handed it over. She took it, slapping a dime back on the bar as his change. Foaming and expensive. Great. Having nothing better to do, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, Newsie turned his barstool around to watch the snooker match. Why on earth had Gina picked this place? Was this the sort of bar where she and her friends usually met? Repressing a shudder, he sipped the oddly sour juice and watched the gargantuan Pimsley lining up his shot.

“Hey sister, ya got any cheese sticks back there?” Rizzo asked at the other end of the bar.

The bartender recoiled, then just as quickly snapped the end of her bar-rag at the rat, sending him tumbling. On a barstool, Pepe watched in growing awe. “No rats in the bar!” the bartender growled.

The King Prawn batted his eyelashes at her. “How do you feel about crustaceans, hot mama?”

At the pool table, Pimsley had taken and missed his shot, and now Pinky returned, chalking his cue, squinting across the table from several angles. “Just look at that determination!” Kazagger whispered loudly for the camera. “He checks the angles…checks the wind…checks the bar tab…and there’s the shot!”

Newsie ducked as a billiard ball came flying past, thwocking into a large catcher’s glove the bartender held up. She tossed the ball back toward the table, barely even looking up from the pint-glass she was filling at a tap. “Oh sweet lady of the unbelievable reflexes, I am in love!” Pepe gushed.

At the table, Pimsley ‘the Gent’ laughed loud and harshly, beating his meaty fist against his own thigh. Angrily, Pinky swung his pool cue, breaking it over Pimsley’s head. The only-slightly-less-meaty Pimsley croaked out a grunt of surprise, then swung his own cue. Kazagger ducked, continuing to comment: “And it seems Pinky wants to move right into the second match, the brawling event! I don’t know if that’s allowed before the ball-hitting has ended – we’ll have to go to the judges!” The camera swung around to three bored-looking men with identical leather jackets and dark shades sitting at the center of the long bar. Two of them gave a thumbs-down; one finished the mug of beer in his hand and then showed a downturned thumb as well. “The judges say no! Oh, no! Is Pinky Studebaker to be disqualified this close to his heart’s desire?”

The raucous bar grew even more confused and agitated, the crowd surging in every direction as punching and body-slamming broke out among all four snooker contestants, then spread into the rest of the room. The Newsman decided he would rather risk the street outside. Slipping off his seat, he dodged the weaving, shouting patrons anxiously, his hurt hand getting knocked around twice, making him yelp in pain. He ran into Kazagger near the door. Lewis was trying to look around the flying bodies and ducking away from the occasional thrown hard ivory ball. “Lewis, get out of this madhouse!” Newsie shouted at him.

“I can’t without my cameraman!” Kazagger yelled back over the commotion.

“Where is he?”

A figure in a photographer’s vest flew up over one of the tables, shrieking. A moment later, the camera flew up as well. Both newscasters winced as they heard it crunch. “On second thought, fresh air sounds fantastic,” Lewis agreed, and the two of them dashed out the front door as ‘Big Daddy D’ plowed across the floor, face-first, ending up right where they’d been standing.

 

[The Count]

Yay! Good updates all around. Been meaning to ask if Rhonda is the reporter rat from the Animal Show? Enjoyed everything, especially Gina showing off her gypsy heritage asking for a personal item of Newsie's. The mock-Greek restaurant was a nice touch. I'm rully liking this couple.
And just like the snooker spectators, I'm off to watch some wrestling too. Thanks, more please.

 

[newsmanfan]

Count, ya just made a bad day better. Thank you!

The closer I get to the end of this story, the harder the chapters are to write, trying to maintain a faster pace but not get TOO serious (I mean hey, they ARE Muppets). Took me most of yesterday to get part 19 down on screen on my laptop. (Yes, I'm working ahead of the posts, in case I get bogged or blocked or just plain frustrated, to try and avoid any interruption for folks like you considerate enough to be readers -- and thank you, anyone reading!)

Rhonda is a generic chickie rat. As far as I know she's an original, but if she fits an existing character better I'm all for it.

