Love Reign O'er News

[newsmanfan]

For those of you who haven't already caught the references to one of my all-time fave films, "Ghostbusters," this chapter should bring up a couple more. Beaker sneaking through the apartment building is an indirect homage to the Hotel Sedgewick sequence...just have that somewhat eerie background music playing in your head while you read it and you'll get the frame of mind I wrote it in!

And really...doesn't anyone else think Bunsen is email-pals with Stantz and Spengler?

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 24

Beaker trudged glumly through the gray drizzle which had cast a dull pallor over the morning, hunched over to try to keep the paper bag with the toasted bagels from getting wet. Naturally, it had been dry when he’d set out to fetch breakfast for himself and Bunsen, so he hadn’t taken an umbrella; to top it off, Bunsen hadn’t been able to find his wallet, so Beaker had to spring for the food. Grumbling meeps, he came up the back stairs, squealing and jumping under the theatre’s eaves to avoid the sudden onrush of rain as the drizzle became a downpour. Shaking his head, he went inside, unhappy with the weird smell of burnt metal, jumbled spices, and now, in addition, cleaning fluid emanating from the ruined kitchen as he walked through the green room. Beau was doing his best to scrub the walls and floor, but clearly it was going to take a lot of work before the area was useable again. Sighing, Beaker carried breakfast into the lab, finding to his annoyance that Bunsen had completely forgotten he’d promised to make them both some Tang. Instead, Honeydew was tinkering with the tornadoterminal reverse energy field manifestational generator. He barely glanced up when Beaker entered.

“Oh good, you’re back. Hold this for me?” He indicated a new geegaw sticking out next to the hubcap array. Sighing again, Beaker put his finger on the thing, but as soon as Bunsen’s wrench touched it, a spark went through Beaker’s finger.

“Meep!” He jerked away. Bunsen huffed in frustration.

“Beaker! Hold it still! If that’s not tightened down properly, someone could get hurt! Where have you been?”

Astonished, Beaker hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the bagels sitting on another desk. “Mee meep me mee mee; mee meep me memee me…”

“Breakfast? No, we don’t have time for that right now, Beakie. I realized something a little while ago while you were out amusing yourself with breakfast,” Bunsen said, causing Beaker to look from him to the bagels, nicely filled with cream cheese and toasted and now slowly cooling off in the chilly lab – bagels which Honeydew had specifically requested. “Remember when we first noticed the psychokinetic energy disturbances? They seemed to represent two different energy signatures, although close together to one another on the Mumford Scale. However, in going back over all our data so far, since that extraordinarily high spike a few days ago that set off the alarm, the energy signature has been completely different – and much, much higher!”

Beaker tried again to point out the bagels to Bunsen. With the kitchen wrecked, they didn’t have a safe way to reheat the tasty breads. Oblivious, Honeydew walked around the table, patting the psychokinetic field generator. “I’ve reconfigured this bad boy to set up a counteractive field to the one the Newsman was giving off! All we need to do is get him to stand within its range and turn it on!”

“Erm…mee meep?”

Bunsen’s proud smile turned to a quizzical frown. “How? Well, I assume we’ll just have to ask him.”

“Mee meep mews me mee Mermit,” Beaker pointed out.

“Hmm…I see what you mean. That may indeed be an obstacle,” Bunsen said. “Are you sure he’s banned?”

“Mee mee.”

“Suspended,” Bunsen nodded. “I see! Well…perhaps we can find him and persuade him to come in anyway. After all…tsst, stt, stt…what Kermit doesn’t know, in this case, may very well end up not hurting him! If, of course, my calculations are correct…”

Beaker sighed, giving up on talking Bunsen out of it. As Bunsen stared and tinkered and hmmmed to himself around the massive generator, Beaker opened the breakfast bag, took out a bagel, and had a large bite. He chewed happily, relaxing somewhat. Suddenly Bunsen smacked the desk with his hand, making Beaker jump and spit out a bit of bagel. “That’s it! That’s the missing piece of the equation!”

Beaker stared at him, mouth hanging open, cream cheese on his nose.

Bunsen grabbed his shoulders a moment, beaming. “Beaker! It was two energy fields! You said the Newsman and his girlfriend were kissing at the store, right before the tremor occurred?” Startled, Beaker nodded. “Oh! Oh! We need to get a psychokinetic reading from her! Beaker! What if it’s not a switched-on indicator gene at all that’s causing this alarming jump in energy generation from the Newsman? What if it’s his…er…proximity to this young woman?”

Beaker started back. “Mee mee mee mippy-mippy mee mee meep?”

“Beaker! That’s naughty!” Bunsen blushed. Beaker shrugged, irritated. He thought it was a viable theory… “No, I mean, what if she also has some sort of psychokinetic residual field around her? The convergence of two similar fields would be like pouring raw cesium into a fish tank!”

“Meep!” Beaker gulped, cringing.

“Has she been here when we’ve measured those energy spikes?”

Beaker shrugged, clueless. “Me meep mee me?”

“We must find out at once! Beaker, find out where she lives!” Hurriedly Bunsen dug through the lab cupboards, pulling out an old-fashioned folding aluminum colander, a walkie-talkie set, and the psychokinetic energy detector (mk. III). He fussed through drawers. “I know I had some duct tape around here some—ah! And so, and thus, and…voila!” He fitted the colander over Beaker’s head, ignoring his colleague’s vehement protests. A walkie-talkie stuck up from the back of it, the floppy antenna curling over Beaker’s flame of hair, wiring running from the metal to the psychokinetic energy detector. “There we go! Rather retro-tech clever, if I do say so myself, tsst-stt!”

Beaker stared up at the metal leaves spiraling around his head, and sighed.

Bunsen ran to the nearest mainframe, adjusting and twiddling and typing. “There! I don’t think the signal will penetrate past ten blocks, but hopefully she lives within that radius. Get on out there, Beakie, and find that young woman! We need her data to configure the psychokinetic reverse field generator properly!”

Beaker looked back at his half-eaten bagel, heaved a heavy sigh, and trudged out of the lab. Behind him, a beaming Bunsen suddenly noticed the food.

“Oh, goodness me…that smells wonderful!” Happily, Honeydew picked up the untouched bagel and began chewing it. His face fell, and he looked at it in disappointment. “Oh dear…it’s gone cold…honestly, doesn’t he know toasted bagels with cream cheese are best when they’re still nice and warm?”




“Thanks for the coffee,” Rhonda said. “I’m gonna have to get me one of those French presses.”

“It puts drip-makers to shame,” Gina agreed, holding open the door for the petite rat. “Thanks again for letting us know about Scribbler.”

Rhonda paused in the doorway. “Is your guy gonna be okay?”

Gina shrugged. “I hope so. I think I have enough for bail money…”

“Ha! With him, jail is probably the least of your worries.” She twitched her whiskers at Gina uncertainly. “I hope things turn out okay for you both.”

