Love Reign O'er News

[newsmanfan]

Part 21

At nearly eleven-thirty, feeling much as though she’d been released from indenture, Gina walked out of the lobby of the Sosilly. It had been a very long rehearsal with many overcomplicated discussions between the director and the diva playing Lady Macbeth, which held up the entire thing for minutes at a time. At least she and Scott had finished programming the lighting cues, every instrument seemed to be working fine, and a thorough check hadn’t turned up any more risky cables. She felt much better thinking ahead to the quiet dinner at home she’d planned. When she saw the Newsman sitting on the bottom step of the lobby entrance, she slowed. Even from behind she could see the slump of his shoulders. She sat down next to him, smiling sympathetically as he slowly lifted his head to see her. “Bad night?”

Newsie shook his head, and suddenly filled with gratitude for having someone to turn to, simply put his arms around her and leaned in. Gina hugged him in return, and he sighed. “That bad,” she murmured, and kissed the top of his head. “Okay.”

“There was a tornado in the theatre.”

“A tornado? Let me guess…your blonde pig diva went on a tear?”

“Uh…yes. But no. I mean a real tornado.”

Gina looked him in the eyes. “Newsie…I’ll admit, weird things happen at your theatre. But a tornado? Inside?” He nodded glumly. Her eyes widened. “Oh my gosh, you’re serious? What happened? Did it rip off the roof? Was anyone hurt?”

“The roof’s fine. The only one hurt was me, I think.”

“Newsie!” She held him tight. “What happened?”

He told her the events of the night from his standpoint, although he had no idea how the sandbags had wound up blocking the stage right wing. “When Scooter told me you’d called, and what you’d said, I assumed Kermit should be the one to handle it, because I hadn’t said…you know. He insisted I go through that whole ridiculous charade,” he took a deep breath, the memory of his run around the building bringing back a stitch in his side, “so…I did. And then apparently Piggy blamed me for the whole thing.”

“I had this feeling you guys were discussing the Scottish Play, so I called. No one said anything about a tornado!” She kissed him, concerned. “I’m glad the countercurse worked, but I don’t understand what the twister has to do with it.”

Newsie shrugged. “I delivered a report about one. But it didn’t show up until I’d left the stage, and caught Piggy instead of me.” He fingered the string bracelet. “Do you think…do you think maybe your charm kept it away from me?”

She gave him an odd look. “I thought you didn’t believe in my little spell.”

“Well, no, but –“ He realized what he’d just said, and froze, looking up at her worriedly. “Uh, I mean, of course I believe in it! It’s just, uhm, I wasn’t expecting…er…”

Gina shook her head, giving him a brief smile. “It’s okay, Newsie. I knew you were just humoring me.” She took his left hand, stroking up his wrist, rubbing the bracelet against his skin. “Do you believe now I made it for your protection?”

He swallowed. “Yes. Yes I do.” She smiled, and gave him a kiss.

“Come on, let’s go home. I am absolutely ravenous,” Gina said, getting to her feet. He followed suit, and they started for the apartment, gently holding hands. Her touch reassured him, and he tried to put the strange events of the night out of his head.

“Can I do anything to relax you?” Newsie asked, seeing she was walking along tiredly as well. “Or…or do you just want to eat first?”

She shot him a grin. “Yes to both. And then we can fix dinner.”

“Huh?”

She sighed. “Come on, Innocent Journalist.” He looked at her, confused, but she just smiled and gave his hand a squeeze. Slowly it dawned on him what she’d meant, but immediately he thought of monsters. Extremely large ones with big gullets. He couldn’t help a shudder. “Newsie? You okay?”

“Uh…uhm…I’m not that innocent,” he protested weakly. “I mean, I have heard that term. I’ll admit I really don’t see the attraction!”

Gina stopped, staring at him. “You don’t?”

“Why would that be enjoyable? Gina, I have to tell you, I’ve been eaten by monsters before, and it’s not fun, or…or…uhm…pleasant… Not in the least!” He stared up at her earnestly, blushing a little, but determined to stand on his no-monster policy.

“Oh, man,” Gina sighed finally. Newsie gulped, wondering if she was going to dump him for his monsterphobia. She dropped to a crouch, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Newsie. I promise you no monsters will be involved.”

“They won’t?”

“I maintain a very strict no-monster rule. Especially in the bedroom.”

“Oh,” he said, relieved. “Oh…good.”

“You’re priceless. You know that, right?”

He wasn’t sure if he was being mocked. Her smile seemed more tolerant than snide, though. She kissed him, and he returned it, deeply relieved. She stood once more, breaking into a large smile. “Come on. We need to get home now. There’s something I need to show you.”

“Which doesn’t involve monsters?”

“Which definitely does not involve monsters. Although it will involve you learning a new use for that adorable nose.”

Their voices faded from the street where the Sosilly Theatre lurked in the shadows of taller buildings. “Uh…okay. You know, I’m really happy you like my nose. Er…this won’t be one of those silly spoon-hanging tricks like Gonzo does, will it?”

“Newsie?”

“Yes?”

“How old are you?”

“Uh…does that matter?”

A sigh.

“Nope. Come on.”



Dr Bunsen Honeydew was up much earlier than his colleague, drafting schematics for the experimental tornadoterminal reverse energy field manifestational generator which he was positive would point the way to the original source of the psychokinetic energy. When Beaker dragged himself out of bed at the very late hour of seven a.m., Bunsen scolded him. “Beaker, you laggard! Discovery never comes to the late sleeper! I have been up with the birds, working on this plan for a generator which will reverse-engineer the transdimensional wind event of yesterday evening.”

Beaker blinked at him. He badly wanted a cup of orange juice. What was all this?

Bunsen beckoned him over to the lab table, where he’d already begun assembling components for the generator. “Look! See, with this we shall recreate the wind event in a controlled environment – namely, the lab – and study it, and we ought to be able to trace it back to its source thusly!” He beamed at Beaker.

Beaker came closer, looking over the schematics, wondering how Bunsen had made a blueprint so quickly. He moved a finger over it, waking up even as he realized what his fellow scientist intended. “Mee me, me meep me mee…” he murmured quietly, following the lines on the paper which showed a powerful nuclear accelerator fueling the transdimensional portal reaction by which Bunsen hoped to draw the same tornado into the lab. Beaker’s head jerked up. “Me mee mee mee?”

“Yes! Isn’t it wonderful, Beakie? We shall be the first to actually manifest and harness a force of nature created by a psychokinetic energy field! Aren’t you excited?” Bunsen fetched a few gaskets and a rubber hose from the storage cupboards. When he turned around, there was no sign of his assistant. “…Beaker?”



“So you got all that, Beauregard?” Kermit asked.

“Oh, yes!” Beau nodded. He looked at the list of carpentry supplies his boss had written to remind him, in case he forgot what was needed to fix the busted floorboards onstage caused by falling Muppets yesterday. He frowned at it. “Does that say slian?”

Kermit quickly turned the paper right-side up. “Nails! It says nails! You know how to fix a floor, don’t you?”

“Oh, sure, sure!” Sighing, Kermit began to turn away, but Beau touched his shoulder. “Uh, those are some long boards, though. For proper safety I should have someone come with me to help carry them!”

“Beau, I really can’t get anyone to come with you. Hardly anybody is even here, and by the time everyone shows up tonight, that floor already needs to be fixed!” Kermit argued.

“Ah-ehm,” came a high voice behind them. They turned to see Beaker looking at them. He patted the paper Beau held, then indicated himself. “Me meep me mee!”

“Oh, you want to help? Why thank you, Beakie!” Beau said, delighted. “We’re a good carpentry team, huh? Oh, this’ll be fun!”

“Beaker, are you sure Dr Honeydew doesn’t need you for anything?” Kermit wondered.

Beaker rapidly swivelled his head no. “Meep-mee!”

“Oh, great, great!” Beau said, patting Beaker’s arm. “Come on! I’ll go get the truck keys.” Beaker hurried along with him.

Sighing, Kermit returned to his take-out breakfast, tired but resigned to being here all day to make sure the job was completed. Beau was really the only one who knew carpentry, and Kermit wasn’t sure the janitor was actually on speaking terms with the skill. This was going to be a very long day… And then there was the matter of Piggy. It had taken one very expensive delivered dinner and gallons of champagne bubble bath before she’d forgiven him for the tornado, and it wasn’t even his fault! Frustrated, Kermit wondered how the hey the Newsman had avoided the disaster when clearly his report had caused it. It was like the time things kept falling on everyone else instead of just the unlucky newscaster. He slupped his mango-bug-protein shake and took a bite of his moth-butter croissant sandwich, chewing morosely.

Bunsen popped up suddenly at his side, making Kermit jump and almost spill his shake. “Gahh! Bunsen! How many times have I told you guys not to do that!”

“Pardon me, Kermit, but have you seen Beaker? He was supposed to be assisting me in building a manifestational generator today to determine the source of the tornado last night by recreating it in the lab.”

Kermit understood why Beaker had made himself scarce. “Uh, no; nope, haven’t seen him.”

“Hmm. Well, I’ll go ahead and get started on it. I’m sure he’s around here somewhere,” Bunsen mused, trotting off.

“I’m sure he is,” Kermit replied. Then he started, dropping his croissant. “Recreating what? Bunsen!” He hurried after the dangerous scientist.



“Why don’t you skip the jacket today? It’s nice and warm out,” Gina suggested.

Newsie stopped, one arm through a sleeve, and blinked at her in surprise. “Not…not wear my sportscoat?”

“Crazy idea, huh?”

“What…what about my tie? It’ll look strange without the coat.”

“Why not skip the tie too?”

He gulped at her. “Out in public?”

“Why not?” She stepped closer to him, fondling his hair. “New things can be fun…don’t you agree?” She leaned over, kissing his nose, and he turned a deep shade of beet.

“Uhm.”

Gina giggled at him. “Come on. Let’s be scandalous.”

“What…what if Scribbler sees us?” Newsie couldn’t imagine going out without his coat and tie. It would be practically indecent!

“You let me worry about Scribbler.” She grinned at him. “Did I tell you I can dead-lift eighty pounds?”

That sounded ominous to Newsie. Gina undid his tie, tossing it over at the bed; he tracked it nervously. The coat followed it. He drew his arms over his chest, feeling very exposed in mere shirtsleeves. “Are you sure? I mean, I hate it when people laugh at me…”

“Newsie. It is a lovely spring day. We will be out enjoying it all day. No one is going to laugh at you, I promise,” Gina said, and knelt to give him a very involved kiss. When she broke away finally, he stared in breathless wonder at her. “Trust me?”

Consciously shutting his mouth, he nodded at her. “Okay. Maybe next payday we can get you some different shirts. I think you’d look very stylish in a pink-pinstripe Oxford.” He tried to envision that. Impossible. She rose and twirled in front of him. “What do you think of this?”

“You look incredible,” he said honestly. The dress was sleeveless, low-cut in the back with only a halter keeping it over her neck, gathered at the waist, and covered all over with a multitude of pink and red printed roses on the bright white cloth. It fell in deeply-cut scallops around her calves, giving him a fantastic view of her trim legs. She’d paired simple white-strap sandals with it. “You look like spring bursting free of winter,” he said, and she stopped, throwing him a puzzled look. He gulped, embarrassed. “That was silly, wasn’t it?”

“No,” she said softly, coming to him again. “No, it wasn’t silly at all. Thank you.”

“I don’t know where that came from,” he admitted.

She only smiled at him, stroking his cheek with one finger. Abruptly she bounced toward the front door. “Come on! Spring calls!”

Newsie hurried after her, wondering at himself. He’d never been one for a poetic turn of thought. Whatever the cause, he decided, Gina approved, and that was good enough for him. Still anxious about going out half-dressed in only shoes, pants, and shirt, he kept close by her going down through the building and out onto the street. They’d agreed to spend the day sightseeing together. Newsie had lived in the city all his life and had never really taken advantage of the museums, parks, or any of the other attractions it offered; between school and work and taking care of his mother, there hadn’t been much time for anything else. As he walked along, hand in hand with this amazing, vibrant young woman who was teaching him so many…interesting things (he blushed even thinking that much), he began to feel lighter of step, lighter of heart.