And now...a date...

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 14

Bunsen Honeydew finished plugging in all the power cords and fibreoptic feeds, and dusted off his hands, turning to his assistant with a satisfied nod. “There! All hooked up. Are you ready, Beaker?”

Beaker looked at the remote unit, twiddling the knobs on it like an Etch-a-sketch. “Beaker, are you ready?” Sighing, Beaker gestured at the remote unit, then at the mini satellite dish Bunsen had rigged up to a sunvisor.

“Mee mee mee meep, mee mee meep,” he muttered. He was less than thrilled about this enture venture.

“Now, don’t forget, don’t let the equipment get wet, or it could short out and we’ll lose the signal,” Bunsen cautioned him. Ignoring the feeble protests of his assistant, he fit the visor on top of Beaker’s carrotey head, adjusting the strap so it fit tightly and didn’t slide down over Beaker’s eyeballs. Immediately Beaker staggered under the weight of the satellite dish. “Beaker, hold your head up straight! Good posture is often a key element of good lab work too, you know.” Bunsen turned on everything, checking to see if his readouts on the mainframe were picking up the satellite feed properly. “Well, everything looks good. Time to head out.” Sighing, Beaker trudged toward the door to the lab, then paused when he realized Honeydew wasn’t following.

“Mee meep?” he asked hesitantly, pointing at his boss.

“Oh, no, I’m not coming.”

“Mee meep!”

“Honestly, Beakie! One of us has to stay here and perform the tiresome drudgework of monitoring the signal, triangulating it, and measuring it!” Honeydew waved him off. “I do envy you! You’ll be the first to test this amazing invention. Just think of it, Beaker! You are the first to ever take the Muppet Labs PsychoKinetic Field Tracking Sensor out into the real world for a total field test! Oh, how I envy you!”

“Mee mee mee meep,” Beaker suggested, trying to hand the remote tracking screen to Bunsen, but the scientist pushed him out the door.

“Go on! Good luck! And find that psychokinetic field!”

The door shut with a bang. Beaker jumped at the sound, looked around at the empty hallway below the dark theatre, sighed, and started walking. He held up the remote tracker, a device Bunsen had built from former iPod parts with a big red carbon drawing screen in the center. Small circles appeared on the screen.

“Are you receiving me, Beaker?” Bunsen’s voice sounded tinned over the com system. Beaker nodded, realized Bunsen wouldn’t see it, and responded quietly with another meep. “Good! Hm…I see we have numerous readings all over the theatre. It appears the strongest one is out on the loading dock, but the most recent seems to be from the stage. Head upstairs, Beakie.”

Obediently Beaker trudged up to the stage floor, peering around nervously. Even though he knew the suspected Brown Ghost had turned out to be that girl who seemed to like the Newsman, he still didn’t like the dark theatre with no one else around. Not one bit. Tiptoeing out onto the stage, looking up at the single light high in the fly system which provided the only dim illumination, Beaker jumped a foot when Bunsen’s voice crackled over the com again. “There seems to be…some sort of interference from the field…” A shriek of static made Beaker yelp and jump again. “Ah, there! I’ve adjusted the com system for the psychokinetic field interference. Can you hear me any better now?”

“Meep,” Beaker groaned, his ears still ringing.

“Oh, excellent. Hmm…Beaker, adjust your sensor up a touch. We need to filter out the older readings.” Beaker twisted one of the knobs, and saw several of the circles on his screen vanish. “Now scan for the most recent one.” Beaker held up the remote sensor and slowly turned in a semicircle, watching the screen. A new blip appeared on it.

“How very strange! That one seems farther away…but it’s definitely the same energy pattern!” Bunsen commented. Beaker rechecked his sensor screen and then meeped agreement. Oh, good. That was too far away. He started to head back downstairs. Bunsen corrected him. “Beaker, where are you going? Go see what that reading is!”

“Meep mee mee?” Beaker asked anxiously.

“Yes! Your sensor indicates that reading is current! Something is causing it right now! We must go and see what the source of it is!”