“Thank you,” Gina said. “I haven’t told Newsie, but I’m thinking of giving that frog boss of his a piece of my mind. That was an awful thing he did last night. The Muppet Theatre is all Newsie has.”

“Doesn’t he have you?”

Gina stopped, then smiled. “Yes. He certainly does.” Rhonda smiled back, then waved and scampered down the hall for the elevator.

Shutting the door quietly, Gina looked around the apartment. Granted, this hack Scribbler had a beatdown coming, by all accounts; but she hoped Newsie wouldn’t get himself in trouble over it. She sighed. She stood a moment in the bedroom, looking at his discarded robe, then picked it up and started to fondle it. She stopped. She sniffed. “Oo-kay,” she muttered. “Laundry. That’s what I can do for him.” She pulled his clothing from her laundry hamper, wondering where he bought his sports coats; he seemed to have very few of them. Besides the brown plaid one he’d run out in, there were two other browns and the newer blue-green. Even his pj’s and shorts had a similarity to them, polka dots or stripes on white. Shaking her head, smiling, Gina pulled on some sweats, gathered all of Newsie’s laundry, found her change-purse and keys, and left the apartment.

As she stepped into the hallway, old Mrs Jornegal stopped her. “Gina! Gina, dear, could you watch Mitzi again this weekend? My sister’s not doing so well, and I need to drive her to the doctor on Saturday.”

“Uh, sure, Mrs Jornegal. I’m sorry to hear that. Just Saturday?”

“Yes; I think that would be all, thank you, dear.” As Gina began to move off, the old lady put a tentative hand on her arm. “Gina, I don’t mean to pry, but…are those a man’s clothes?”

Gina felt her face reddening. “Uh…yes.”

The old lady chuckled. “Oh, well then! Good for you, dear!” She nodded at the sports coats. “He has good taste! What does he do for a living?”

“He’s a reporter. He, uh…has a news show.”

“Oooh, how exciting!” Mrs Jornegal giggled. Gina smiled tolerantly, just wanting to get the laundry started. “Well, good for you both!” She waggled her fingers in a wave, and Gina nodded, smiled, and headed for the elevator. “Oh…be careful if you’re going to the basement! Some of those washers haven’t been working right with all the power outages!”

Frowning, Gina stopped, turning back. “What power outages?”

“Why, the ones all over the building the past few days! I expect you were out at your theatre when they happened,” Mrs Jornegal said. “My television kept switching itself off and on all last night! I’ve complained to ConEd and the maintenance supervisor, and they’ve said they can’t find a short anywhere! Can you believe it?” She shook her head. “And I heard that Monday night, the elevator went to the top of the building and stayed there! No one could make it come down! Isn’t that the strangest thing you’ve ever heard?”

“That…that is strange,” Gina agreed. “Um. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Certainly, dear. You have a good day, now.”

As she pushed the call button for the elevator, Gina pondered the information. What power outages? There’d been nothing, not even a blinking clock, in her apartment to indicate anything of the sort. Well, it was an old building, and she was willing to bet some of the wiring wasn’t up to code. Shrugging, Gina stepped into the empty car as it arrived and pushed the button for the basement level.




The rain didn’t deter the Newsman in the least. When he was finally able to break out of the elevator (after being trapped behind an enormous hippo-lady who got in just as the elevator had reached the lobby and pinned him behind her, oblivious as she rode up and down a few times, unable to recall which floor it was she wanted and deaf to his sputtered protests), he burst at a dead run through the front door and down the steps. He nearly tripped at the bottom, recovered, and paused only a second to get his bearings before heading in the direction of the Muppet Theatre four blocks away.

That hack! That liar! That – that – utter, vicious, scrawny little spaghetti-head! Newsie’s jaw was grimly set as he ran, thinking ahead to what he might do when he caught up to Scribbler. Violent rampage? Oh, he’d show that cackling prevaricator a thing or two about violent rampages! Shivering in anger, Newsie ignored the large wet splashes coming down on him, even on his glasses, his shoes pounding along the sidewalk.

He’d had it. Bad enough his Muppet colleagues thought he had caused the recent disasters. Bad enough Kermit had suspended him – likely without pay. Newsie was…was…well, positively darned if he’d stand for Scribbler abusing him as well! Gina thought he was worth something…and that gave him strength, and courage, and a righteous anger as he huffed along.

This was going to be, as Kazagger might’ve said, a smackdown for the ages.




Beaker was having a hard time dodging walls of water kicked up by passing cars as he hurried across an intersection. Squealing frantically, he jumped for the curb right as a cab swerved past, its horn honking angrily. There wasn’t any shelter at this particular crossing, so he hurried along to the next awning before rechecking the psychokinetic field detector. There was a very strong signal coming from just ahead. Beaker walked toward it under the awning, then ran through the downpour to the next storefront a few feet away. Bunsen’s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie: “Beaker, hurry! If those energy fields have already combined, we could be inches away from absolute catastrophe!”

Beaker started to meep back something tart about being soaked and cold when suddenly the sensor beeped madly. Beaker took a step back, closer to the building, a split second before the Newsman raced around the corner in front of him, running past without even seeing Beaker, a deep scowl on his face, intent on something else. Beaker stared after him, then checked the field detector. Sure enough, the strongest signal was tracking the Newsman as he hustled back the way Beaker had just come…but a second beep showed up on the screen. Confused, Beaker tapped the sensor, rechecked it, tapped it again harder, and jumped a foot when Bunsen yelled over the com: “That’s it! That’s it! Two signals! Beaker, who just went by you?”

“Mee Mewsmeep,” Beaker stammered, looking quickly back and forth between the rapidly vanishing Newsman and the other signal somewhere ahead.

“Then the other signal must be his lady friend! Beaker, go find her!”

Beaker tried to warn Bunsen what he’d just witnessed; he’d never seen the Newsman look so angry, or in such a hurry. “Mee Mewsmeep me meeme meep…”

“Beaker, we already know he’s giving off psychokinetic energy! We need to discover whether she is as well! Go find that other signal’s source!”

Sighing, Beaker turned, tracking the other blip on the screen, trying to avoid becoming completely soaked, anxious about the possibility of an electrical shock again. So far, the array on his head seemed to be holding up, but he didn’t rate his safety chances very highly. Running from shelter to shelter, he came within another block to an older apartment building among a row of Art Deco-era skyscrapers. The signal seemed to be coming from somewhere inside it. He judged the distance to it across open, wet concrete, took a deep breath, and hustled. “Meep meep meep meep meep –meeeeep!” He was almost to the front awning over the top stairs of the building when the colander on his head sparked and the com made staticky noises. Shrieking, Beaker threw it off his head, ripping loose the connection to the field detector. It sparked in the rain; the walkie-talkie briefly caught fire but was then doused by the downpour. Sighing in relief at his near-miss, Beaker trotted up the rest of the steps. The field detector, protected in his hands from most of the wetness, was still working. Nodding to himself, Beaker reported, “Mee meep mee mee; meep meep.” There was no response. Startled, Beaker realized he’d lost the com link to the lab. Bunsen couldn’t hear him.