Liberated. That was the word. He felt amazingly liberated.

She noticed him smiling at her, and paused, smiling uncertainly back. “What?”

“Nothing…I…I think…” Some other part of his mind screamed at him, What the heck are you saying? Shut up shut up! He swallowed, and changed the words he’d nearly, foolishly, spoken aloud. “This is really a nice day. You’re right.”

Gina beamed at him. “Isn’t it? Where should we go first? Breakfast or the park?”

He felt daring. “How about both?”

She laughed, giving his nose a brief kiss. “Now you’re talking! Hey, I know this great little place a few blocks over. It’s like a retro general store, with a soda counter and everything, and there’s a park nearby. The whole neighborhood is older but it’s been sort of gentrified, and it’s quiet and out-of-the-way. We could pick up smoothies and go sit in the park, if you like.”

“Sounds great,” he agreed. He tried to match her happy pace; she strode along so full of energy. He marveled that she had any, after last night… Ashamed of such thoughts, he hoped no one was staring at him. He could feel heat rising from his collar all the way up his cheeks.

A block along, she said, “Hey, Newsie?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” He looked up, surprised. “I haven’t felt this happy in years. Thank you for moving in. Thank you for, well…being you.” She smiled, almost shyly, and he knew there was no yellow left in his skin right then. He could feel it. Flushed all over.

“Er…I…I make you happy?”

“Yes. You do.”

He could’ve walked thirty blocks. Heck, he could have danced them.



“Meep me mee me meep?” Beaker asked, looking uncertainly at the store awning as Beauregard made sure he’d turned off everything and set the parking brake on the truck.

Beau followed Beaker’s gaze. “Oh, I always come here! These are old friends of Kermit’s. He gets a discount here, and you know, saving money is always a good thing,” Beau explained. They climbed down from the cab of the tottering old pickup.

Beaker wasn’t sure the small general store would have everything on Kermit’s list, but he followed after Beau anyway. At least this was better than going along with Bunsen’s crackpot generator idea. Beaker glanced up into the perfect blue sky, relieved. No chance of a tornado in a spring sky that lovely! With a sigh, he stepped inside after Beau. The bell above the door jingled.

The purple-skinned, formally-dressed gentleman behind the counter was chortling to himself: “Fifty-eight crispy chocolate bars! Fifty-nine crispy chocolate bars! Ah-ah-ah!” Hearing the bell, he turned and smiled toothily as Beau approached the counter. “Good morning! Welcome! What can I count out for you today?”

“Uh, hello. Is Alan here?” Beau asked. Beaker looked around, noting in happy surprise the store actually carried the violet honey crumble bars he liked. He pulled a crumpled handful of bills and small change from a coat pocket, seeing if he had enough to buy one.

“I’m so sorry! Alan and the rest of the employees are all out at a small business association meeting! But I can help you with whatever you need,” the purple gent said in a somehow-pleasant Lugosi accent.

“Right! Okay,” Beau said, and spread Kermit’s list out on the counter. “We’re from the Muppet Theatre. We need to get these things to fix a hole in the floor. Do you have them?”

“Let me see…one tub of wood filler…” The gent trotted over to a shelf with a few hardware items. “Yes! Yes we do! One! One tub of wood filler! Ah-ah-ah!”

“Oh, good,” Beau nodded. Beaker stared from him to the odd gent.

“Me mee meep?”

“He says they got ‘em!” Beau told Beaker as the caped man looked over the shelves for the other items. “Isn’t that great? We’ll have this all wrapped up in no time!”

“One! One pack of sandpaper, number three grit! Wait…do we also have number one and two grit? Let me see…”

Beaker shrugged, looking around a little more. He saw a small rack of comic books by a stand of magazines, and gently riffled through the titles. He hadn’t seen a copy of the latest issue of SuperGrover Adventures! yet this month.

“Here we are! One pack of number one grit sandpaper; two packs of number two grit, and three packs of number three grit!”

“Uh…okay,” Beau said, squinting at the list. “Uh, Beakie? Does this say we need all those?”

Beaker came back to the counter, looked at the supply list, and shook his head. “Huh-uhh!”

Beau turned back to the busy clerk. “Uh, excuse me, sir? We only need one pack of the number three grit, I think.”

“But three packs of the number three would sound so much better, don’t you think?” the clerk asked, smiling. “I just love it when they match like that!”

“Uh…okay,” Beau agreed, confused. Beaker shook his head, sighing.

“And you will need a box of twopenny nails…oh, I’m so sorry. We do not have any boxes of nails right now! Zero – zero boxes!”

“Oh.” Beau noticed an open bin of nails below the other hardware supplies. “Well…could we just get some of the nails from that bin, then? Maybe you could put them in a little box? Or a bag – a bag would be okay, right, Beakie?”

“Muh-huh,” Beaker offered, nodding, and Beau cheered up visibly to have his idea seconded.

“Certainly! What a splendid idea! But how many nails do you need?”

“Oh, gee,” Beau scratched his head, and looked at Beaker. “How many nails do we need?”

Beaker was no carpenter. He shrugged, holding his hands up briefly. “Meep-me.”

“Hmmm.” Beauregard frowned deeply, thinking. “Well, we’ll need at least three in each end of each board…uh…and we need…uh…six boards…uh…eleventy-three?” he guessed.

The clerk touched his arm, smiling. “I think I see your problem! You do not wish to get more nails than you actually need?”

“Oh, no, we can always use more nails,” Beau said, relieved. This nice man was going to figure it out for them. “Gosh, I sure wish Kermit had been more specific about that!”

“Well, my friend, let us think. What if I counted out a few more than you think you need, just to make sure you have enough?”

“That’s a great idea!” Beau said, eyes widening.

Beaker looked from one of them to the other. How had this become such an involved errand? He pointed to the last item on the list. “Meep me mee, mee?”

“Oh, right, right! Do you carry lumber?”

“I am afraid we do not, my friend. This is not really a home improvement store. Oh, how I wish that was the case! Just think of all the aisles and aisles of things I could count!” Seeing Beau’s fallen expression, he patted the janitor on the shoulder. “Do not fret. You are friends of Kermit’s, yes? I am always willing to do whatever I can for any friend of our old froggy friend. So, although I cannot help you with the boards, I can and will count out…fifty nails for you!”

“Gee, thanks!” Beau said, relieved.

The clerk found a suitable paper sack, and began dropping twopenny nails into it one at a time. “One! One twopenny nail, ah-ah-ah! Two! Two twopenny nails…”

Beaker sighed, and went to browse the drink cooler. Six or eight minutes later, he had examined all the coolers, every magazine on the stand, the shelves of groceries, and was moving on to the menu board above the small lunch-counter area, when he heard Beau exclaim, “Hey, wait! That one was a screw! I think you have some drywall screws mixed in with your nails, mister!”

“Why,” the clerk said, checking the bag, “you are correct! I am so sorry! I was having so much fun counting I did not notice the different ones! Here, let me start over. I will be more careful this time!” he promised, dumping the entire bagful back into the nail bin. Beaker’s eyes widened as the counting started all over from the beginning.

He looked at his watch, meeping softly in frustration, before he remembered he wasn’t all that keen to get back to the theatre anyway. Sighing, he sat down at the luncheon counter. The door-bell ting’d.

“It used to be even more old-timey than this, but I like that they kept a lunch-counter,” Gina said. “They make great smoothies here. What’s your favorite fruit?”

“Blueberry. Well, sort of. They’re very high in antioxidants,” Newsie replied, looking around the interior of the store curiously.

Gina laughed. “You’re allowed to live a little, you know. Wanna try something more exotic? They usually have pineapple and papaya on hand.”

Beaker started, recognizing his Muppet Theatre colleague. “Mee meep!”

“Uh…hi,” Newsie said, taken aback at a familiar face, though he didn’t immediately recall the name. “You’re Dr Honeydew’s assistant, right?”

“Meep-mur,” Beaker nodded.

“Friend of yours?” Gina asked.

“Uh…a colleague. He works at Muppet Labs.”

“Oh…right! I’ve seen you onstage a few times,” Gina said, shaking Beaker’s hand. Beaker stared at her slender fingers, then up into her smiling face, his mouth falling open. “Beaker! I remember. Wow. Bad stuff seems to happen to you almost as much as Newsie.”

Beaker shrugged, pleased. “Meep mo, mee mee me meep; meep mee.”

“We came for breakfast smoothies,” Gina explained, settling onto a stool. The Newsman climbed onto one next to her. “Are you picking up some lab stuff or something?”

Newsie noticed the counting drama still going on over in the hardware section, surprised to recognize not only Beauregard but the Count von Count. “What’s he doing here?” Newsie wondered aloud. He watched the Count putting nails one at a time into a bag, obviously in rapture at the growing number, and Beau staring intently at the whole process, his eyes and one pointing finger following each nail on its short trip from bin to bag.

“Looks fairly involved,” Gina commented.

“Mee,” Beaker sighed agreement, leaning one elbow on the lunch-counter.

“Maybe we should try somewhere else?” Newsie suggested.

“When all else fails, try asking nicely,” Gina murmured to him with a grin, then spoke up. “Um, excuse me? I’m sorry for interrupting, but do you know how to make smoothies?”

“Thirty-seven…hmm?” The Count looked up, then held up a finger to the puzzled Beau. “I am so sorry. Let me take care of these customers quickly.” As Beau pointed confusedly from the bag to the bin, trying to remember where the Count had left off, the dapper gent came over to his waiting customers. “Yes? What may I count for you?”

“Uh…smoothies. I’d like a papaya-coconut one to go, please,” Gina said, smiling.

“But of course! One papaya-coconut smoothie coming right up!” Swiftly the Count threw on a white apron and busied himself with the blender.

This was supremely strange. What were all these Muppets doing at a small store he’d never heard of before, but Gina frequented? Puzzled, Newsie spoke up as the Count returned with a tall styrofoam cup for Gina. “Excuse me, aren’t you the Count von Count?”

“Yes! Yes, I am! Delighted to meet you!” He smiled broadly, and Newsie reminded himself nervously that the Count wasn’t that kind of Transylvanian. The Count kissed the back of Gina’s hand gallantly. “A pleasure, I am sure!”

Gina glanced from him to Newsie and back. “Uh…hello. Are you from central Europe, by any chance?”

“Why, yes! How did you know?”

“I’m part Gypsy. Gina Broucek…nice to meet you, ah, Count.”

“How wonderful! Two Old World descendants, meeting right here! Two! Ah, what a small world it is after all!”

“Newsie? Are you going to order?” Gina asked, clearly trying not to laugh aloud.

“Uh…” Flustered, he surrendered to her judgement. “I’ll take another of what she’s having, please.”

Beaker thought that sounded even nicer than a violet crumble. “Mee mee meep mee, mee?” he asked, raising a finger in accord.

“How wonderful! Three papaya-coconut smoothies! Oh, I am so glad I was able to help at the store today!” He paused, looking quizzically at Newsie. “I am so sorry, my friend; you seem familiar, but I do not recall your name.”

“Newsman,” he replied, a little affronted. “I was at the All-Star games.”

“Oh, forgive me! Yes, those were wonderful! Which team did you play for?”

Taken aback, Newsie was about to snap that he’d been one of the commentators, but Beaker tugged at his shirtsleeve. “Mee mee? Mee me mee,” the carrot-haired scientist said apologetically, indicating Newsie’s plain shirt.

“What?”

“I think he’s talking about your clothes,” Gina offered.

Newsie flushed. “I told you going without my coat and tie was a bad idea!”

Gina sighed. Beaker gestured between the two of them. “Mee mee meep mee?”