“Me mee meep mee mee mee!” Beaker rapidly swiveled his head no way.

“Outside, Beakie! Track it down! Just be careful…with the equipment!”

Sighing, Beaker reluctantly unlocked the back door and ventured out into the dark streets.



“So, if you didn’t come for the snooker, why are you here?” Lewis asked.

The Newsman moved a little farther away from the door to the bar; the chaos within still sounded dangerous. “I’m supposed to be meeting…a friend,” he replied.

“You have friends who play snooker?”

“Not that I know of.”

The door to the bar flew open; the spiked pig bouncer and one of the patrons came tumbling out, both too busy punching the daylights out of one another to notice the two rats who scurried out in their wake, both carrying huge rounds of cheese over their heads.

“I didn’t know you were a pool player,” Rizzo said to the more muscular rat hefting a larger round of cheddar down the sidewalk.

“Ah, nuh. I just come here for the food. It’s easier to get on pool nights,” Bubba explained, and Rizzo laughed.

“Yeah, I see whatcha mean!” Avoiding another beefy customer who came flying out to crash on the sidewalk, the two rodents carried their haul around the corner.

Back in the bar, the King Prawn laid on the bartop, making gushy eyes at the Brunhilda of a bartender. “So, even though I am a prawn of the world, you know, I have never met a lady with such a fabulous right hook,” he praised her. She ignored him, decking yet another pool player who reeled too close to the taps.

Outside, the Newsman stood well away from the carnage, glad he wasn’t inside. Kazagger stood next to him, flinching as a brawny pig sailed out the door and landed right on top of the brawlers, sending them sprawling. “Ooh,” Lewis commented. “Right in the pork chops!”

The Newsman shook his head. “Uh…sorry about your broadcast,” he offered.

Kazagger shrugged. “Eh, it was only public access TV anyway.” He clapped his fellow journalist on the shoulder. “So! I guess you’re not worried about the Arabian Mafia, since you’re out in public?”

“What? What Arabian Mafia?”

“I read that piece about you in the Daily Scandal,” Kazagger said. “How you stole that harem princess who was in the country illegally, trying to escape the clutches of the Dread Sheik, and hid her for two weeks in your sordid little love nest in the No-Tell Motel?”

“What?” the Newsman spluttered. “Lewis! Nothing that rag prints is ever true!”

“But the byline was a reputable journalist…George P. Will!”

“You mean Fleet Scribbler,” Newsie replied angrily.

“Ohhh,” Kazagger mused, nodding slowly. “You know, I thought Will didn’t usually write for that paper…” As the Newsman disgustedly shook his head, Kazagger pointed out, “But there was one heck of a photo with the story! It really looked like you, Newsie; and I haven’t seen a liplock that outrageous since Guy Smiley –“

“And the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders, yeah, I’ve heard,” Newsie fumed. “Lewis, you should know better! The Scandal once ran a story about you and a traveling troupe of penguin acrobats, remember?”

“Ah, er,” Kazagger suddenly seemed speechless. “Ah, ha ha…yeah, that was some ridiculous piece, huh?”

“Newsie?”

They both turned. Gina approached, dressed in a crepe skirt of coppery fabric which seemed to float around her legs and a very low-cut dark orange blouse with long loose sleeves. Amber earrings and a necklace of the same fossils contributed to the fiery look. She smiled at them both. “Hi! Rehearsal let out early. Who’s your friend?”

Kazagger’s mouth had dropped, his long nose wobbling in astonishment. Newsie realized his own jaw was hanging open and shut it quickly. Kazagger recovered and stuck out his hand. “Lewis Kazagger, sportscaster. You must be Newsie’s new flame!”

“Lewis, this is Gina Broucek,” Newsie said, stepping up. Gina shook Lewis’s hand and then bent to kiss Newsie. Although it was only a brief kiss this time, Kazagger’s eyes widened.