Trembling, he looked at the signal strength on the field detector. It looked every bit as strong as the one the Newsman had been projecting as he ran past. Who knew how dangerous it might be?

And Beaker was now completely alone.

Shivering, he opened the door to the lobby and walked very, very slowly toward the elevator, the beeping of the psychokinetic energy sensor the loudest sound in the quiet lobby. He looked at the indicator, adjusting the screen readout to show him distances in more detail; the signal seemed to be on the ninth floor. He punched the elevator button and waited. The signal beeped; glancing at the sensor, he realized in fright it was moving. It was…coming down!

Gasping, Beaker looked around, spotting a large frondy plant nearby. He hurriedly wedged himself behind it, his orange hair almost a match in color for the flowers the plant bore on long stems, his white lab coat blending in with the wallpaper behind it. He froze in place. The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Gina stood in the car, cradling a bundle of laundry. She looked into the lobby, waited, shrugged, and pressed a button inside the car. The doors shut, and the elevator continued down.

Beaker let out a long sigh of relief. He checked the field detector. Sure enough, the main signal was now below him, and moving, probably in the basement. However, he noticed residual energy signatures still emanating from above. What if…what if he could confirm the energy was around the Newsman’s girlfriend without actually having to confront her? That sounded a great deal safer. Beaker looked around, saw an unmarked door, and tried the knob. It revealed a dim stairwell, old concrete steps going up and up into the building. Relieved, Beaker nodded to himself, and steeling his muscles for a long climb, started upward.




Newsie slowed as he approached the Muppet Theatre, realizing the rain hadn’t let up in the least. Unlikely Scribbler would be hanging around the unprotected alley in this storm. He veered off, going around to the front of the theatre, stopping beneath the main entrance overhang to catch his breath and try to wipe off his glasses. Now, if he were a lazy, unprincipled hack of a reporter, where would he be? Newsie doubted Scribbler had gone far from the theatre; he’d want to see as much as he could of the damage his story had caused. Looking around, squinting through the gray sheets of water, Newsie thought he saw a familiar shape in the greasy spoon across the street. As he stared, the person looked up when a waitress tossed something on the table, and Newsie saw an unmistakable pair of round shades.

Gotcha.

Shaking in angry anticipation, he watched the traffic, spotted an opening, and broke into a run across the street.




On the ninth floor, Beaker cautiously emerged from the stairwell, panting as quietly as he could. No one seemed to be in the hallway. Soft light came from several tasteful brass sconces, and more frondy plants flanked the elevator doors. Beaker checked the field detector. Yes…the residual signal was definitely here. He crept along the hallway, following the beeps, until they grew louder in front of one particular door. Excited, he stopped, staring at it. This was it! He’d found it!

He suddenly realized he had no idea what to do next.

Why wasn’t Bunsen here? Irritating though he was, he did often come up with a plan on the spur of the moment. Beaker stared at the door, scratching his head. Shrugging, he tried the knob.

The door swung open.

Beaker stared at it, then quickly looked up and down the hall. No one around. Pushing the door open gently, he poked his head inside. “Mee…meep meep?” he called softly, but no one answered. Perhaps the Newsman’s girlfriend had neglected to lock the door. Amazed at his luck, Beaker stepped inside, carefully shutting the door behind him. He looked around at the swirling, sensuous posters framed on the walls, the pale golden-yellow walls nicely broken up by the colorful prints and antique furniture. “Mee mee,” he murmured to himself, staring at everything. He cautiously touched one of the large translucent glass balls hanging in front of the broad windows, watching it swing gently. Remembering he was supposed to be gathering data, he quickly held up the field detector, checking the energy levels. The whole apartment seemed suffused with high psychokinetic energy! He walked slowly through the rooms, marvelling at how nice the place was, continually rechecking the screen. The highest levels seemed to reside in the bedroom.

Beaker scanned everything in the room, noting the biggest spike shot up when he pointed the detector at the bed. “Mee meeep mippy-mippy,” he muttered, somewhat pleased his own theory seemed to be correct, no matter how naughty Bunsen thought it was. However, there was another, smaller spike when he turned around, coming off the tall dresser. Beaker gaped at the ritualistic-looking arrangement of red candles and an incense burner in front of a small cabinet with arched doors. He opened the little doors, gasping at what he beheld.

A tiny doll which looked just like the Newsman stood inside the altar cabinet. The figure held an umbrella over its head, and there was a red Valentine’s heart stuck on its chest…and a tiny ring of reddish material looped over its other arm. With shaking fingers, Beaker pulled the tiny ring out and looked closely at it. It looked like…hair. Woven hair. Woven red-brown hair. “Meep,” he gulped.

What should he do? Was this the source of all the Newsman’s recent troubles? Beaker scanned it; it was definitely giving off energy, though not as strongly as other things here. Maybe Bunsen would know. Beaker gulped again. It certainly looked like something bad. Making a quick decision, he scooped the figure out of the cabinet and tucked it in a pocket of his lab coat, shutting the cabinet doors. He backed away from it, looking around nervously at the shawl pinned to the wall behind the bed, the shelves of books, the ominous energy radiating off the bed on his screen. He left the room quickly, and was starting for the apartment door when he heard the doorknob click.

He froze. The doorknob turned. Squeaking in terror, he looked all around, saw the door to the bathroom, and ducked inside. He heard someone moving around in the apartment. Where could he hide? Behind the door? What if that was the mysterious Gypsy girl? Had she been casting a spell on the Newsman? What would she do if she caught Beaker here? Panicking, he saw the tub enclosure and hopped into it, drawing the shower curtain closed, trying frantically to move the metal rings along their track silently.

Gina paused in the living room, looking around. Everything seemed fine. Weird. Maybe she’d just forgot to check the lock when Mrs Jornegal had distracted her. Shrugging, she checked her cell phone. No calls. She sighed, hoping Newsie was all right. She opened the doors of the old Czech armoire which housed her electronics, turned on the TV, and flopped down on the sofa, flipping through channels. She knew she might have a long wait.




Fleet Scribbler didn’t think to look up at first when the café door swung open, taking another bite of his dry BLT. Next thing he knew, three and a half feet of angry yellow and brown plaid was yanking him out of his seat, and a long prominent nose, hornrimmed specs, and a very deep glower were inches from his own smaller schnozz. Scribbler swallowed the piece of fatty bacon he’d been unsuccessfully chewing. “Uh…hi Newsie!” Scribbler said.

He was expecting the swing, and ducked.