“Are we together?” Gina asked. Beaker nodded. Gina smiled at Newsie, who was still frowning. He’d co-cast those games with Kazagger for thirteen days! He’d been on the field at the finish line when both Beaker and the Count had completed the cross-country cycling event! How could anyone not --

Gina leaned over and gave Newsie a deep kiss, startling him. After a second he gave in to it, her lips too soft to resist. She stroked a hand through his hair, and all his irritation dissolved; he kissed her back without reserve.

“Meee,” Beaker gasped, astounded.

“Here we are! Two – two more papaya-coconut smoothies, bringing us up to three!” the Count said joyfully, setting the cups down in front of them. Then he noticed the kiss. “Oh, goodness me!” He turned more purple. “Why, that is some very strange addition – one short yellow person plus one tall pretty lady equals one amazing kiss!”

Beaker stared. The Count, turning away politely, saw a very confused Beauregard looking at the bag of nails, counting over and over on his fingers and scratching his head. “Oh, I am so sorry! I almost forgot! Now, where was I?”

“Uh…twenty…uh…thirty-thirteen…uh…” Beau gave the Count a helpless look. “I forgot.”

“Well, then I shall have to count them…all over again! Ah-ah-ah!”

Beaker sighed. Beau frowned, then brightened. “Right!”

A small rumbling sound came from the lunch-counter. Beaker heard it, looking around nervously. Gina released Newsie, and they stared happily at one another. “Park?” she asked gently.

“Park…? Oh. Sure,” he replied dazedly. Gina laid six dollars on the counter for the smoothies, and shot a smile at Beaker as she left, Newsie at her side.

“Nice meeting you,” Gina said. Beaker gave her a timid wave, then looked around as he heard the odd noise again. It sounded almost like…no, couldn’t be. A tremor? Here?

Gina took Newsie’s hand again as they strolled down the street, sipping their drinks. “See? Worth a walk, yeah?”

“It’s good,” he responded, surprised. He wouldn’t have thought he’d like something as exotic as papaya. Come to think of it, he wasn’t entirely sure what a papaya was. “Gina, I’m…I’m sorry I snapped back there.”

“It’s okay.” She swung his hand in hers lightly. “You’re not a big fan of change, I take it.”

“I…no.” He looked anxiously up at her. “Is that bad?”

“Am I making you feel a little rattled, with so much change all at once?”

He considered it silently as they walked along the street, past brownstones and some children playing hopscotch on the sidewalk. “Maybe a little,” he admitted.

“Well, you know what the best remedy for new things is?”

“What?”

She grinned at him. “Keep doing ‘em until they’re not new anymore.”

“Oh,” he said, blushing.

“Is that a plan you can live with?”

He gulped. “Yes.”

“Good.” She smiled at him; relaxing somewhat, he smiled back.

Back in the general store, the Count was so absorbed in his nail-counting that he didn’t seem to notice the objects on the shelves shaking. Beaker looked around, growing frightened, as a stack of cans on a crate by the groceries trembled. Suddenly the stack toppled violently; Beaker hopped off his stool, backing away, as one of the cans rolled hard across the floor to hit the stool Gina had been sitting on moments ago. The stool rocked back, teetered, then fell forward against the lunch-counter. “Meep!” Beaker cried, reaching for his smoothie a second too late; it wobbled as the whole counter shook, and then the cup fell backwards onto the food preparation area just below the serving counter. The impact popped open the lid of the smoothie, and frosty papaya-coconut goodness splopped out, directly onto the motor part of the still-plugged-in blender. “Me-meep!”

“Hang on, Beaker, we’re still counting,” Beau said, not taking his eyes off the nails.

“Sixteen! Sixteen twopenny nails…”

Sparks flew up from the blender base. Beaker cringed back. The sparks spattered a napkin dispenser. The napkins caught on fire. “Meeep!” Beaker looked around frantically, then saw a pitcher of water just below the serving-counter. He grabbed for it, his elbow knocking the flaming napkin dispenser into a small trash can beside the counter. Surprised, he jerked to one side as the papers inside it and other trash fooshed into even larger flames, and the pitcher now in his hand went sideways, all the water spilling over the floor. “Mee mee, mee mee meep! Mee!”

“Beaker, just a minute!” Beau said, annoyed. Now he’d lost count again. At least the clerk seemed to have things under control.

“Twenty! Ah-ah-ah! Twenty shiny nails! Twenty-one…”

Beaker ran this way and that, looking for a fire extinguisher. He saw one, grabbed it, pointed it at the fire and yanked the pin out. This one was quite a bit larger than the one he’d used in the lab…and much more powerful. He screamed as the force of the pressurized canister threw him around the room, spraying foam retardant all over the lunch-counter, the grocery section, and two of the glass doors to the cooler cases. “Mee –mee—meeeeeep!” He let go of the extinguisher only when it slammed his back against another cooler; he sank to the floor, stunned. The extinguisher continued to spurt all over, dancing across the floor like a wild bull at a rodeo. Beaker shook himself out of his daze in time to see the crazed thing shooting backwards directly at his head. “Meeeeee!”

He ducked; the extinguisher crashed through the glass door behind him, fizzling out. Beaker froze, but when the thing seemed dead finally, he sighed, sitting up.

Then approximately eleventy-three heavy bags of crushed ice toppled out of the cooler and onto his head. The noise distracted the Count, who looked up from the nails. Beau’s eyes went wide; then he frowned, scolding: “Beaker! You’re embarrassing me!” Beaker blinked at him, head wavering, eyes unfocused. “I bring you along to Kermit’s old neighborhood to help me, and you just make a mess of the store!” Beau complained, surveying the spilled water, smouldering waste can, sparking blender, bubbling foam trail, scattered cans, and dripping smoothie cup. “Mister clerk, I am so sorry! Do you have a mop?”

“I think so,” the Count said, surprised at the extent of the mess. He looked behind the main counter, and found the cleaning supplies. “One, two, three, four – why, we have four marvelous mops!”

Beaker whimpered, starting to freeze. He didn’t understand how a tremor could have hit just that one building. He looked at the overturned stool, thinking what an odd coincidence it was that the Newsman had been here, of all places, and right before… “Mee! Mee meep!” he cried, suddenly realizing he’d been missing a connection all along. He struggled to push off the pile of ice bags, shivering, intent on warning Beau. “Mee mee me meep mee mee…”

One final bag of ice fell on his head. Eyes rolling up, Beaker fainted.

Shaking his head, Beauregard wielded the store’s mop expertly, going after the slippery water first. “Spilling water on the floor! That’s dangerous; someone could get hurt,” he grumbled.

The Count turned back to the nails. “Oh, dear…I forgot what number I was on!” He shook his head, then dumped the bag back into the bin. “Well, perhaps the fourth time will be the charm! Ah-ah-ah! One! One twopenny nail…”

Around the corner in a small park, Gina had convinced Newsie to sit next to her on a swingset. He watched her tucking her legs up and swinging higher and higher, still clutching her smoothie, laughing. “Come on! I bet I can go higher than you!” she challenged.

Grinning back at her, he kicked against the ground, and within a few swings could almost match her. She giggled. He felt his heart lift, soaring with each swoop, and gave in to a laugh as well. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had wanted to play with him so joyously…well, ever, really. Her dress revealed more of her legs every time she swung forward, and he watched her delightedly, feeling the wind they kicked up blowing his hair around, hearing it rush past him. He felt young.

It sounded nothing at all like a freight train.

 

[The Count]

Sure... *Passes the container over about halfway full.

 

[The Count]

What a wonderful chapter! The details very much help bring everything to life or at least aid one to see it in their minds' eyes.

Liked the touch of the SG comics...
And of corpse, what can I say about my main roomie's involvement other than that the traditional thunderclap was the only thing missing but twas still the best part.
And then there's Newsie enjoying himself with Gina as they stroll through the park on a Springy day.

But there are 2, 2 instances where you won yourself a bag of BBQ ramchips, demonstrating that you've been paying attention to other fics or tidbits of trivia throughout the forums.
"Beaker looked around, noting in happy surprise the store actually carried the violet honey crumble bars he liked."
The fave dessert of the RHLC's founder, ReneeLouvier.

"He’d co-cast those games with Kazagger for thirteen days! He’d been on the field at the finish line when both Beaker and the Count had completed the cross-country cycling event!"
Straight from the Muppets version of Laff-a-Lympics written by Xerus.

This show you're starting to feel some ease in integration, which sometimes though not necessarily always needs to happen, but it just adds to the sense of good-natured familiarity between stories posted here.
Thank you wery much and have a great night.

More please!

 

[newsmanfan]

(really big doofy grin, which looks even sillier beneath the specs...)

Thankyou! RAMCHIPS NOM NOM NOM...

Actually, I had NO IDEA anyone here even knew what a Violet Crumble bar was. A friend of mine IRL likes them. Glad to know that tidbit relates. I just wondered what kind of candy Beaker would like most, and that's what popped into my head. And Yes, I've read the "Battle of the Muppet All-Stars" -- I actually happened across it on Google whilst searching for anyone else's Newsie fic. It led me here, and made me decide to join. And yes, I try to at least skim others' work to get an idea of accepted canon and existing in-jokes.

Dang! Can't believe I forgot the thunderclap... *facepalm*

 

[The Count]

Is okay... As I said, the chapter was still great. Wonder what'll happen once Beaker wakes up, gets back to the theater, and tells Bunsen his realization. But more importantly... Will the floor get fixed? Or will it serve as another obvious plothole trapdoor the characters keep falling into? Yeah, we had that back at the 2004 Christmas party at Piggy's home. Hope to read more when possible.

 

[Muppetfan44]

The Count recommended that I check out this story and I am very glad that he did. Very good writing and interesting plot-line.

Definitely love all the nuances and inside jokes and references from different muppet movies and show episodes. You write for the Muppets very well, and with a lot of great detail.

Looking forward to reading more; keep up the good work!

 

[newsmanfan]

Thank you both! Very happy people are enjoying this as I've having a blast writing it. Completed ch. 26 very early this morning (I usually write on allnighters), in which I am proud to say I used not only an oblique reference to something Miss Ru wrote about Scribbler which I found funny, but also stole a brilliant bit of onomonopea from Winslow Leach. You'll see later.

Thanks again for reading, even those of you not saying much!

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 22

Beauregard insisted he didn’t need any help hammering down the newly-cut boards to patch the hole in the stage floor, and to Kermit’s queries about why the trip had taken so long, he only said, “You know, Kermit, you just can’t take some people out in public!” Beaker, of course, was no more helpful, having hurried down to the lab as soon as the truck was parked by the loading dock in the alley. Seeing Pepe wandering through the green room, Kermit put him to work sanding the boards before and after each was nailed into place, to make the new work fit in as smoothly with the existing boards as possible. Repeated checks on their progress ensured the floor was repaired and swept clean of sawdust and any stray nails before the night’s performers checked in.

Oh, good, Kermit thought with relief as Beau finished sweeping the stage, and a grumbling King Prawn lugged a bag with the remaining nails off to the tool storage closet. Hopefully that’s the last of the mishaps…for this week, at least.

Beaker, despite the shivers still going through him from having been buried in bags of ice, had hurried downstairs as soon as they returned to the theatre. All his protests to Beau on the ride to the nearest lumberyard and then back home had fallen on uncomprehending ears; instead he’d had to endure a lecture on politeness and not making a mess from the usually more kindhearted janitor. He hadn’t even been able to buy a violet crumble bar, and the smoothie was a loss. However, he told himself determinedly, none of that mattered next to what he’d discovered. He found Honeydew tinkering with a matter-transference relay switch on his newly built psychokinetic field generator. Beaker burst into the lab, waving his hands. “Mee-meep! Mee mee mee, me mee, mee me mee me mee…”

“Beaker! Where have you been?” Bunsen scolded. “I’ve had to build our experimental device without you! I really could’ve used your help lowering the reality differential charger into the mass spectroponomic array; I’m not entirely sure the gaskets are tight enough!”