“Well, what a pleasure! And let me just say, I have never had the honor of meeting such an astoundingly tall and fiery young lady!” Kazagger grinned. “I take it you’re the one my esteemed colleague was awaiting in there!” He nodded back at the bar. The three patrons and the pig bouncer who’d been ejected earlier were now involved in a four-way brawl; the sounds of grunting and things hitting other things fairly hard filled the otherwise quiet street.

“In there? Newsie, you were in the bar? Why?” Gina asked, shocked.

Confused, he looked back at the place, then at her. “I thought…I thought you said Cutter’s?”

Gina shook her head, amazed. “Oh heck no! That place is a dive!” She pointed at a small door right next to the bar’s windows. “Cutter’s Steakhouse is two floors up. Come on, I’m starving!” She took his hand, and led the bewildered Newsman through the elegant little door and up a long flight of stairs.

“Me too!” Kazagger blurted out, making Newsie look back, startled. “So tell me, Miss Broucek, what do you do? Weight training? Basketball? No, no, don’t tell me, I’ve got it – track!”

Gina laughed. Newsie scowled back at Lewis. Why was he coming along? “No, Mr Kazagger. I’m a theatre techie. I do lots of weight-lifting and running around all day at my job; I don’t need to waste any time at a gym,” Gina said. They reached the lobby of a quiet, restrained restaurant. “Do you have a table for Broucek?” Gina asked the maitre-d’, who checked his reservation book and then nodded, leading them back through a curtained doorway.

“What a fantastic place! Very nice choice,” Kazagger commented loudly, drawing looks from the few other patrons around the candlelit room.

Newsie scowled deeply at the enthusiastic sportscaster, but Kazagger seemed oblivious, still nodding around at the soft décor and settling himself in the third chair which another waiter swiftly placed at the small table. “Um, I’m glad you approve,” Gina said, shooting a smile at the Newsman. He gave her a look which said Are you seriously letting him get away with this? She bit back a bigger smile, and reached over to put her hand over his, giving his fingers a squeeze. Then she noticed the bandage on his other hand. “Newsie? Your hand…how bad is it?”

Rats – he’d intended to remove the makeshift dressing before dinner and hope she wouldn’t notice the injury. Embarrassed, he muttered, “It’s nothing. Just a little sore.”

Her expression swiftly turned to one of concern. “Newsie…please don’t tell me you’re all right when you’re not. I hate seeing you hurt, but I need you to be honest.” Ashamed, he stared at the tablecloth. He felt her fingers under his chin, lifting his head; she gazed worriedly into his eyes. “Please?” she murmured. He nodded, and she gave him a soft kiss on the lips. His eyes closed, savoring it. After a moment she pulled back, looking puzzled at him. “Um…Newsie? Why do you taste like cranberry beer?”

“Er…”

“Wow! Just look at that steak selection! I haven’t seen a range like that since Puck ‘Putter’ Scrimshaw’s Olympic Shot-put record!” Kazagger exclaimed, looking over the menu. Newsie brought on the deep scowl again, but again, Lewis paid no heed.

Newsie thought he heard a stifled giggle out of Gina. “So…Mr Kazagger. I take it you and Newsie have worked together?”

“Oh, sure. We were co-casters for the Battle of the Muppet All-Stars a little while back,” Lewis said. “And you can just call me Lewis. I don’t insist on formality among friends!”

“Okay, uh, Lewis.” Gina glanced over at Newsie, who scooted his chair closer to Gina. “A-hem. So…anyone else want a glass of wine?”

Newsie was about to speak when Lewis butted in again. Loudly. “You know, it all looks so good I don’t know where to begin! Why don’t we try the Chateau LeBleat ’96? Then we could rate it against the Pinowt Gregor and the Table Red Sonja, and declare definitively which comes out on top as the best of the moderately priced Eastern European reds!”

The Newsman glared at his colleague, slowly coming to a boil. He jumped when he felt a touch on his thigh, and looked over at Gina. She smiled at him, lightly miming a kiss at him, and gave his leg a squeeze under the table. Only slightly mollified, Newsie fell to studying his own menu, grumbling about big noses where they shouldn’t be under his breath.