Breaking loose of other people’s handholds had become something of a specialty for the tabloid reporter, and within seconds he was free of the Newsman’s grip and bolting out the door. He ran across the street without even looking, hearing car horns blaring all around him. He glanced back to see the Newsman held up by a passing taxi. Oh…heck. Amusing though this had been, he was in no great eagerness to find out just how mad the unlucky newscaster was. Which way to go? The rain was coming down in buckets, and he’d only just got himself dry. Swiftly Scribbler decided to go where the Newsman would least expect him to. He darted straight inside the front door of the Muppet Theatre, a little surprised and then immediately contemptuous that they left it unlocked in the daytime. Were they really expecting patrons to drop by early for ticket purchases? As if!

The Newsman looked up from the traffic just in time to see the hack yanking open the theatre door and running inside. With a triumphant laugh, he threw himself across the street after him. He could catch Scribbler in there for sure. Gina had shown him passages he hadn’t even known about before; there would be nowhere the detestable little liar could hide, and Newsie would catch him, and pound him into stringy little scraps, maybe even in front of his Muppet colleagues.

This was going to be perfect.

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 25

The lobby was empty. The Newsman looked around quickly: doors into the theatre, concession stand, information desk/souvenir case, restroom doors, staircase to the balcony. Which way had Scribber chosen? From behind the info desk, a steady snoring arose. Looking over the top of it, Newsie saw an old man with a circle of white hair and tiny round glasses asleep with his head on the desk. He shook the man by the shoulder roughly. “What? What?” the oldster snapped, peering up with a frown.

“Did you see which way Scribber went?”

“Do we need a defibulator pen?” the man repeated, puzzled.

“What?”

“What?”

Exasperated, Newsie let him go. “Never mind!” He checked quickly behind the concession counter, but no one was there. Figuring the straightest route was the fastest, he flung open one of the auditorium doors and ran down the left-side aisle, looking all around. The house seemed empty, and he didn’t see anyone onstage. Maybe Scribbler was as fast as his name, and had already legged it backstage. Newsie headed through the house seats and boosted himself up onto the lip of the orchestra pit, and from there onto the stage. He was about to head into the wing when some impulse, some odd feeling, made him pause. Slowly he turned, and caught a tiny movement in his usually-unreliable peripheral vision. Whirling to confront it, he saw gray hair ducking beneath the edge of the balcony, high up. “Scribbler!” Newsie shouted.

Half an unpleasantly familiar face popped up from behind the balcony rail, and eye contact was made. “You hack! You libeler!” Newsie shouted.

Scribbler muttered a curse to himself, breaking from his blown cover and heading for the balcony door. Newsie jumped from the stage, recovered his footing fast, and bolted up the aisle for the lobby. The two of them nearly ran head-on into each other at the bottom of the balcony stairs. Startled, Newsie made a grab for the hack. Scribbler dodged, whirling on the spot and leaping back up the stairs. Where did he think he was going? There wasn’t another exit! In growing triumph, Newsie stomped up the stairs hot on Scribbler’s heels. Scribbler climbed onto the armrests of the nearest seats, jumping to the next one down, and the next. Newsie went after him, pacing him along the end aisle.

At the edge of the balcony, Scribbler stopped, looking over the rail. It was quite a distance. He looked back at the Newsman, who had paused to catch his breath, confident he’d trapped Scribbler. Rats…I hate heights, Scribbler thought. He boosted himself over the rail, hanging onto it, his shoes barely finding purchase on the tiny ledge. “Go on, jump,” Newsie urged, grinning at him. “I’ll find the trash bag to scoop you into. It’ll be the best scoop you’ve ever had!” As he laughed at his own terrible joke, Scribbler smirked at him.

“Nice seein’ ya,” Scribbler said with a jaunty salute, and then vanished below the railing.

Startled, Newsie ran to the railing and looked over. Scribbler was hanging onto one of the lights! The scrawny man grunted, finding a foothold, working himself sideways over to a small ladder of lighting instruments. Newsie debated trying to follow; he wasn’t sure the creaking metal poles Scribbler was even now bending a bit would hold his somewhat greater weight. Deciding it would be safer to run down and catch him in the lower house, Newsie turned and took off running up the balcony aisle.

Scribbler glanced up, hearing the Newsman’s footsteps hurrying away. “Ha! Loser,” he muttered, grinning. Quickly he swung himself up again, making for the back of the balcony. He’d spotted something the Newsman clearly didn’t know about: the old trapdoor at the rear of the balcony ceiling which led into the front-of-house bays and lighting storage. He’d hidden there a time or two back in the day. Feeling invigorated by the chase, he jumped up on the arms of the right rearmost seat, able from that height to just reach the handle of the trapdoor and yank on it with his whole weight. The trapdoor swung down, and quickly Scribbler clambered up into it. Once inside, he reclosed it firmly, then sat panting a moment. Fun though it was, he was getting too old for this stuff. Quietly, slowly (no need for hurry or noise now, he’d never be found), Scribbler moved through the ranks of dusty lighting instruments which looked to have sat rusting for decades, heading for the second front-of-house bay. He realized suddenly he ought to use this opportunity; why skulk around in the lighting bays when he could get above the stage and listen in? Clearly his story had caused a furor. Why not spend the afternoon enjoying it?

Pleased with this idea, Scribbler padded along the narrow wooden walkway, passing the first bay without a glance, remembering the route back to the loading rail. He might comfortably wait there, or even climb farther up to the creaky old grid of two-by-twelve boards and spy on the whole stage. The possibilites were open, and he felt sure the chicken-livered Newsgeek wouldn’t dare climb up after him. That guy had no idea what it really took to get a great story!

Newsie emerged in the house, glaring around quickly. There was no sign of Scribbler. Immediately he looked into the balcony, seeing no one. Good grief – how long did that sniveling coward expect to drag out this cat-and-mouse run? Irritated, Newsie backed up to the stage along an aisle, his gaze darting in every direction, not seeing any sign of his quarry. Again he climbed onto the stage itself, where he could see the majority of the balcony seats, but although he paced back and forth, squinting up into the dim tier and the box nearer the stage, he couldn’t find Scribbler anywhere.

Frustrated, Newsie stood and considered the timing. There was no way the hack could’ve got by him; he’d have caught at least a glimpse if Scribbler had made it to the stage, or if he’d gone behind him into the lobby somehow. Newsie had made sure to prop open the door as he entered the house so there would be no unseen escape by backtracking through the balcony for the weaselly little liar. Where on earth could he be hiding?

He heard unfamiliar voices behind him, and suddenly remembered he wasn’t supposed to be here. He’d been suspended. Shame colored his cheeks. Well, it wasn’t as though he’d come to hang around in the hope Kermit would forgive him! He had legitimate business here at the moment! Nodding to himself, he looked around. Perhaps someone else had seen Scribbler. Moving center stage, he kept a nervous eye on the balcony and the house, and waited for whomever was just offstage to get close enough for him to see.