Frustrated, Beaker tried again. “Me meep mee Mewsmeep!”

“What?” Bunsen stopped trying to screw a hupcab on the side of the generator. “The Newsman? What do you mean?”

Impatiently, Beaker told his fellow scientist everything that had happened at the store, though he skipped much of the interaction between Beau and the seemingly OCD clerk. Bunsen shook his head. “Beaker, you know very well this city is near a fault line! Little tremors go undetected by the general public all the time!”

Beaker argued his point, reminding Bunsen the tornado had swirled into existence the previous night immediately after the News Flash. “Well, did he say anything about an earth tremor while he was in the shop?” Bunsen asked.

“Mee…me mee meep mee meep meep,” Beaker said, swivelling his tall head, but then spread his hands and sighed. “Meep meep.”

“Hmmm.” Honeydew put a hand to his mouth, lost in thought a long moment. Beaker nervously tapped the counter, and three loose screws fell off the hubcap array. “Beaker! Tsk, tsk.” Sighing, Bunsen set the screws carefully aside. “Well, I must say, this is certainly a startling theory, but we’ll need more proof than the energy spike which preceded the twister. That may have been a coincidence; after all, the Newsman does seem to have a streak of, er, extrordinary bad luck most of the time.”

“Mee meep mee me?”

“Well, if all he was doing is sitting in the store –“

“Meep mee,” Beaker corrected. He glanced around to see if anyone was listening in, then whispered to Bunsen, “Mee meep mippy-mippy meep meep!”

“Oh, my!” Bunsen looked shocked. He waggled a shaming finger at Beaker. “And you watched? That’s very rude, Beakie!”

“Mee,” Beaker shrugged, blushing. “Mee mee meep mee me mee?”

“Hmm,” Bunsen said again, coming around the lab counter to type some formulae into an ancient, upright IBM 286 which he’d made his own modifications to over the years. “Well, modern advances in genetics have led to an increased focus on so-called indicator genes; little bits of DNA which seem inert or dormant until some environmental trigger switches them on. They then influence the regular DNA, and can cause all sorts of physiological malfunctions…”

Beaker sighed, raising his hands to the ceiling. He knew all this! Bunsen didn’t notice his impatience, continuing to feed data into the program. “Now…let us presume from past observance that our Newsman likely has the Muppeti reporterus disastrii manifestationalii gene. Normally this gene causes a preponderance of side effects ranging from attracting mutated furniture to exerting an almost magnetic draw upon any falling objects in the vicinity…however, if there is also an indicator gene, dormant up until now, which has suddenly been turned on, I surmise it may be possible for his extant condition to actually spread its influence into his surroundings!” He pressed down a key with a triumphant tack of a forefinger, and looked at Beaker. On the black monitor, a green spiral of DNA shivered, broke apart, and suddenly turned into miniature pirahna-like creatures, spreading out and eating the rest of the formulae typed on the screen. Beaker looked from Bunsen’s smug smile to the digital pirahna things now spreading out of the monitor, eating the edges of it. Two dropped onto the keyboard, immediately swallowing the backspace and number 6 keys.

“Meep meep!” Beaker exclaimed, gesturing at it.

“Oh, you’ve seen the Bunsonian Deoxyribonucleic Discombobulator Equation before, Beaker! The idea isn’t new; we’ve just never thought to apply it to the News…er…oh, dear!” He finally saw the digital critterlings devouring the rest of the monitor and swarming over the keyboard and the bulky hard drive. “Oh! Oh! Quick, Beaker! I need a flash drive! I hadn’t saved my diary from last night!”

Shrieking as the things skittered across the desk at him, Beaker fled the room, leaving Bunsen thwapping at them with a stained rag. “Shoo! Shoo! Get away! Aaaaahhh!”




The afternoon had ended too soon, and at five forty-five they stood on the loading dock behind the Muppet Theatre, arms around one another, saying a lengthy goodbye before each went to work for the evening. Gina had given him the spare key to the apartment, insisting that when the Muppet Show was done for the night, the Newsman should head home. “I honestly don’t know how late I’ll be,” she told him. “It’s the first full dress rehearsal tonight, which is usually panic time for everybody. Scott’s pretty good about having all his stuff done on time, but if the director wants any changes made I may have to stay after and program them into the light board.”

“I could come by and wait for you,” Newsie offered.

Gina leaned over, eye to eye with him, showing a suggestive grin. “Or you could have dinner and a bubble bath waiting for me when I get home…preferably with you already in it.”

Newsie gulped, blushing. “Wouldn’t that, er, be a little, um, crowded?”

“You’re an intelligent man. Figure out a way for us both to fit in the tub.” She grinned as his blush deepened, the logistical possibilities going through his mind. She kissed him. “I’ll call right before I leave the theatre so you know I’m on my way. Take some time to settle in, put your feet up, whatever. Okay?”

Newsie nodded, too flustered by the images still swimming through his head to offer any coherent speech. Gina bestowed another soft kiss. “Have a good show. Break a leg.”

“What? Why would you say that?” Newsie asked, dismayed.

“Uh…old theatre saying? You never wish a performer good luck?”

“I’m not an actor,” he pointed out. “I’m a journalist.”

“Oh…right…um…break a newscast?”

They stared at one another. This time Gina was the one looking hopeful. After a moment they both began snickering. Newsie was amazed at how easily she brought out a lighter mood in him. He stretched up to kiss her again. “Thank you. You, uh…you have a good night as well. What do techies break?”

She grinned. “Nothing, if we can help it! Especially not with Stingy Starkey producing. Hey, how many producers does it take to change a light bulb?”

“I have no idea,” Newsie said, confused. “I didn’t know producers bothered with details like that. Our old news producer never did…”

“Newsie, it’s a joke. How many?”

“Oh…I don’t know,” he said.

“’What’s wrong with the old one?’” Gina said, looking stern.

Newsie laughed dutifully. Gina sighed, shaking her head. She kissed his nose. “Think about it, okay? I hope your night goes smoothly. I’ll see you later.” She gave him a small wave as she straightened up and turned to go. “Remember: I’m trusting you with dinner! And my kitchen!” Newsie gulped, but waved back. Gina jumped down the back steps and walked quickly along the alley, pausing once more at the turn to wave again before she was out of sight. Newsie went backstage, briefly pausing to let Scooter know he was there before he went down to his dressing-room. He saw Fozzie at the dining counter, and realized the bear probably wouldn’t mock him as much as the others.

“Excuse me, Fozzie,” Newsie said, surprising the bear. “I, uh, just heard a new joke.”

“Yeah?” Fozzie looked askance at him. “You’re not…you’re not trying to steal my spot on the show, are you?”

“What? No!” Newsie scowled.

“Okay, okay, just checking. What’s the joke?”

“How many producers does it take to change a light bulb?”

“I don’t know. How many?” Fozzie played along.

“’What was wrong with the old bulb?’” Newsie paraphrased. They stared at one another a beat.

“I don’t get it,” Fozzie said.

Newsie shook his head, disappointed. “Never mind.” He went to the broom closet to find the small clothes-brush he kept; he hated lint on his jacket.

Fozzie sat there a while longer in bewilderment, brightening as he saw Zoot walking by. “Hey, hey Zoot! How many producers does it take to change a light bulb?”

The saxman paused, stared at the overeager bear a second, then muttered, “Who cares? They still won’t give me enough studio time no matter how well they light it!” Grumbling under his breath, he stalked off. Fozzie stared after him in even worse confusion than before.

“Dat’s not how it goes,” he said, puzzled.

A few Muppets looked up as Dr Honeydew, with a very anxious Beaker in tow, came slowly walking through the green room, checking the readout of the psychokinetic energy field detector (mk. III). “Look! We definitely have a strong signal here,” Bunsen said, tapping Beaker on the shoulder. “Beaker! Are you paying attention?”

“Meep mee me meep,” Beaker muttered, pointing vaguely upstairs, meanwhile skittishly looking every direction.

“Yes, I know there was a spike outside a minute ago, but the signal is coming from somewhere in this room now,” Bunsen said.

Rowlf, curious, stopped in front of the roving scientists. “Hey doc, whatcha doin’?”

“Oh, hello, Mr Rowlf. We are tracking a terribly dangerous energy field which is spontaneously generating from something within this very room!” Rowlf stared at him. Bunsen elaborated generously: “Someone or something here is actually projecting a field of intense psychokinetic manifestational energy, which, if left unchecked, could very well bring about a severe transsubstantiational quantum materializational event!”

“Mee-ment,” Beaker agreed.

“Oh. Okay. Have fun,” Rowlf offered, heading to the upright piano in the corner to practice. The specific arrangement of music Piggy demanded for her big number tonight was new to him, and he wanted as much familiarity with it as he could get before curtain-time. He shook his head as Bunsen scanned the piano, frowned in disappointment, and moved on. Those guys seemed to get weirder every year… He opened the sheet music, peered closely at it, and began picking out the notes on the mostly-in-tune piano.

When the Newsman emerged from his dressing-room a minute later, already opening The Backstage Handbook in the hope he might actually get to finish the chapter on rigging tonight, the psychokinetic energy sensor beeped loudly. Beaker nudged Bunsen, pointing from the readout to the oblivious Newsman as he settled himself on a chair as far from everyone else as he could get to read in peace.

Bunsen glanced between Newsie and Beaker. “Yes, I see. There does seem to be a strong residual field around him. However…” Bunsen fiddled with the settings. “He’s not generating it, at least at the moment. This doesn’t prove your theory, Beakie.”

“Hmmmm.” Beaker stared at the Newsman a long moment as Bunsen continued to adjust the sensor, trying to fine-tune the readings. “Me mee meep-eep, mee meriment?” Beaker mumbled quietly so no one would overhear.

“An experiment? Hmm. But how could we determine definitively whether the Newsman is the originator of the psychokinetic field?” Bunsen snapped his fingers. “That’s it! We’ll just have to get him to read the news!”

Beaker stood up taller, staring in silence at Bunsen. He looked over at Newsie, who quietly turned a page, his glasses apparently not helping as much as they should, judging by the closeness of the book to his nose. Beaker looked back at Bunsen, who was still beaming. “Mee mee meep me mews mee,” Beaker objected.

“I know that’s his job! I mean, we shall have to devise a news report for him to deliver, so that we can monitor the results ourselves!”

“Mee meep mee?” Beaker wondered, bewildered. Bunsen took him by the shoulder, leading him back toward the lab.

“How fast can you type, Beakie? Tss, stt, stt!”




The opening number, a bunch of flowers singing “Isn’t It a Lovely Day to Be Caught in the Rain?”, got through the first chorus before they were trampled by squealing woodland creatures rushing to get out of the downpour, which Kermit accounted a decent enough beginning. “Okay, nice number, nice number,” he said, nodding at the disgruntled lilies and daffodils lolloping offstage. He was about to page Fozzie when Dr Honeydew hurried up, a sheet of paper in his hand. “Uh, give me just a minute, Bunsen, okay?”

Honeydew thrust the paper at Kermit. “Oh, but Kermit, this just came in over the news machine! I happened to be…tss, sst, sst…I happened to be in the vicinity and took it upon myself to bring it to you.”

“Well, why give it to me? I’m not the one who reads it!” Kermit said, frowning. He paged over the intercom: “Newsman! Newsman onstage now!”

Honeydew retreated as Newsie came jogging up the stairs, a deep frown wrinkling his brow. “I didn’t hear the newswire go off!” he protested.

Kermit shook his head, handing off the paper. Pig stagehands were already sliding the news desk into place. “Well, pay more attention then! Just get out there!”

Throwing a scowl at his boss, Newsie grabbed the report and hurried onstage. One of these days, he’d break the story that would make all of them take him seriously. Thinking At least Gina believes in me, he took his spot behind the desk. “Here is a Muppet News Flash! Dateline: China! Noted inventor Dr Fun Yuk Foo today announced he has perfected the formula for a phenomological text eraser.” Newsie scanned the page, wishing they wouldn’t give him science stories; he hated trying to correctly pronounce the technical terms.