The city seemed especially unfriendly in this section to Beaker. Going cautiously along, he jumped at every stray cat which ran from his approach, shuddered at every cold caress of the wind on the back of his tall neck, and squeaked in terror at every shadow which suddenly loomed around a corner. “It appears our quarry is just a few streets over,” Bunsen’s voice came over the com. “You’re still transmitting loud and clear, Beakie! Oh, this is so exciting! I can’t wait to see what conjunction of incompatible forces is causing that energy field!”

“Meep mee meep,” Beaker muttered to himself unhappily, peering reluctantly around the next corner. Nothing in sight; he blew out a worried breath, and checked the remote sensor screen. He oriented the sensor toward the signal, and took several steps unmolested when he suddenly heard a psst. Whirling, he stared wildly down an alley in between two tall brick buildings.

“Hey, you,” hissed a low voice. Beaker looked around but couldn’t see anyone. “Yeah, you! You with the dish thing on your head!”

“Meep?” Beaker asked, worriedly touching the satellite linkup hat.

“Yeah, you.” A large figure emerged from the alley, which seemed too small a crack between the buildings to have concealed the person. Beaker had a glimpse of beady eyes under a broad-brimmed hat. “Wanna have a good time?”

“Meep, meep,” Beaker said quickly, shaking his head and his hands in the negative.

“Aw, c’mon. Bertie just loves cute little carrot-tops like you,” the stranger said silkily.

“Meep mertie?” Beaker peered along the black alley; something else came out of it. Something small, and wooly, and staring up at him blankly while it chewed its cud. A sheep? Beaker relaxed, looking over the fluffy little herbivore in relief and bewilderment.

“That’s right, this here’s Bertie. She’s my best buddy.” The stranger leaned closer to Beaker, revealing blue fur and pointy ears sticking out from under the hat. “She’ll give you a real good time, ‘cause she likes doing favors for her buddy, ya know?”

“Meep…mee mee meep?” Beaker asked, looking from the shady blue monster to the unthreatening little sheep, which had lost interest in Beaker and was grazing on some grayish grass sticking out of a crack in the sidewalk.

“And all it’ll cost ya,” said the skinny monster, “is that heavy-looking satellite dish on your head.”

“Meep!” Beaker cried, instinctively grabbing the dish-visor with one hand while clutching the remote sensor tightly in his other.

“Come on, whaddaya say?”

“Meep meep,” Beaker said, taking a step back.

“Eh, I didn’t think so,” the monster sighed. He produced a hand-bell from his coat. As Beaker looked at it, confused, the monster pointed at Beaker. “Hey, Bertie! Sic ‘em!” Then he rang the bell.

The sheep, suddenly galvanized into action, bleated furiously and launched itself at Beaker’s face. It missed by inches as the lab assistant, shrieking incoherently, took off down the street.



Dinner proved frustrating. Although he had to admit the steaks were perfect, and the Caesar salad elegantly prepared tableside with fresh ingredients, the Newsman continued to be irked by Kazagger’s nonstop chatter. “So, the Daily Scandal trash aside, are you two really dating?” Lewis asked.

Newsie glanced at Gina; she smiled and gave him a small nod. “Yes, we are on a date,” he said pointedly.

“Well that’s just fabulous! I never would’ve figured someone so amazingly beautiful would go out with my pal Newsie!” Kazagger said, nodding happily at Gina.

“Why not?” Gina asked, her gaze fixed on Newsie’s, still smiling at him. “He’s pretty amazing himself, you know.” Newsie felt heat in his cheeks, pleased despite Kazagger’s irritating intrusions.

“Well, it’s true he does have an astounding capability for withstanding sheer physical punishment,” Lewis said. “Why, I remember, back in ’76…”

“Lewis, I’m sorry to interrupt, but could you give us a minute?” Gina asked, seeing Newsie’s scowl crumpling his brow over his glasses.