Nothing seemed to be on TV but soaps, infomercials (she frowned as she lingered an extra second on a weird ad for a musically-based learning system called “Hooked on Muppaphonics,” with some loud guy in a Flamenco shirt), talk shows, and news. Sighing, Gina left the channel on a local news show, rose and went to the kitchen to figure out what she could pack for a snack; bringing her own was always healthier than relying on the concessions at the Sosilly, and she’d only have a few minutes at intermission to refuel. Still, better a quick snack than going almost five hours from her call time for the pre-show lighting check to shutting it all down when the audience had left. She poked through the refrigerator, wondering suddenly if Newsie liked pizza, and if so what kind. Takeout from Sal’s Pies on the way home might be a fun dinner for them both.

Beaker heard noises in the kitchen, and cautiously stepped out of the tub. The shower curtain rustled slightly as he moved, making him freeze, but apparently the owner of the apartment didn’t hear it over the noise of the TV. “Watch out if you’re heading into the city today! It’s raining cats and dogs out there!” The light chuckles of the newspeople didn’t seem very worried at all; Beaker wondered why he wasn’t also hearing meows and barks and the falling thumps of animals hitting the forecaster. Perhaps that sort of thing didn’t happen to non-Muppets. The kitchen noises continued, and Beaker crept out of the bathroom and along the short hallway. Just as he was gathering his courage to make a break for it, the chatter about traffic and upcoming social events in the city tonight changed tone. “And now for a more troubling story: breaking news in one city paper today shone an ugly spotlight on a local former reporter who seems to have finally snapped! This man, known only as Newsman, might be familiar to those of you who’ve lived here a long while.”

Beaker flattened himself against the wall as Gina strode into the living room. She stopped in front of the armoire, staring at the TV, her back to Beaker…but blocking his escape to the door. Flustered, Beaker looked back the way he’d come, then peeked into the dining room. That dining table, though not very high, did seem large enough to hide under… Deciding forward was better than back, Beaker dropped to his hands and knees and crawled from the hall archway through a corner of the living room and successfully into the dining room, wedging his lanky body uncomfortably under the antique table next to the central pedestal. He patted one of its enormous clawed feet, thinking anxiously about monsters, but the table seemed immobile enough. Breathing hard, he tried to be silent.

Gina stared in shock at the images on the screen: as the anchor’s voice continued, a montage of gruelingly awkward shots of the Newsman flew across. Newsie being eaten by his own desk. A ton of weight dropping from the ceiling on him. A falling cow hitting him from above. Newsie suddenly exploding (Gina flinched badly at that one). A piano crashing onto his desk. Attacked by angry sheep. Attacked by a rampaging sledgehammer. Barometers battering his head. Turned suddenly into cheese. “This so-called Newsman, a former employee of our rival station KRAK, has suffered humiliations of the bizarre kind for decades while delivering completely unfounded reports on undocumented events. It seems he may have finally snapped. A report this morning states the Newsman was responsible for the explosion which disrupted the show at the Muppet Theatre last night. Inside sources claim the allegedly enraged reporter then went on a rampage in the theatre until authorities dragged him out of the building.” Gina shook her head, choking in protest, unable for a moment to even yell half the things running through her mind. The news anchor, a smiling younger man, shook his head in mock disbelief as the camera returned to him. “What set him off? No one seems to know. We sent a reporter down to the theatre earlier, but we were unable to get a clear statement from anyone there. Our sources inside the police department say no one fitting the Newsman’s description is in custody; his whereabouts are currently unknown.”

“Are you KIDDING me?” Gina shrieked. Beaker cowered.

“Wow, Brad. Did you say he used to work for KRAK?” asked the sports guy sitting next to the anchor at the long curved desk.

“That’s right, Brent. Maybe they fired him because they suspected he was a loose cannon with a lit fuse,” the anchor responded, smiling.

“Grrrrrraaaaahhh!” Furious, Gina threw the remote at the TV. It bounced off the armoire instead. Her aim was bad when she was angry.

“Well, stay tuned! We’ll be back with the three-day forecast when we return to the News at Noon, here on Fox affiliate KRAS!”

“I don’t believe this!” Gina yelled, storming into the bedroom. “Those sons of--!”

Beaker flinched, eyes wide, at the sounds of heavy cursing coming from down the hall. Suddenly he realized this might be his chance at escape, and hurried forward – forgetting to duck. The overhanging lip of the table bonked his forehead, and he flopped to the floor a moment, dazed. He meeped and scrabbled backwards as Gina came stomping out into the living room again; she was too furious to even notice him. Shutting off the TV, she paced the living room, looking out at the rain. “Oh, Newsie. What are they doing to you?” Turning, rubbing her chin in worry, she trudged back out of the room. Desperately, Beaker surged forward again, remembering to duck, and was just straightening up when Gina strode angrily back through the hall. With a terrified squeak, Beaker hit the floor, scrunching his whole body backwards under the table again. “I do not believe this! What, am I supposed to conjure up protection from total idiots now?” She stopped by the window again, glaring out. Beaker stared at her, frozen, waiting. Fuming, Gina turned again and left the room. This was it. He had to run! Beaker threw himself forward. The lip of the table banged his head. He meeped in pain, but then hurriedly scrambled across the floor, was mostly upright by the time his feet landed on the living room rug, and yanked open the front door as he heard noises behind him. He pulled the door shut, legging it for the elevator, where someone was inside and just starting to close the doors.

“Mee-mee!” Beaker yelled, throwing himself at the elevator. The doors shut just as he reached it, clamping around his nose. “Meeeep!” With an annoyed tingtingting, the doors reopened, and a large hippo-lady stood glaring disapprovingly at Beaker. Shaking, he stepped into the car, feeling his nose throbbing painfully. He glanced back at the snooty lady, then with trembling fingers pushed the door close button. He shuffled back a step to make sure his nose was unhurt this time. The elevator started down.

Gina kept pacing from the bedroom to the living room. She really, really hoped none of Newsie’s colleagues at the Muppet Theatre saw this. She especially hoped he wouldn’t find out about it. It was obvious the unscrupulous station had taken their story from the unscrupulous tabloid reporter’s piece this morning. Oh, she could certainly understand his wanting to go pound Scribbler. She’d a good mind to do some pounding of her own at this point. She wondered briefly how much Scribbler weighed; swinging him from the grid at the Muppet Theatre sounded like fun. Or hooking him into the lighting circuitry, so he’d be shocked every time the house lights came up, or something. Poor Newsie! Worried, Gina went back to the bedroom and stopped before her prayer altar. She took a moment to calm herself, so as not to send anything negative his way, thinking of his face when he’d said what he did before running out. She hadn’t thought he would say it. Had she hoped he would, if she was gentle to him, if she did her best to make him happy? Yes…but hope is not certainty. The thought of it made her smile a little. He was priceless, and she was determined to keep him safe, even from this craziness.