In the wing, Beaker and Bunsen watched intently, Bunsen with an expectant smile, Beaker with a worried look. Newsie continued reading the report: “Dr Foo claims his new invention is the ultimate in intelligence warfare! It allegedly causes writing of any kind to evaporate, leaving only blank space. The announcement has drawn critical statements from the FBI, the CIA, Interpol, and the Liquid White-Out Company.” He scowled. “Dr Foo has threatened to unleash his destructive invention into the world unless…uh, unless…” Newsie paused, flipping the paper over, but the story didn’t continue on the reverse side. “Huh…er…uhm. That’s all the news tonight. Thank you.” Puzzled, he left the stage, peering closely at both sides of the paper. Now he couldn’t even see the original story. He set the paper aside, removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses, then put them back on and checked the paper again. It was blank. Well, whatever… Shrugging, he headed back for the green room.

Bunsen’s psychokinetic sensor was going haywire. “Oh! Oh, my! Beaker, it seems your theory has a great deal of merit!” he said. “Why, according to this, the readings are at…are at…” He shook the sensor, stared at it, flipped up his specatcles, flipped them down, stared again. “That’s odd. The readout’s gone blank.”

“Mee mee mee?”

“Oh…oh, dear…”

Kermit sent Fozzie onstage, with his usual corny flourish of music. Turning back to his desk to look over the night’s schedule as he habitually did, he paused, stared, then began shuffling through the pages in his datebook, then spread the notes underneath that out, shaking his head at each. “Okay, ha ha ha…who’s the wise guy who switched out all my notes?” He glanced around, and saw the scientists huddled in the corner, looking concerned. “Bunsen? Did you take my notes?”

“Er…no,” Honeydew said nervously.

There was a lot of booing coming from the house. “A-hahhh…a-ha-ha-ha…uh…take my wife…please!” Fozzie tried. A second later he was scurrying into the wing, ducking as a shoe sailed just over his head. “Kermit! Kermit! I do not think dat was very funny!”

“Uh, no, Fozzie; it sounds like the audience agrees with you.”

“No, Kermit! My cue cards! Scooter was supposed to be holding up my cue cards! Instead, he holds up a bunch of blanks! You tell him I said dat wasn’t a very nice joke to play on the old bear!” Fozzie protested. Scooter hurried up, frowning.

“Hey, don’t blame me! Those are the cards you gave me!”

“I gave you cards with jokes on ‘em!”

“Well, this is what you gave me, and this is what you got!” Scooter said angrily, shoving the large white pieces of heavy paper at Fozzie and going off in a huff.

“What the hey,” Kermit said, bemused. Rowlf pushed his baby grand piano past, and Kermit shook himself out of it. “Fozzie, I’m sure it was just a mix-up, okay? Piggy! Miss Piggy onstage now!”

Miss Piggy sashayed down the stairs from her dressing-room, elegant in a blue velvet dress with swaths and swaths of fabric trailing behind it, so much so that one of the stagepigs had to carry it off the floor. Even Kermit had to admit she looked fabulous. “Wow…Piggy, that is some dress!”

“Thank youuu,” she cooed, smoothing back her blond tresses, adjusting the tiny comb with pearlized flowers sticking up from it. “It’s tres Ingrid Bergman, don’t vous think?”

“It’s very lovely,” Kermit agreed. “And you’ll be singing…?”

“’Blue Velvet,’ what else?” she growled, then preened her way onstage behind the closed drapes. Kermit gulped, knowing she wanted this one to be big and stylish, and hurried out front to introduce her.

“Ladies and gentleman, we take you now back to the golden age of the silver screen, when femme fatales sang sexy songs to woo the wallets of the marvelling masses! Here is our own Miss Piggy, singing the classic, ‘Blue Velvet’!” He gave her a proper emcee’s flourish with one flipper as the curtains opened.

Piggy posed in silhouette at first; then as Rowlf softly began playing, her downlight slowly came on, revealing her shining eyes and sparkling jewelry. “Sheeee…wooooore bluuuuuuuuuuee velvet,” Piggy crooned, her eyes giving off a passable Bette Davis impression. “Bluuuer than vellllvet was the niiiight…” She paused, momentarily troubled, as she realized no piano music was playing under her voice. Shuffling closer to the piano, she muttered under her breath, “What’s the problem, fleabait? You’re supposed to be accompanying me!”

“I can’t,” Rowlf said, scratching his ears.

“Listen, you overgrown pound puppy, you said you could play this!” Piggy growled, beginning to panic.

“I said I could play it if you gave me the music!”

“Well?”

“Uh, I don’t got the music!” Piggy stared at him, all pretense at posing forgotten. Rowlf gestured at the blank pages on the piano music rack. “It…it just vanished while I was playing it!”

“Don’t you remember enough to fake it?”

“Uh, not really.”

“Well play something!”

“Okay…” Rowlf suddenly launched into a jaunty rendition of “Ragtime Gal.”

“I am not singing that in this dress!” Piggy objected.

“Well, I’ll sing it, then! You dance!” Rowlf said, and began howling out: “Hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my ragtime gowwlll…”

“Oh you have got to be kidding me,” Piggy snarled, but then smiled and cooed at the audience, which was beginning to look restless. She did her best to do a Charleston in time to the music, quickly getting tangled in her acres of blue velvet. “Oh…uhn…uhh!” She toppled over, heels going up in a flip of fabric. Rowlf quickly swooped his paws over the keys to end the piece, and the curtains closed. “Aagh! Where is the frog? Where is that frog?” Piggy cried.

Kermit rushed to her side, trying to get her upright and untangled. Velvet ripped under her heels as she tried to stand. “Aagh! Ugh! What is the meaning of this?” she yelled, making the frog cringe. Rowlf quickly made himself and the piano scarce. With Fozzie’s help, Kermit carried Piggy offstage. “My dress! My beautiful dress!” Piggy sobbed, abruptly turning angry again. “His music disappeared off the page? Ohhh – where is that Newsgeek? Where is he? I’ll teach him what happens when you mess with the star singer twice in a row!” she promised, fighting free of everyone and running for the lower stairs. “I’ll teach him not to make his stupid news repooooooorrrrraaaagh!” Tripping in the wildly slipping fabric, she tumbled down the stairs.

Kermit cringed, hurrying to the stairwell. “Uh…Piggy? Piggy? Are you okay?”

Piggy attempted to blow her hair off her snout. “Fine. Just fine.” Her eyes narrowed, scanning the green room. “Where is he?”

With a nervous gulp, glad he wasn’t the target, Kermit ran back to the stage manager’s desk. “Uh…okay…Sam? Sam, where are – oh.” The eagle stood stiffly next to the desk, staring oddly at him. “Ah, there you are. I, uh, I seem to have lost my notes, but you were going on next, right?”

“Kermit, I do not pretend to understand what kind of weirdness is at work here tonight, but I cannot go on.” Sam’s eyes shifted around the room, resting suspiciously on everything they touched.

“Oh? But I thought you really wanted to do that public service thing on adult literacy tonight,” Kermit said, surprised.

“Well, uh…” Sam bent over, whispering in a slightly less loud voice than usual. “It seems I, uh, I am unable to read the public service announcement.”

“Sam, you’re kidding!” Kermit said, surprised. “You can’t read? I always thought you could before!”

“Of course I can read!” Annoyed, the eagle waved a bunch of blank sheets of paper at Kermit. “My announcement is invisible! I believe this trick to be the work of certain subversive elements who have infiltrated the theatre! Perhaps that Chinese scientist has targeted us for his diabolical deed, seeing that we are upholders of moral standards and the sacred norms of society!”

“Sam, I very much doubt that,” Kermit said, his face crumpling unhappily. He looked around. “What am I going to do? Who doesn’t need to read their act to do it?”

“Hey, little green man, we gotcha covered,” Floyd Pepper said, strolling lazily through.

“Man, I don’t even know how to read them little black dots!” Dr Teeth joked, right behind him. Zoot just gave Kermit a look, shrugged, and carried his sax out.

“The Electric Mayhem it is, then,” Kermit sighed. “Hey, Scooter, could you fly in the rainbow backdrop for them?”

“Uh, I was just going to,” Scooter said, startling Kermit at his elbow, “but I can’t tell which fly line it’s on.”

“Whaddaya mean? It’s the one labeled ‘rainbow backdrop’!” Kermit said.

“I know that! But Kermit, all the labels on the fly lines are gone!”

Kermit shook, startled again. “What? What the hey is going on here tonight?”

Downstairs, the Newsman was smoothing down the front of his jacket as he came out of the restroom, not looking where he was going. The enraged pig blindsided him. “Hiii-yahh!” She swung at him; he winced, unable to retreat, but Piggy’s gown caught on her shoes again, and her chop missed him as she went bottoms-up.

“What did I do?” Newsie choked out, taking the opportunity to put some distance between himself and Piggy while she fought with her dress.

“You and your –ungh – stupid news reports –grrr – have embarrassed me for the last time, four-eyes!” Piggy yelled, struggling to free herself. “Unnnngh! Will somebody get me outta this thing?”

“Oh, dear,” Bunsen said, watching from a safe corner. “This experiment is having some unforseen consequences!”

“Meep!” Beaker agreed.

Newsie fled to his dressing-room, shutting the door and barricading it with Beau’s mop-buckets inside. Piggy tore the entire trail of her dress off, striding angrily to the broom closet. “Newsgeek! I know you’re in there! Open this door!” she shouted, pounding on the door so hard the hinges squealed.

“Oh, man, she is so gonna cream him,” Rizzo cackled, watching.

“Si, si, he will be little Newsitos when she is done, okay,” Pepe agreed. He turned to Rizzo, an idea striking him. “Hey, we are needing the refreshments for this sporting events, si?”

“Si,” Rizzo said. “I mean, yeah! Go see what Chef has!”

Pepe scuttled over to the canteen. The Swedish Chef was in the process of cooking some pepper steak when he noticed the shrimp trying to sneak off with an entire sack of chocolate chips he’d intended for chocolate-covered rice later. “Sveen! Sern de bol de hoon foo!” the Chef yelled, waving his spatula at Pepe. The shrimp dodged back and forth, hopping all around the counter, as the angry Chef swatted at him. Chocolate chips went everywhere, flour puffed up and coated his hat, and ingredients in bags and boxes were scattered on the floor. “Hummen der choopsies vern nooo der scrimpens!” the Chef shouted as Pepe beat a hasty retreat after getting hit with the spatula.

“Okay, okay, I am going!” Pepe protested, rubbing his rear end in a rare moment of chagrin. Rizzo shook his head at him. Pepe glared, waving two arms at him. “What? What? Okay you go try it if you wants the munchies so bad!”

“Scrimpens foon her der steelins,” the Chef muttered, turning back to his pepper steak. He reached for the container of pepper, not finding it. Looking around, he saw all his spices had been knocked to the floor. Grumbling, he picked it all up, then scratched his head, squinting in confusion at two identical unlabeled canisters. Shrugging, he picked one, opening it and shaking the contents into his hot-frying skillet.

It proved not to be the pepper, but the gunpowder he’d ordered for making gunpowder tea.




Kermit felt the floor shake from the explosion. “Ack! Scooter! Go see what that was!”

“On it, boss!”

“Hey! Did somebody steal my act?” Crazy Harry popped up, complaining.

“That wasn’t him? Oh, good grief,” Kermit sighed.

The entire kitchen was scorched, the stove a mangled wreck of stainless steel and crazily coiled burners. The Chef was blackened as his ice cream the day before. Flour and various exploded spices made a colorful coating over the dining area. Rizzo hurried off, a tiny piece of the unpeppered steak in his paws; Pepe was right on his tail, warning, “Hey, I do not think you should eat that, okay?”