Lewis shrugged. “Uh, sure. I do need to use the little sportcaster’s room! ‘Scuse me!” He trotted off, his nose leading the way around the various tables.

“Please, please don’t judge me by my colleague’s behavior,” Newsie muttered.

Gina took both his hands in hers gently, barely touching the bandage on his left one. “Never.” She leaned in to kiss him, and he felt a little of his frustration dissolving. “I have a present for you.”

“A present?” He looked up at her curiously. Gina pulled a small item out of her purse, and carefully looped it around Newsie’s left wrist. “What is it?”

“This is something I learned from my Grandmama Angie,” Gina said. “Remember I needed some of your hair? Well, this is what I did with it.”

He peered closely at the entwined strings as she knotted their ends together. “A bracelet?” He’d never worn jewelry of any kind, much less had someone give him any.

“A protection charm,” she explained. “Dark blue and green threads, your favorite colors. Plus some of your hair…plus some of mine.” He looked up at her, surprised, then back at the woven strings. Yes…he could see tiny strands of his own auburn hair twined in with longer, softer-looking ones, obviously hers. “For every knot in this, I said a prayer for your safety. Seven knots. Wear it until it disintigrates. Never take it off.”

“Uh…thank you,” Newsie said, unsure what to think of it. He didn’t believe in spells or charms, but on the other hand, he liked the idea of wearing a bit of her hair on his wrist, wound up with his own. “It matches my new jacket,” he noted, pleased at the harmony of the colors.

“Yes it does,” Gina grinned. “I like that, by the way. It brings out your eyes.”

“Thank you,” he said, and she rewarded him with another kiss. He was aware of others’ eyes on them, but her tongue was so delicious he eventually gave in, happy when she stroked his cheek with one gentle hand.

“Wow, you should see the fixtures in there!” Kazagger blurted out, and the pair drew apart, Newsie glaring daggers at Lewis. “And I haven’t seen a floor that shiny since the Zamboni Polishing Relays at the Hockey Stadium Janitorial Crew Games back in ’02!” Hopping back into his seat, Lewis looked at them both eagerly. “Did you guys order dessert already? I’d really love to try their Raspberry Bombé!”



Panting, Beaker finally paused in the shelter of a closed store’s entry, peering behind him. No sign of the trained attack sheep or its nefarious master. He finally heard Bunsen’s irritated voice over his own panicked breathing. “Beaker! Beaker, what are you doing?”

Getting his breath back, Beaker touched the COM ON button. “Mee meep,” he huffed.

“You’ve overshot the signal! It’s back in the other direction now! Honestly, don’t you know how to read the PsychoKinetic Field Tracking Sensor readout screen?” With a heavy sigh, Bunsen adopted a calmer tone. “Turn to your left, all right, Beakie? It looks as though the source of the energy is about fifty feet that way.”
Moving slowly and with many fearful glances all around, Beaker advanced toward the signal. It looked larger on his screen now; he was certainly getting close to it. He began trembling. Would it prove to be a big scary thing as well? He walked past three dazed, tough-looking men laying on the sidewalk, all sporting black eyes or other bruising. Fortunately they all seemed too out of it to pay much attention to him. Skittishly he made a wide circuit around the open door to some kind of bar; loud music and harsh laughter emanated from it. As he passed, a broken television camera came flying out, crumpling into pieces on the sidewalk. Beaker squealed and dodged, then hurried on as a man in a khaki vest with pockets all over tumbled out the door and flopped to an unconscious halt next to the wrecked camera. “Slow down, slow down!” Bunsen instructed. “You’re right on top of it!”

Beaker looked back at the body dump on the sidewalk anxiously. “Mee meep?”

“Triangulate the signal! Get readings from several spots around you. I’ll watch the readout from here,” Bunsen told him.

Keeping one eye peeled on the people sprawled in front of the bar entrance, Beaker pointed the sensor all around from where he stood, then scurried to another spot a few feet away, tried it again, then crossed the street and repeated the procedure. “That’s wonderful! I’ve got it!” Bunsen said excitedly. “Beaker, the signal is coming from something right in front of you, and about twenty feet up!”