She opened the little cabinet doors…and stared, stunned. The doll was missing! Had Newsie found it? He hadn’t given her any indication he’d discovered the protective spell she’d cast with his likeness. Frantically she searched the bedroom, but there was no sign of the doll. Oh, no, oh, no! Had someone broken in and taken it? She should’ve paid more attention when she’d come back in the apartment and felt like something had changed! If someone had the doll who knew what it was for, how to use it, they might try to hurt Newsie!

Trying not to panic, Gina unpinned the old shawl from the wall above her bed. Lifting it to her lips, she kissed it briefly, murmuring, “Grandmama Angie, please help me! If you can hear me, help me… Newsie’s in trouble…he’s in trouble, and I love him!” Wrapping the shawl around her shoulders, she grabbed her keys and an umbrella and ran from the apartment, pausing only a second to check the door lock this time before bolting for the elevator.

On the wet street, Beaker shivered as much from the scariness of what he’d just been through as much as the chill of the rain. He felt the weird little figure in his coat pocket, tucked the psychokinetic energy detector in the other, and kept running for the theatre. He had to warn Bunsen before anything worse happened. And with both the Newsman and the scary Gypsy girl giving off frighteningly high energy levels, who knew what catastrophe might come down on everyone’s heads? Squealing at a near-miss by a swerving car on the slippery street, Beaker dashed through the traffic and down the sidewalk, worried less about getting soaked than about reaching the theatre before things got worse.




“A reporter? Yeah…there was a guy hanging around the back door earlier, right Bob?” one of the workmen remembered. Eagerly, Newsie looked at the other man. Both of the workmen from Fiama Contruction, Remodeling, and Waste Disposal were short, with olive skin and black hair; Newsie couldn’t tell them apart, especially in their identical yellow hardhats and blue overalls.

“Oh yeahhh…dat’s right,” the other nodded. “Yeah, good memory, Steve.”

“Sure was. Yep.” They kept nodding, staring blankly at the Newsman.

Frustrated, he pressed, “Well, did you see which way he went?”

“Oh, I dunno. He and that cameraguy sure ran when the rain hit!”

They both laughed. Eventually the laughter subsided, and they stood dumbly, blinking at him.

“Cameraguy?” Scribbler didn’t have a cameraman! No station would hire that hack…well, maybe the jerks over at KRAS. They seemed to thrive on gossip and rumormongering almost as much as The Daily Scandal. “No, no; the man I’m looking for is about so high, with gray stringy hair and big round glasses!”

“Hey Steve, what color was that guy’s hair?”

“Uh…I dunno…what was it…like the color of…bananas?”

“Uh…you mean green?” Bob tried.

“Green! Yep. Dat’s right. Green.”

“Wasn’t stringy?”

“Nope, nope, nope.”

“Nope, nope.” They both shook identically dull heads at him.

Newsie tried to hold back a shout of complete exasperation. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to speak clearly: “Okay…if you do see someone like I’ve described, could you tell me?”

“Yep, we can do dat.”

“Sure can, Bob. Sure can.”

“Yep.” As the Newsman turned away from the nodding workers, one spoke up suddenly, “Uh…when do you want us to tell you?”

“As soon as you see him!” Newsie shouted.

“Oh,” the other worker said, looking almost surprised. The two of them exchanged a glance.

“Hey Bob, you’re late dere.”

“Yep, guess I am, Steve! I sure am. Yep.”

The Newsman stared from one of them to the other as they lapsed back into complacency. Finally he exploded, “When did you see him?”

“Hey, buddy, no need to yell,” Bob-or-Steve said mildly.

“No need for yellin’,” Steve-or-Bob agreed.

“Where? Where IS he?”

“Right up dere,” one of the workers said, nodding behind Newsie.

“Yep. Looks gray from here.”

The Newsman whirled, his head jerking up, seeing a surprised Scribbler ducking too late below the enclosure of the loading rail along the fly system. Choking back a curse, Newsie ran for the spiral stairs to the loading rail. Behind him, the workers scratched their heads.

“’Course, from down here, everyting looks kinda gray…”

“You’re right dere, Bob. You sure are. You sure know your colors, Bob.”

“Hard to tell from here, ya know. Dat guy’s hair might only look gray. It might actually be…uh…uh…what’s that color, you know, the color dat frog guy is?”

“Orange, Steve?”

“Orange! Dat’s it. Might be orange. Hard to tell from here.”

“It sure is, Steve. Sure is.”

Scribbler hadn’t expected the Newsman to actually pursue him at this height. He climbed the ladder to the front-of-house bays, ducking as he ran along the passage back to the trapdoor. Wow, the yellow geek must really be steamed! What a great follow-up this would make! He could picture the headline now: “CRAZED NEWSMAN ASSAULTS STAR REPORTER!” Heh, heh, heh…

The trapdoor wouldn’t budge. Alarmed, Scribbler yanked on the handle. It had locked itself somehow when he’d come through it and now refused to open. He heard the Newsman’s feet pounding along the boards of the first bay, searching for him. Trying to move silently, Scribbler dashed back the way he’d come, and suddenly the Newsman was right in front of him, swinging around the corner of the lighting bay into the access passage. “Gaaahhh!” Scribbler yelled, falling back and down. He threw himself to one side as the Newsman’s right shoe came down hard where his hand had been a second ago. He kicked out and landed a blow with his own beat-up running shoe on Newsie’s ankle, making Newsie hop in pain a moment. Scrambling to his feet, Scribbler hoofed it along the second lighting bay. He saw a small dark doorway at the end of it. Hastily he pulled himself through it as the Newsman came pounding after him again. It ran several claustrophobia-inducing feet before opening out to some kind of storage loft above the stage right wing; Scribbler could see all of backstage. Spotting a rope tied off to an unsteady-looking iron safety railing at the platform’s edge, Scribbler quickly undid the knot holding it and took a flying leap.

Newsie leapt almost sideways through the small doorway, racing through the tiny passage, took two larger strides as the passage opened out and abruptly realized he’d run out of floor; the railing was crashing down even as he teetered on the edge. Waving his arms frantically, he tried to catch his balance; Scribbler swung across to the dressing-room stairs with a terrified howl, but landed more or less safely. Newsie grunted, trying to pull himself back, but his momentum was too great; down he fell.

“Meeeeeeep—oof!”

Dazed, Newsie and Beaker stared at one another, the rumpled Newsman on top of the flattened lab assistant. “Sorry,” Newsie muttered awkwardly, then clambered to his feet and looked around for the hack reporter. He saw the clueless workmen trying to wedge a new stove through the back door; it completely blocked the entrance. He and Beaker were blocking the stage access. Gonzo and a few chickens were camped on the top of the stairs to the dressing-rooms, staring in surprise at him; they showed no sign of immediate disturbance. Scribbler hadn’t tried to go past them. That only left one direction.