Scooter stared in awe at the ruins. A hole had been knocked through the wall into the boiler room. “Oh, man…Kermit! You better come down here!” he yelled as loudly as he could. “Oh, man…we should call the gas company…I hope the line’s not broken…”

“I hope my back’s not broken,” Link Hogthrob groaned. He’d been coming to the kitchen counter to ask the Chef whether he could have the peppered steak without the steak, as he was counting his calories these days. A few yards away, Piggy moaned, picking herself off the floor. Rowlf touched the front of his piano worriedly; he’d ducked behind it when he heard the noise. Happily, it didn’t seem to be injured. Inside the broom closet, Newsie cringed on the floor, wondering what on earth was going on, not daring to check.

Kermit ran down the stairs, looking in shock at the mess. “The kitchen? Chef!”

Dazed, the Chef waved his arms weakly. “Borgen noonen der boom-boom!”

“Will someone please tell me what the hey is going on around here?” Kermit yelled, waving his flippers angrily.

“I’ve called the gas company. I don’t think the main line was damaged, but they’ll check and make sure,” Scooter told him.

“Good! Now how did this happen?”

The Chef, Link, and Rizzo all began talking at once.

“Svernen der peeper steaken, und –“

“I think it was too hot a hot pepper…”

“Man, that guy’s crazy! He’s gonna get us all killed one’a these days!”

“Uh, boss? Take a look at this!”

Exasperated, Kermit looked at the spice cans Scooter was holding up. “Spices? What about them?”

“Look at the labels!”

“What labels?” Kermit got it. “Hey Chef…did these have labels when you got them?”

“Ya! Allen der speecy-spicees hooven der paper-aper-aperenns,” the Chef nodded, wiping flour and various unidentified things from his face.

“I think I understand,” Kermit said, frowning deeply. He turned around to see Piggy trying to dust herself off, although the remainder of the dress was now covered in soot and spices too thickly to ever be salvageable. “Uh, Piggy? Are you all right?”

“Moi is perfectly all right, thank you, Kermie,” she said, managing dignity somehow. She leaned toward the still-closed broom closet door. “Which is more than I can say for a certain cowardly Newsgeek!”

“I have had it,” Kermit fumed, hopping over to the door. He banged on it. “Newsman! Get out here! Now! This has gone far enough!”

“Yeah, get your scrawny yellow butt out here so I can kick it into the middle of next week,” Piggy growled.

Annoyed, Kermit motioned her back. “Piggy, let me handle this. Open up!”

Terrified, Newsie cracked the door open. “It’s not my fault!”

“It’s not your fault? Of course it’s your fault! None of your ridiculous news stories are supposed to backfire on anybody but you, and all of a sudden we’re all getting hit by them!” Kermit shouted, making Newsie cringe behind the door.

“I swear I have no idea why, Kermit!” the Newsman whimpered. “I just read them! I don’t make this stuff happen, it just does!”

“Out! Out! Out!” the frog shrieked. Terrified, Newsie slammed the door shut again.

Rizzo stepped up. “Hey Kermit, let me try.” When Kermit, scowling, stepped aside a bit, the rat knocked on the door. “Hey, Newsie? It’s me, Rizzo.”

A short pause; then Newsie’s trembling voice came through the door: “R-rizzo?”

“Yeah, that’s right, it’s me. Listen, no one’s gonna hurt you. We just wanna talk. Come on out.”

“P-promise?”

“I swear on my mudder’s cheese soufflé. Come on! Open the door!”

Cautiously, Newsie started to open the door. When it had swung out a few inches, Piggy grabbed it and threw it all the way open, her other hand grabbing Newsie’s tie and yanking him bodily from the tiny cubicle. “All right, you freak, enough is enough! That’s two of my new outfits you’ve ruined! Now you die!” she growled.

“Aaagh!” Newsie struggled backward, but the tie was choking him. Piggy hauled back one leg, delivering a powerful kick. “Hiii-yahhh!” The impact sent Newsie flying across the room, Piggy releasing his tie at the same moment for maximum velocity.

“Eh, my mudder makes a lousy soufflé,” Rizzo shrugged, walking off.

As the Newsman trembled, out of breath, back hurting from the his flight’s sudden stop at one of the upended tables, Kermit stomped over to him. “I don’t know what’s got into you lately, but you’d better knock it off, or you’ll be out of a job!” the frog warned. “Now get out of here before we lose the writing on our paychecks!”

“Too late,” Scooter called down, having already run to check that possibility. Everyone within hearing distance groaned.

“Yeesh,” Kermit said, shaking his head in disgust. He tromped back upstairs to figure out what to do about the rest of the show tonight.

“I didn’t do it,” Newsie gasped, still painfully sprawled next to the collapsed table. “I didn’t do it!”

“Jinxen-loozener,” the Chef muttered, shaking his bent spatula.

“Weirdo,” Link said, slowly trudging off.

Honeydew and Beaker looked at one another. “Oh, dear,” Bunsen said quietly. “That went rather badly, I’m afraid.”

Beaker looked back at the injured, shaking Newsman as he tried to crawl to an upright position. “Mee meep,” he said softly.

“Look, the readout’s working again,” Bunsen said, nudging his colleague. “It would seem our Newsman is still bursting with residual psychokinetic energy! That’s a much higher reading than before the News Flash!”

Beaker nodded, feeling sorry for the Newsman. No one helped him up, and everyone else seemed to be giving him very dirty looks as he slowly made his way, shaking, over to the stairs and climbed up. Beaker sighed. “Me meep mee,” he said to Bunsen.

“What? Beaker, all we did was provide the format for the energy field to flow into! You certainly can not claim we were responsible for this! No,” Bunsen sighed, “I’m afraid our poor Newsman has definitely become a conduit for forces far beyond our current ability to harness. Perhaps further research will provide a solution…if there is one.” He started toward the lab, tugging on Beaker’s sleeve. “Come on, Beaker. There’s nothing else we can do here. Let’s mix up some hydrochloric cocoa and take a look at the data.”

“Mee,” Beaker sighed, staring after the Newsman sadly. Then he turned and trudged along behind Bunsen.

As Newsie slowly headed for the back door, flinching at every angry comment or sharp look directed his way backstage, Kermit looked up. The frog shouted after him, “Newsman! Consider yourself suspended! Until you’ve got whatever this is under control, I don’t want to see you back here! No news reports until we’re sure the only victim of them will be you!”

Head low, Newsie nodded once, and pushed open the back door. When it closed quietly behind him, Kermit sighed, shaking his head. “Maybe he’s finally snapped.” He looked over at Scooter. “Do we have anything that can go on next?”

“Uh, yeah. Whatever you want! The writing’s all back.”

“What?” Kermit looked at his notes. Sure enough, all the acts he’d scheduled the next few days were pencilled in right where they should be. Relieved, he yelled, “Fozzie? Hey, Fozzie? You want to try your jokes again?”

Outside, Newsie stopped, holding on to the loading dock railing. He didn’t want to cry. He really, really did not want to cry. Why was everything going strange? What if Kermit was right; what if it was his fault? He’d long ago accepted his unlucky nature, and bore it as best he could. What if…what if he was getting worse? He took a deep breath, feeling wetness at the corners of his eyes. Struggling to contain it, he made himself walk down the steps into the alley, then along the alley to the street at the far end, heading slowly for Gina’s apartment. What was he going to tell her about this? He clutched his hands together in front of his chest tightly, wondering how she’d take the news. Was there some Gypsy spell which could make him harmless again? He felt the bracelet on his wrist, and held in a sob. What if…what if her protection had deflected the things that normally happened to him onto everyone else? Should he take it off? Would she be disappointed with him if he did? What if he did remove it, and nothing was fixed, and he was out of a job and professionally ruined?

What if she told him to leave because he was too much of a jinx?

He couldn’t hold back the tears at that.

When he reached the apartment, he slid her key into the lock; it opened easily. The apartment was quiet, of course, and dark. He left it that way. Shutting the door behind him, he walked into the bedroom, his stomach hurting from the kick, his back aching from the landing. He stared morosely at her bed, thinking he didn’t deserve to be in it again. Who knows what further damage he might do?

Newsie went back into the living room, pulled his shoes off, climbed onto the generous seat of the long sofa, and stared out the window. He didn’t move, even when the phone rang later.

When Gina opened the door, her movements rushed and worried, she found him sitting in the darkened room, the lamp in the aquarium barely bright enough to reveal his location. “Newsie? Newsie, are you all right?” She immediately went to him, taking his hands in hers.

He simply looked up at her, swallowing hard, ashamed that she would see the tears still trickling down, but too numb to wipe them away. “What happened? What’s wrong?” she asked, quickly touching his face, his shoulder, wondering if he was hurt.

“I know for a fact I’m jinxed, just like Lewis said,” he said finally, his voice a rough whisper. “And…” He had to swallow down a thickness in his throat. “And I think I’m getting worse.”

Gina stared at him. He stared back.

When she pulled him into her arms, he simply crumpled.

 

[newsmanfan]

The rest of the theatre lightbulb jokes (the ones I know, at least):

How many actors does it take to change a light bulb?
Three. One to change the bulb, two to stand around sniffing, "I could have done that better!"

How many divas does it take to change a light bulb?
Two. One to reach for the bulb, one to kick the ladder out from under her. (Note: I assume this method may take a while...)

How many directors does it take to change a light bulb?
"But...does it have to be a light bulb?"

How many producers does it take to change a light bulb?
"What's wrong with the old one?"

How many designers does it take to change a light bulb?
None...that's what the techies are for.

How many techies does it take to change a light bulb?
Five. One to get the beer, one to get the pizza, two to rig a tire-swing from the grid, and one to trick the clueless PA into doing it for them.

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 23

Rizzo tossed things out of the dumpster, disgruntled at how few food items had been discarded after the kitchen explosion. “Man…you’d think at least the chocolate chips would’ve wound up here,” he grumbled.

“Hey, rat,” said a voice. Rizzo stuck his head up over the lip of the dumpster.

“Someone called?”

A skinny guy in a dirty jacket with long stringy gray hair and hippie shades looked inside, peering closely at the chunks of kitchen counter. “Did you guys have a gas line explosion? I saw the company truck here earlier. Tell me, is this a case of corporate negligence resulting in death and destruction?” he asked, taking out a small notepad and a pen.

Rizzo shook his head. “What are you, an insurance adjuster?”

“Uh…that’s right. I’m with Mutual Supercilious. Can you tell me how the explosion happened?”

“Maybe,” Rizzo said, hopping down from the dumpster to perch on the edge of the loading dock. “What’s, uh, what’s my cut of the settlement, if ya catch my drift?”

“You work here at the Muppet Theatre?”

“Dat’s right. I’m a, watchacallit…a stagehand,” Rizzo proclaimed, thinking he was only stretching the truth a little. After all, he had occasionally helped out.

The skinny guy nodded, scribbling on his pad. “I see. Well, you understand, I can’t promise you anything until the company settles…but there is a substantial, er, testimonial reward.”

“Reward?” Rizzo brightened. “Could I get that in cheese?”

“Hey, mac, you can get it any way you like,” the skinny guy assured him. His pen poised for another run across the page. “Now tell me, in your own words, what exactly happened?”

“Well, it wasn’t the gas line,” Rizzo said.

“It wasn’t? Why was their truck here?”

“Oh, just for safety precautions. The Chef blew up the kitchen and part’a the back wall. Took out the stove. But they checked it and said the gas line was okay.” Rizzo leaned in, trying to read the chickenscratch the guy was making with his pen. “Uh, do I still get a reward if the gas company didn’t do it?”

“Uh…well, we’ll see. It all depends who gets assigned the blame, you understand,” the skinny guy said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “So…this is all the fault of the Swedish Chef?”

“Oh, you know him?”

“We insure your theatre,” the skinny guy said. “Of course we know everyone who performs here!”