Slowly Beaker looked up at the building housing the bar. Two floors above the rowdy establishment, he saw lit windows with shades drawn. A discreet sign hanging above the level announced Cutter’s Steakhouse, Fine Dining. “Mee mee meep?”

“No, I very much doubt a steak would give off that much psychokinetic energy. But you should go in and investigate!”

“Meep meep,” Beaker protested.

“Oh, don’t be silly! I’m sure it’s perfectly safe! It’s just a building, Beakie! How could a building possibly hurt you?” Bunsen scolded him over the com. Sighing deeply, tremulous and wary, Beaker walked up to the door which must lead to the upper floors. Just as he reached for the door-handle, he heard a crunching, rumbling sound above him. He looked up and screamed, but had no time to run before an enormous chunk of masonry fell off the roof of the building and flattened him.

“Beaker?...Beaker…your signal’s breaking up…can you hear me? Beaker, get up there and find that field source! And don’t forget to keep the equipment away from anything wet!” Static cut through the transmission before the crushed satellite dish fizzled out. Beaker groaned, slowly examining the concrete chunk of roof crenellation pinning his midsection to the sidewalk. He tried to shove it. It budged an inch. Grunting, meeping, straining, Beaker used all his arm strength to move the weight off him, slow centimeter by centimeter.

He was almost free when it started to rain. Beaker looked wildly back and forth at the heavy, wet drops plopping down around him. One hit his nose.

He didn’t actually start screaming until the satellite dish startled to crackle and spark.



“Well, I hope you know what you’re getting into,” Kazagger said to Gina as they waited for the server to bring the bill. Gina started to take out her purse, but the Newsman gestured for her to put it away, digging out his wallet; he still had some of the painfully-acquired cash, and was determined to be a gentleman…at least for Gina.

He shot another glare at Kazagger as the bill was placed on their table, fingering his wallet in sight of the sportscaster. “A-hem.”

“Geshundteit,” Lewis said amiably. “He’s jinxed, you know,” he told Gina.

“Jinxed?” she asked, looking curious. Newsie felt her hand touching his thigh again, and coughed to cover his surprise. He didn’t feel unlucky tonight, for once.

“Oh, sure,” Lewis answered, nodding so hard his nose bounced. “This guy can’t go an hour without something terrible happening to him! Why, when we were co-casters, I swear it rubbed off on me! There was this one day –“

“Separate checks, please?” Newsie asked the waiter, indicating Kazagger. The waiter frowned, but left to recalculate the tab.

Gina stroked his leg under the table, smiling prettily at Lewis. “I think you’re exaggerating,” she said. Newsie had a hard time concentrating on the discussion, acutely feeling her fingers walking up his thigh. They’d all had several glasses of a dry red wine with dinner, and now he was feeling a little dazed.

“No, seriously, this guy’s had more train wrecks than Spamtrak in the ‘80s!” Kazagger insisted. “I’d never seen a shark at a swim meet before I got teamed up with him!”

“Just because he’s had some bad things happen to him, that doesn’t mean he’s jinxed,” Gina told Lewis. “You’re not going to scare me off.”

“Oh, wouldn’t dream of it, you faithful firebrand of fulminous fantasy for that flummoxed fashion failure!” Lewis laughed. Clearly he’d had a glass or two more than either of them. “But you really should be careful in his compan-oww,” he choked as Newsie kicked his shin hard under the table. “Er. Ahem.” He stood suddenly, took Gina’s hand, and kissed the back of it before she could react. “Absolutely delightful meeting you, Miss Broucek. I wish you and Newsie all the happiness a gorgeous lady and an unlucky reporter could possibly experience! Thank you so much for an enchanting evening! See ya ‘round, Newsie!” He hurried off before the waiter returned.

Astounded, Newsie stared after him. “That – Lewis – that –“

Gina broke into outright laughter. “Oh, man! Oh, my gosh. What a character!”