Panting, sore, Newsie got his feet moving again, heading for the lower stairs. The hack was somewhere below. This time he wasn’t going to escape. Newsie would show them all he was man enough to take on a jerk like Scribbler and win. They wouldn’t laugh at him after that! The thought quickening his heart, he skidded to a brief halt at the top of the stairs, grabbed the railing, and nearly slid down it.




Dr Honeydew looked up as every sensor in the lab spiked, alarms blaring. “Oh! Oh, dear!” Quickly he hurried from readout to readout. Beaker still wasn’t back; Bunsen hoped his friend hadn’t been hurt by the dangerous forces he’d been tracking. If that psychokinetic energy detector was destroyed, it would take him days to build another as good! Upset, Bunsen turned from his computer banks to see a wildly panting, skinny man in dirty, wet clothes dashing into the lab. “Oh! Excuse me! You aren’t supposed to be in here!” Bunsen protested.

“Yeah, whatever, Doc,” Scribbler said, looking around for someplace to hide.

The alarm screeched louder. With frightened meeps, Beaker ran in, waving his hands at Bunsen. Confused, Bunsen looked from Scribbler to Beaker and back. “Beaker! What on earth is going on?”

“Mee mee meepme, mee mee, mee mee mee!” Beaker choked out.

“What? Voodoo? Beaker, slow down, you’re not making any sense!”

Ignoring them both, Scribbler concluded there simply wasn’t enough room in the crowded lab to hide himself, and checked the closet instead. It seemed to be a bedroom, with camp cots taking up most of the space.

“Meeme meep, mee Mewsmeep, mee mee me meeee!” Beaker shouted, producing the strange little doll from his pocket and showing it to Bunsen. Despite the racket of the alarms and the frantic gesturing Beaker was doing as he spoke, Bunsen calmly lifted his glasses, stared at the doll, flipped them down again, stared some more, then shook his head as he took the tiny image of the Newsman. He held it up, turning it this way and that, looking closely at the heart sticker and the tiny ring of hair around its arm.

“Beaker, there is no such thing as a real voodoo doll, and at any rate, Miss Broucek said she was a Gypsy, not a witch doctor! I’m sure there’s some logical explanation for this. Is the Newsman here? The psychokinetic energy alarms are going bananas!”

Just as Scribbler came out of the too-small bedroom, the Newsman stopped in the lab doorway. They stared at one another, both panting. “Ah-ha!” Newsie yelled, throwing himself into the lab.

“Oh! Beaker, hold this!” Bunsen cried, tossing the doll to Beaker, who caught it like a hot potato, squealing and shaking his head. Frantically he tossed it to Scribbler. Scribbler, startled, hauled back his arm to throw it at Newsie…then saw what it was.

“Hey! Look what I got!” he shouted, holding the doll aloft. The Newsman froze, for a moment sure it was one of Crazy Harry’s bombs or something equally deadly. Then he frowned, trying to see exactly what his nemesis held. Scribbler laughed, and waved the doll at Newsie. “Looky here! It’s a little voodoo doll! And who do you think it is?” He thrust it at Newsie a second. “It looks like you!”

Shocked, Newsie stared at it. Reflexively he reached for it, but Scribbler yanked it away. Beaker and Bunsen cowered off to one side, watching the exchange, both with hands to their mouths in worry. “Heh heh heh! Wonder what I could do with this, huh? It sure does look just like you: same yellow streak, same silly glasses, same ugly jacket!”

“I do not have a yellow streak!” Newsie growled, but the doll unnerved him. It did look scarily like him. Where the heck had Scribbler found a thing like that? Swallowing hard, he shot back, “And my nose is nowhere near that big!”

“Look in the mirror lately?” Scribbler cackled. He played with the doll’s arms. Concerned, Newsie glanced down at his own, but he seemed unaffected. “Say, I wonder what would happen if I…stomped on this?” He made as if to throw it on the ground, and the Newsman cringed back. Ashamed of himself, Newsie scowled at Scribbler, and lunged for the hack. Scribbler danced behind the enormous pile of junk on the table in the middle of the room. “Or…boiled it in acid? Huh? Wanna try it, Newsie?”

“Erk!” Newsie choked, then immediately tried to go after Scribbler again. Bunsen waved his hands nervously.

“No, no, be careful! This is the psychokinetic energy specific gravity field reverse mainfestational generator! I haven’t recalibrated it for your new energy levels yet!”

“What?” Newsie demanded, shooting a look at Bunsen. What the heck? This was supposed to be a simple payback! Where did all this weirdness come from?

“Mee memergy mee mee meep me!” Beaker said, looking from Newsie to Bunsen. He dug the psychokinetic energy detector from his coat pocket and pressed it into Bunsen’s hands. “Me meepmeep mippy-mippy, mee!”

“What?” Honeydew said, startled. “Oh my! Really?”

“So, Newsie! You gonna step aside and let me outta here, or am I gonna have to do something to this little mini-Newsie that you’re really not gonna like?” Scribbler threatened, waggling the doll in his dirty hand.

“Over my dead body!” Newsie yelled without thinking.

“Well, okay,” Scribbler laughed. He really had no idea if it would work, but watching the Newsman panic was half the fun. He lurched to one side, trying to get around the scientists, his elbow banging something on the odd-looking conglomeration of junk on the table. Instantly the sound of a small unlicensed nuclear accelerator powering up filled the room, a deep and growing subsonic hum making the racket of the alarms feel like nothing to everyone’s eardrums.

“No! No! Not yet!” Honeydew shrieked.

“Meemeemeee!”

The floor began to shake. The readout screens cracked and splintered. The ceiling lamps swung crazily. The Newsman looked around, frightened, not knowing whether to run or try to seize Scribbler. Beaker, shrieking, dove under another desk. Bunsen backed away, his hands on his mouth in awe and terror. The generator shook wildly. The hubcap array blew completely off it with a burst of steam, nearly missing Scribbler. Deciding whatever was about to happen was not good, Scribbler broke for the door. Newsie lunged at him, missing, falling hard on the unstable floor. Pulling himself up by grabbing the table, he was about to run for the doorway when a huge tremor shook the whole room. Staggering, Newsie threw his arms out instinctively. One hand caught the generator.

“No, Newsman! Don’t touch it!” Bunsen yelled, too late.

The room quieted. The shaking ceased. The generator began to hum steadily.

Bunsen and Newsie stared at one another. Beaker peeked out from under the desk. “Me meep?” he asked tentatively.

The alarms shut off. They all looked around. Slowly Newsie took his hand off the generator. Immediately the rumbling shook the room again, the alarms shrieked, and the lamp over the table blew out. Quickly Newsie grabbed the machine again, holding onto a long handle on one side. Everything calmed once more.

Newsie stared at it, his heart pounding, his breath coming hard through his open mouth. He could feel some kind of current flowing through him. It didn’t hurt, but it was making him feel very anxious. He looked at Bunsen. “Wh-what now?” he demanded.