“Oh, right, gotcha. Well, no…I mean, yeah, the Chef blew it up, but it wasn’t totally his fault…this time,” Rizzo explained.

“Really?” Skinny Guy seemed impatient. “Then whose fault was it?”

“Hey, I thought that was your job to find out!”

“Whaddaya think I’m doing?” Skinny Guy waved an irritated arm at the back of the theatre. “So if the Chef didn’t actually start the whole thing, who did?”

“That jinxed geek,” Rizzo said, shaking his head.

“Jinxed?” Skinny Guy lowered his glasses, staring directly into Rizzo’s face. “Mr Rat, do you know it’s a violation of Mutual Supercilious policy to have a known jinx on the premises?”

“It is?”

“It’s a serious fine! Tell me, how did the whole thing begin?”

“Well,” Rizzo paused, wondering if he could still get the reward even though his information was third-hand. “See, I heard it from Clarence, who heard it from Agnes, who heard it from Ricky, who overheard Kermit yelling…”

“Wait, hold on. Who’s Clarence? Who’s Agnes?”

“Oh – Clarence is a rat. Agnes is one’a the chickens, but don’t ask me to point her out to ya, ‘cause they all look the same to me. A-and Ricky is a pig, one’a the stagehands,” Rizzo explained. Skinny Guy paused.

“I thought you said you were a stagehand?”

“I am. Dat’s right.”

“But you weren’t onstage to overhear Kermit yelling?”

“Uh…I was. Uh. Up in the rafters. Doing stagehandy things.”

The skinny guy flashed a brief, nasty grin. “Don’t you mean the grid?”

“Right. Didn’t I say grid? Aren’t you listening?” Rizzo shook his head. “Geez! You wanna hear this or not?”

“Okay, okay. So what did your buddy overhear?”

“Well, after the dust settled, Kermit was yelling about the news report. Apparently it made all the words on everything disappear.” Rizzo stared at the skinny guy. He stared back. He tapped his pen on the notepad.

“The news. Made words. Disappear.”

“Dat’s what I said,” Rizzo growled. “Honestly! Don’t they teach you how to interview witnesses in insurance adjustor school?”

“How did the news make words disappear? And what the heck does that have to do with the kitchen blowing up?” Skinny Guy snapped.

Rizzo sighed. “Okay, look. We got this guy works for the theatre. Calls himself Newsman. He’s the one that’s a total jinx. Believe me, I should know! I roomed with him for a while, and you should see what happened to that place!”

Skinny Guy’s whole mood changed. He put a hand around the rat’s shoulders. Uncomfortable, Rizzo looked at that, then at the guy’s suddenly broad smile. “Now that is information I can use! Hey…how would you like a grilled cheese sandwich?”

“Would I?” Rizzo hopped down from the dock. “Hey, you just bought yourself one heck of a report, insurance man! Lead on! My tongue is at your command!”

Smiling still, Fleet Scribbler led the gullible rodent off to a sleazy café he knew of, figuring there were so many bugs and rodents already in the place they probably wouldn’t notice one more, especially at this time of night. This sounded like an even more interesting scoop than he’d thought.




“How’s it coming?” Gina asked.

Newsie didn’t look up, peering at the large pot where he stirred around the tortellini in sauce. “Fine.” He’d barely said three words in the last hour, and once recovered from his embarrassing emotional collapse, he’d insisted on fixing dinner. He wasn’t hungry in the least, nor did he know how to actually cook much of anything, but when Gina had suggested they just warm up a frozen pasta meal he’d taken on the chore. He could follow directions just fine, thank you; at least the writing on the bag didn’t seem to be vanishing. The effects of the News Flash seemed to have worn off. Standing on a kitchen stepstool and with Gina’s black cooking apron tied over his shirt, he stirred around the pasta, judging it almost done by the clock. It smelled good enough, but he couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for it.

Gina slipped her hands down his shoulders, holding him from behind. He paused, wanting badly to give in to her touch, but felt heat in his eyes. He didn’t want to start crying again. It had been humiliating enough the first time, even though Gina didn’t seem to think he was a weakling for it. He kept stirring. Gina sighed silently, kissed the top of his head, and moved over to the ‘fridge. “Want a salad with it?”

“Sure.”

At least she wasn’t pressing him to talk more about it. When he’d withdrawn, she’d simply suggested one of the packaged meals from her freezer, and although she hung around the kitchen, she wasn’t saying much. He’d choked out all that had happened that night, from the News Flash to Piggy’s ruined number (and dress) to the blown-up kitchen. He didn’t mention being drop-kicked across the green room, too ashamed. Gina had tried, holding him, to persuade him Kermit was wrong, that it wasn’t his fault, but that only made Newsie more upset. Other newscasters didn’t have the bizarre bad luck he did! He’d worked for years at a local TV station, had known many other reporters, and no matter how bad or good they were, or how weird or normal the stories they reported, he was the only one who ever experienced these kinds of effects. It had to be him. He still didn’t understand how things were spreading out to his colleagues, but clearly he was the source somehow.

He hadn’t brought up the idea of taking off her bracelet. He wasn’t sure how she’d receive that suggestion.

Noting the requisite eight minutes had elapsed, he checked the pasta. It all seemed warmed up and the sauce was steaming. He turned off the burner, picked a large wooden spoon out of the decorative bucket of implements beside the stove, and split the contents of the pot into two large bowls. Neatly he removed the apron, hung it back on the hook where he’d found it, put the pot in the sink to soak, and carried both bowls to the kitchen table, where Gina already had tableware and two smaller bowls of mixed salad greens set.

“You’re nicely domesticated,” she told him, smiling. He glanced up at her as he took a seat.

“I had to do everything for my mother. She…she had health issues.”

“I’m sorry,” Gina said, taking his hand in hers. He paused, caught between wanting to pull away and wanting to cling to her. “Newsie…thank you.”

“What for?”

“For trying so hard. You don’t have to, you know.”

He wasn’t sure what she meant. “I agreed to have dinner ready for you. It wasn’t.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “This is fine. And you didn’t have to.”

“I don’t like not keeping promises,” he said, staring at his food.

“Newsie…although I love how serious you are, I want you to relax. You had a horrible night. People who have horrible nights are excused from household chores.”

“They are?” He looked up, genuinely shocked. That had never been the case at Mother’s house. He couldn’t count the number of truly humiliating nights he’d had at work – at either job, and sometimes both – and he’d been expected to do the cooking, the cleaning, all of it, regardless of how horrible he came home feeling.

Gina could read his face easily, and guess at his past. “Oh…Newsie. I am so sorry.” She squeezed his hand, holding his gaze with her own. “Okay. New rule for you. Bad workday equals you get out of responsibilities free. You do the same for me on my bad days. Deal?”

“That…that sounds fair,” he mumbled, surprised. “Are you sure?”

In reply, she leaned over, kissed him, and gave him a worried smile. After a moment he nodded, looked down at the food again, and out of politeness speared a tortellini on his fork. Gina began eating as well. He took three or four purely mechanical bites, swallowing without tasting. Suddenly her hand was on his again. He looked up.

Gina rose, sighing. “Come on. Let me do something for you.”

“Wh-what?”

“Just come with me. Please.”

To his utter shock, she led him into the bathroom. It was large enough for them both to stand in on the fluffy rug, but he looked nervously at the door. “What – Gina – I don’t –“

“Newsie…shhh.”

“Oh!” He turned away, embarrassed, as she pulled off her shirt. What was she thinking? The bathroom door was still slightly open, and the lights were on, and – and – he was in here! He heard more soft fabric sounds behind him, and took a step toward the door. “Uh – I’ll just – just give you some privacy –“

“Did I say I wanted privacy?” He felt her touch on his shoulders, and froze. He started to look back, realized with a shock she’d shed all her clothes, and quickly closed his eyes, ashamed. “It’s okay. Newsie, I promise. It’s okay.” He felt her unbuttoning his shirt.

“But…the lights are on…”

She laughed. “Do you think I’m gonna shower in the dark? Come on. You too.”

A few minutes later, with hot water raining down on him, the lush scent of whatever exotic liquid soap she used filling his nose, and her hands on his back very gently rubbing, Newsie finally opened his eyes a crack. Trembling, he forced his gaze upward and back until he saw her looking down, smiling. “Hi,” she said.

He swallowed hard. “Hi.”

She sighed, and her fingers kneaded his shoulders, and he realized she could see as much of him as he could of her, if he dared move his eyes that direction. He blushed, and then she was kneeling, and then she was embracing him, and then he was crying again. The water dissolved his tears. She didn’t say anything. She just held onto him, and he held tightly to her, and then everything was somehow all right.

Even though the lights stayed on.




“Ba-kawk!” Camilla exclaimed, scratching at the newspaper someone had left by the back door of the theatre.

Gonzo glanced down at the banner, and said disapprovingly, “Oh, Camilla! That rag isn’t good enough for you to shred! Look, if you want some newspaper for the nest, I can go get you a copy of the New York Times.”

“Bawwwwk…bu-gawk,” she said, trying to get him to look at the paper.

“What is this even doing here? I hope no one here subscribes to this junk,” Gonzo muttered, picking it up. He wasn’t often around so early in the morning, but he had some ideas for a new act involving mulitple trapezes hung from the scenery battens and chickens fluttering from rung to rung while he hung upside down from one playing “Amazing Grace” on the accordion, and wanted to work the kinks of it out before anyone else arrived. He noticed the biggest headline, right under the Daily Scandal banner, was RABID ROACHES ROMP RAMPANT AT ROXY! Shaking his head, he was about to toss it into the recycling bin when he saw the story Camilla had been flustered about, two columns down, right above the fold in the paper: MUPPET NEWSMAN TURNS VIOLENT!

“Whhaaaaat?” Gonzo spluttered, his eyes opening wide. “Good grief, we take one night off to visit your sister in Jersey, and what happens?” Quickly he read the article, turning to page 5, then page 8, to get every bit of it. There was an embarrassing photo on page 5 of the Newsman being choked by Spike Milligan years back. “This can’t be true! Camilla, what’s going on?” he asked. Camilla clucked, giving him an impatient look; she’d been with him, of course, and hadn’t the foggiest. Gonzo flipped back to page one, and saw Fleet Scribbler’s byline on the story. “Oh, for crying out loud! Come on, let’s see if Kermit is here yet.”

The back door was unlocked; Beauregard usually arrived much earlier than anyone, doing whatever janitorial duties made him happy, and sometimes special projects which usually made Kermit unhappy. Gonzo walked around backstage, seeing no one. “Kermit? Beau? Helloooo!”

“I think no one else is here yet,” squeaked a small voice. Gonzo looked down to see a dainty rat peering curiously at him.

“Oh, hi. Are you one of Rizzo’s friends?”

“Ha! As if.”

“I found this on the back steps. Do you have any idea what’s going on?” Gonzo asked, showing her the paper. He paused, sniffing. “Why do I smell burnt aluminum and oregano?”

“The kitchen blew up last night. Long story.” The female rat spread the paper on the stage floor, absorbed in reading. She too flipped to page 5, snorted, then page 8.

“Wow, you read fast,” Gonzo said. “It’s not true, is it?”

The rat snorted again. “That guy? He couldn’t hurt a mouse! Of course this isn’t true! The only person I’ve ever seen him go after was that idiot Rizzo!”

“What’d you call me?” On cue, Rizzo wandered over, his stomach fatter than usual. He burped at them, then snickered. “Heh. ‘Scuse me.”

“’Inside source’? What ‘inside source’? This is ridiculous!” Rhonda fumed. “I was here last night, sleeping in the costume shop until the explosion woke me up, and I can tell you the Newsman was definitely not running around with a chainsaw, laughing crazily and yelling ‘Heeeeeeere’s Newsie!’”

“Hey, you weren’t even in the kitchen! I was, and I saw the whole thing!” Rizzo protested. Gonzo stared from one of them to the other.