“What a deadbeat,” Newsie muttered, grudgingly emptying his wallet and handing the full amount of the meal’s cost to the waiter, who bowed and hastened off. Newsie looked worriedly at Gina. “You don’t…you don’t think…”

“That you’re a jinx? No.” She smiled merrily at him, eyes sparkling in the candlelight. He felt her hand return to his thigh, and gulped. “I think you’re wonderful.” She leaned close. “And if you’ll let me…I’ll show you just how wonderful.”

He gulped again nervously, but aceded to her kiss, wondering just what would come next. As their lips met, a horrible shriek came from somewhere past the lobby. They sat up, staring in the direction of the sound. “Was that your friend?” Gina asked.

A well-dressed couple hurried into the room, although Newsie could’ve sworn he’d seen them leaving just a moment before, their meal already concluded. “Oh, it’s awful! Oh, it’s terrible!” the woman in pearls was sobbing. Her husband held her as she cried into a napkin, distraught. A waiter rushed past, crying “Call 911! Call 911!”

The Newsman’s news instincts took over; he hurried from the room, following the growing agitation of the staff to the front stairs. There, only a few steps down from the restaurant lobby, Lewis Kazagger lay gasping in pain, three sharp-tipped umbrellas sticking out of his chest. Horrified, Newsie dropped to a crouch beside his sometime colleague, but Lewis stared at him wideyed, jerking away when Newsie tried to touch him. “Stay…away…!” he breathed.

“What happened?” the Newsman heard Gina asking the staff.

“I…I don’t know! That couple, going out, knocked into the umbrella stand –“

“They just went flying! Like javelins!” someone else said, sounding amazed.

“It’s a freak accident!”

Newsie stared down at Lewis, shocked. An odd whistling sound behind him made him instinctively duck aside. The last umbrella, which had been teetering on the top step when he hurried past, slid down the stairs and embedded itself with a soft thock in Kazagger’s nose. Lewis didn’t cry out, but he stared up at Newsie with tears forming in his eyes.

“Lewis!” Newsie said, at a loss as to whether pulling out the umbrellas would hurt or help.

Kazagger whispered, “Your…fault…” and fell unconscious.

Stunned, the Newsman looked up the stairs at the small crowd huddled there, staring down, Gina in front. Helplessly, Newsie shook his head. I didn’t mean…I’d never want anyone hurt…how can this be my fault? he thought, unable to speak. Gina met his bewildered stare. They heard sirens in the distance.

 

[The Count]

Hee, a great chapter.

As to Rhonda the Rat, look her up at the Muppet Wiki and you'll find her individual character page/article.
Why does Beaker in that satellite dish visor remind me of Sen. Al Franken when he was a one-man mobile satellite reporter for SNL's Weekend Update News? All he's missing is the vehicular rig to journey around. Classic as to how Bunsen makes Beaker be the one who has to endure everything.
The blue monster with Berty the Sheep... At first I thought it was Lefty the Salesman.
Recognized Bubba when he came out followed by Rizzo.
The date was funny and very nicely handled, I'll have to recommend this to my fellow forum reader and reviewer Muppetfan44 if she hasn't poked in to read already. *Waves at the Cambot to Arianne.
The ending... Louis getting hurt with the umbrellas... For a moment I thought it was Beaker instead. Good to create a smidge of bewilderment in Newsie's mind as it helps set up the drama for whatever may come next.

Thanks... And more please!

 

[newsmanfan]

Again...a big smile for a bleh day. Thank you, Count!

I did look up Rhonda, and you're right. Maybe something in the back of my head recalled her... And I realized, too late to change it, that the blue shady monster should indeed have been Lefty instead! Oh, well. (I didn't recall HIM at all until I recently read some of Winslow Leach's stuff, and then looked up the character on Muppet Wiki.) See? You guys are WAY ahead of me...

And thank you for recommending! I'm only writing this in hopes fellow Muppaphiles will like it, so any good press is...well... good press!