“In the kitchen stealing food, I bet, not paying attention to anyone else!” Rhonda snapped at Rizzo. “Look, the only one doing any yelling that I heard was Kermit, and he was telling Newsie to leave, and that he was suspended. Newsie wasn’t on a rampage, gumball-fuelled or otherwise! He looked very down and very hurt, and that was all.”

“A gumball-fuelled rampage?” Gonzo wondered.

Rizzo sighed. “Sheesh! People can’t get anything right! I told that guy it musta been all that poison popcorn his girlfriend gave out!”

“Poison popcorn?” Gonzo asked. Camilla tilted her head sideways in disbelief.

“Yeah! Aw, buddy, it was terrible! I ate some and lemme tell ya, my tummy was sick for the next day!”

“That’s because you were trying to drink the fake butter out of the microwave,” Rhonda huffed, disgusted. She did a double-take. “Wait, what guy? Rizzo, were you talking to Scribbler?”

“Huh? No, I was talking to some insurance guy. He came by last night asking about the explosion. When the settlement goes through, I get a nice chunk of the award money,” Rizzo said proudly.

Rhonda stared at him in utter astonishment. After a second she thwapped him over the head with the paper.

“Oww! Hey, what am I, a dog?”

“You’re a total moron! That was no insurance adjustor, that was a tabloid reporter!” Rhonda squealed.

“Oh boy,” Gonzo murmured. “Come on, Camilla. Let’s go see if there’s any chickenfeed and bologna left…”

“How was I supposed to know he was a reporter? What, do they wear special t-shirts that say ‘I’m a scuzzy reporter, don’t talk to me’?” Rizzo protested.

“I think the whole disreputable ambiance should’ve been a tipoff, yeah,” Rhonda said.

Rizzo bristled. “Who’s gotta ambiance?”

“You don’t even know what an ambiance is! Give me that!”

“Hey, if you hit me over the head again, I’m telling!”

“Who? The health department? Rizzo, I can’t believe you did this!”

“Fine,” Rizzo yelled, “Fine! But lemme tell ya, sister, when my settlement award comes through, I’m not sharing it with you!” He stomped off, though his engorged stomach made it a little less impressive than he intended.

“Idiot,” Rhonda muttered, looking through the paper again. “Oh, man. I hope no one else sees this.” She sat there a moment, thinking, then decided she had to do something. After all, the Newsman had shared his Froot Loops with her a time or two. It wasn’t his fault he was jinxed. Nodding determinedly, she rolled up the paper again, held it over her head, and trotted off.

In the green room, Gonzo found Beau straightening chairs. Gonzo’s eyes widened again when he saw the stove completely gone, half the prep counter missing, and soot and some kind of spices plastered everywhere. “Holy cow! Hey, is there anything left to eat?”

Beau blinked at him. “Uh, sure…as long as you like everything with hot pepper, cinnamon, and dill.”

“Cool!” Gonzo happily dug through the remains.




Newsie didn’t have much experience with breakfast cooking other than oatmeal, but a look through Gina’s pantry revealed a box of Kap’n’s Frosted Wheatiebits ‘n’ Crunchies. He was pretty sure he could fix cereal. Not knowing how much milk she liked in hers, he poured a glass of it as well as one of orange juice. She was still asleep when he carefully brought a little bamboo tray with breakfast things into the bedroom and set it on the end of the bed. Unsure how to wake her, he stood at the side of the bed and cleared his throat loudly. When she stirred gently, he reached over and touched her hand. “Gina?”

“Hmmm?”

“Uh. I brought you breakfast. If you want any, I mean. It’s…it’s okay if you don’t, I just thought…er…”

He heard her giggling into her pillow. He swallowed, blinking in surprise. “Er. Was that funny?”

She rolled over, almost unsettling the tray; Newsie grabbed it hurriedly before anything spilled. “You made breakfast?”

He felt ridiculous. “Uh. Just cereal.”

“That’s fine. I like cereal.” She propped herself on one elbow, smiling at him, her hair spilling over her bare shoulders, down her chest… Newsie blinked again, reminded unexpectedly she didn’t sleep in pajamas. She sat up, the sheet draped off one shoulder like a toga, and looked at the tray. “Cool. I get milk and juice?”

“I didn’t know if you liked milk in your cereal.”

“I like how you plan ahead,” she said, making him blush again, but he started to relax. She seemed pleased. “However…there’s something else I’d like.”

“Oh.” His face fell. “Uh. Sure. What is it? Can I bring it for you?”

“Three steps.”

“Huh?”

“Step one: set that tray on my desk.” She indicated the antique wooden drafting table which she kept angled flat as a desk, pushed against one bedroom wall. Uncertainly, he did so. Gina smiled. “Step two. Glasses off.”

“Er…how am I going to get you whatever –“

“Step three. Get in here.”

“Oh,” he said, eyes widening. She grinned, stretching so that the sheet fell off. Red as he could feel his cheeks turning, he had to admit to himself a certain…indecent appreciation for her boldness. “Now?”

“Oh yeah. Now.”

An hour later, when both of them had donned robes and were enjoying bowls of cereal at the kitchen table, Gina showed him how to heat the kettle properly and how to use the French coffee press. Today she chose an organic vanilla-cinnamon coffee. The scent of it filling the kitchen as it steeped in the press had Newsie sniffing deeply, resting his chin upon one hand, elbow on the table, feeling amazingly relaxed. He watched her getting two mugs out of the dish rack, feeling suddenly very happy that one of those was now his. “Thank you,” he said softly to her.

Gina paused, looking over, then smiled and came to offer a kiss. “For what?”

“Everything.” He couldn’t help it; all he wanted to do was sit there and smile at her. She laughed, kissed him again, and poured the coffee.

“Feel better?” she asked, settling into the other chair. She pushed his mug over, and the deliciously sweet odor of it made him inhale strongly, appreciatively. He nodded, taking a long sip, loving the warmth of the rich liquid.

“Good. You, oh Much-Abused Journalist, are taking a day off.”

“I am?”

“You are. I have so decreed it. Today, we are going to lay around in these robes, and read books together, watch TV, and eat, and be lazy and dissolute. At least until I have to go to work.” She drank deeply, her eyes gleaming over the rim of her mug at him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever, uh, been dissolute before,” Newsie said, considering it. “Is that the same thing as being dissolved? There was this report once about an acid spill…” He shuddered.

“No!” She looked shocked, then laughed. “How have you possibly survived all the stuff you’ve gone through?”

Newsie shrugged. “I’m not sure. It may just be a Muppet thing.” He gave her an apologetic look. “Is that weird?”

“No.” She took his fingers in her own, stroking them gently. He was amazed at how intimate that felt. “If you can accept my Gypsy things, I can accept your Muppet things.”

“Deal,” he grinned, and Gina laughed.

“There’s that cute smile! Aha, and there’s the cute blush. I like those,” she said.

He cleared his throat, embarrassed but pleased, and dove into the coffee once more. A knock sounded faintly on the front door. They glanced at one another, puzzled. Gina held up a finger to him, rose from the table, and went to investigate. Listening intently, he heard Gina’s surprise: “Rhonda?”

Newsie frowned. Oh, no. Were the rats going to move in here? He’d really been enjoying the privacy he’d had with Gina! Dismay turned quickly to annoyance. Making sure his robe sash was tied tightly around his waist, he hurried through the dining room, but when he stepped into the living room he saw only one rat. Gina was saying, “I like the haircut. Is that a pixie bob?”

“Yeah, I thought it would be cute for spring,” Rhonda replied. She saw Newsie and began fidgeting nervously.

“No,” he said, stopping a couple of feet away, crossing his arms over his chest. “We do not need a housekeeper!”

“Well good, ‘cause I’m not offering!” the rat squeaked indignantly. “Look, I just came by because I thought you ought to see this.” She unfurled a newspaper.

“The Daily Scandal?” Gina read, taking the paper gently. “Is it worse than the Post?”

“Much,” Newsie and Rhonda chorused, then looked at one another.

“Rabid roaches?” Gina started to laugh.

“No…further down, right column,” Rhonda directed. Curious, Newsie came closer. He saw Gina’s face pale, her fingers stiffen against the paper.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Gina said in a low, angry voice. “They print this stuff?”

“It’s their trademark,” Rhonda sighed. “I just thought, as a fellow legitimate journalist, you’d want to know,” she said to Newsie.

He gave her a startled look. “You’re a journalist?”

The rat sighed, shaking her head. “How fleeting fame. Yes! And Scribbler’s done a real hatchet job on you. I dunno if you have a lawyer, but the phrase ‘injurious libel’ does come to mind here.”

“Newsie…” Gina looked up from the paper. He took a step back, alarmed at the fire in her usually cool eyes. “Why does this guy Scribbler hate you? Did you beat him out for the News Flash job or something?”

“Not that I know of,” Newsie said, growing angry himself. “I know he did get banned from the Muppet Theatre for stalking someone, years ago. What’s he done now?”

“It’s more like what he’s accusing you of,” Gina said. She handed the paper to him. As he skimmed the article in rising consternation, Gina knelt to offer a hand to the rat. “Thank you for telling us, Rhonda.”

“Anytime.” Rhonda paused, giving Newsie an anxious look. “Is he gonna be okay?”

The Newsman trembled in building rage, flipping to page 5. When he saw the outrageous old photo, he made a series of incoherent stutters. Gina looked grimly at Rhonda. “Yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll –“

“Scribbler!” Newsie yelled, throwing the paper in the air and tearing down the hall to the bedroom. He fought free of the robe, tossing it aside roughly, grabbed his pants, and looked wildly around for a clean shirt. In under a minute he was dressed, although sans tie, and barreling for the front door.

Gina caught him. “Whoa! Newsie, Newsie, calm down.”

“Like heck I will! That dirty, sleazy, lying –“ he let out a few words which made Rhonda squeak and cover her ears. “How dare he!”

“Whoo boy,” Rhonda muttered, edging out of the way.

“What are you going to do? You can’t just run over there and waylay him,” Gina argued.

“Oh no? Watch me!” He turned to Rhonda. “Do you have any idea where that scumbag is right now?”

“I do, actually,” the rat said, her tiny brow wrinkling. “I saw him hanging around the alley as I was leaving the theatre. He tried to interview me. I told him where he could stick it!”

“Newsie – I completely agree with you; Scribbler deserves the worst. But why give him more ammunition?” Gina said, trying to restrain the furious Newsman. He proved to be remarkably strong in this agitated state.

“Gina,” he huffed, breaking free, his voice harsher than normal, “I may be a jinx, and I may be a loser, and I may be just a small-time reporter who’ll never even get a whiff of a Pulitzer…but this is too much! This is outrageous, and this is one thing I can do something about!”

“Okay,” she said, seeing he was determined. “And what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet! Maybe…maybe deliver a story about a scuzzy tabloid reporter getting whomped by the combined weight of every copy of every horrible story he’s ever done!” He stopped a moment, took her hand in his, and kissed it. “I can’t do anything about being jinxed. I can give Scribbler some of what he deserves!” He suddenly reached up, pulled her down to him, and kissed her lips. “I love you!” He ran out. From the end of the hall, he yelled back, “Oh – and I am never taking this bracelet off! Never!” The elevator dinged, and closed, and then the outer hall was silent.

Gina stared after him, dumbfounded. Rhonda looked from her to the empty hall. “Wow,” she said. “Did he just…?”

“Yeah,” Gina breathed, feeling shocked herself. “Yeah, he did.”

Rhonda stood there with her, silent a long moment. Finally she said, “Uh…good.”

“Yeah,” Gina said, and started to smile. Rhonda reached up and patted her on the leg. They looked at one another.

“So…got any breakfast?”

“Sure. Do you drink coffee?”

“What kind? Oooh, I smell it. Vanilla cinnamon?”

“Yes it is. Black?”

“I’ll take some fake sweetener, if you got any. A girl’s gotta watch her figure.”

The apartment door closed gently.