“Oh,” Bunsen said, cautiously approaching and looking over the whole thing. Beaker got to his feet, hanging back. Bunsen shook his head. “Oh. Oh dear.” The scientist turned to his assistant. “Ah, Beaker…”

“Mee?”

“Would you please go ask everyone to leave the building?”

Stunned, Beaker and Newsie stared wideyed at Honeydew. After a beat, Beaker ran screaming from the lab.

 

[The Count]

Oh Newsie, what fine kettle of fish have you gotten yourself into? And to think, tonight's such an important night when we need a real Muppet Newsman to deliver a piece of very important news to Hensonville and the rest of the world.

At least I have a little bit of hope that Scribbler will get what's coming to him in the next chapter.
And Gina's on the warpath also, searching for the protective figure she made, looking to deliver some punishment of her own.

To quote Mr. Peck: "We're in it now, up to our necks."

Curious to see if the explosion Bunsen's asked Beaker to clear the theater for will result in a blast gigantic enough that ends up liberating a great number of ghostly entities, signaling the Keymaster... Oh wait, wrong movie.
At any rate, post more when possible.

 

[newsmanfan]

Count, I'd happily deliver the Bin Laden death news...but the cynic in me worries there will be retaliation coming, and soon. That's the way these people seem to think. I'm more worried than celebratory, alas.

For this next chapter, a bit of my own experience again: I don't know whether this qualifies as more Newsie-esque or Beaker-iffic, but I was once involved in the hydrogen explosion of a lab station in a chem class. (Hmm, maybe more Newsie, as I did say something about watching the hydrogen reaction levels RIGHT before it exploded, and I was right in front of it and FELT the shockwave of the blast!)

The reaction was about heating some kind of metallic oxide (or maybe a metallic salt, I don't recall) in an acidic solution. The object was to produce and collect either pure O2 or pure helium, but hydrogen was a possible byproduct we'd been warned about. My lab partner and I argued over upping the amount of metal stuff in the solution to keep the reaction going, as it wasn't supposed to fall below a certain level before the whole process was completed. Next thing I know...BOOOOM. Took out the lab station and threw glass fifteen feet away. Lab goggles no doubt saved my eyes; remember, kids, safety first!

Note I do NOT claim any responsibility for that explosion. Oh no no. I lay that burden on my lab partner, Ed Barber (AKA "Pee-wee Goes to NASA"). Yeah, that's right, Pee-wee! Mr. Fannin's AP Chem class, Lincoln High! These many years later, I'm still lookin' at YOU!

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 26

This was too good. Fleet Scribbler paused only a second at the top of the stairs; he heard a voice from the back door. “Have you guys considered turning it the other way? Yeeesh!” Having no wish to deal with Kermit again, Scribbler hurried for the stage, intending to go out front and circle the building. Maybe he’d get a good view of the disaster when the building exploded. This was turning out to be a better day than he’d hoped! He glanced at the odd little doll, frowning. Perhaps he could use this to his continuing advantage, too, if the Newsman thought it was a threat. Heck, maybe it was! Happily Scribbler shoved the thing in a pocket, buttoning the flap closed over it. He made it all the way to the front doors of the lobby before he and the young woman coming in spotted one another at the same moment.

Oh…crud.

Scribbler whirled, breaking into a run. He heard three thumps on the carpet behind him and suddenly he was swooped into the air by the collar of his jacket. “Aaacck! Hey, watch it!”

Gina glared at the wriggling worm of a reporter. “Well, well. Just the guy I wanted to see!”

Scribbler kicked and swung his fists, but the grimly-smiling redhead simply held him with her arm extended all the way out. He looked down at the carpet of the lobby. “Geez! Are you crazy? Be careful! That’s a big drop! What are you, like, five-four or something?”

“Five-six,” Gina corrected. She began walking, still holding the protesting hack well above the floor. “You have caused a lot of damage, you nasty little man. That story in your rag this morning was bad enough; did you have to feed it to the local news as well?”

“Sister, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Scribbler gasped, trying to reach up and yank her fingers off his jacket. “No one but the Scandal paid for my exclusive! I don’t deal with TV news; they’re too shady --- whoooaaaa!” He shrieked as she suddenly tossed him into the air and caught him by one ankle as he came down, swinging him upside-down so fast he gagged. “Blarrrgh!”

“If you puke on me, I will use your hair to wipe it off,” she promised him, carrying him limply into the auditorium. “Where’s Newsie?”

“Dunno who you mean.”

“Don’t give me that! I know he came over here after you! You owe him one heck of an apology, you little weasel,” Gina growled at him, striding down the aisle toward the stage. “And whatever he wants to do to you after that is fine by me. I bet you’d make a great tetherball!”

“Erk,” Scribbler choked, desperately trying to right himself; every time he struggled too hard, she swung him in a circle until he felt his stomach coming up. Hanging dizzy and ill, he gasped, “Hey…you don’t really wanna do this…think how bad it’ll look for your precious little nerd when I put into print how malicious and violent he went on me! Not to mention you! You look like you might have a real job somewhere! You really want your boss to see your name smeared in connection with all this senseless violence?”

“Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me,” Gina grinned at him. She dug a cell phone out of a pocket. “Say, ‘Bleeeeaahh!’”

“What? Blleeeaaahhhh!” Scribbler choked as she shook him like a dog’s chewtoy upside-down. He heard several snapshots clicking. When he could focus again, Gina smiled, waggling the phone.

“Horrible hack held helpless? There’s an app for that.” She tucked the phone away. “Oh, I can’t wait to show those around! All my work friends love a good practical joke, hate bad press and the people who write it, and boy, will they be happy when they find out you work for the same rag that panned our production of ‘Where’s Charley?’ last year. Especially my boss. He directed that one.” She grinned at the hapless hack, pleased she’d remembered where she’d heard the name of the scurrilous paper before. “So go ahead. I don’t care what you write.”

Scribbler hung there, nauseous, temporarily at a loss as to how he might make this work in his favor. He groaned as Gina took a running leap at the stage, knocking his head against the lip of it as she jumped up. “Oh, dear, that wasn’t very smart of me,” she scolded herself. “Might’ve scratched the paint!” Hearing voices somewhere back in the wings, she headed past the masking curtains, happily hefting her prize before her.




The alarm shrieked. Newsie cringed. “C-could you at least turn that off?” he yelled over it. He was shaking all over, not daring to even let himself wonder what Bunsen’s latest bizarre invention might do. He kept his hand on the generator, thinking it was a good thing he was a Muppet, or he might’ve been sweating so badly his hand would slip.

“Oh dear,” Bunsen said, fussing over the broken readout screens. He held up the psychokinetic energy detector instead, noting the moving signal in the stage area above. “Oh, this is most unfortunate!”

“What is?”

“I believe your lady friend is here.”

Newsie’s heart brightened. “Gina? How is that bad?”

“I haven’t had the chance to feed the new data into the reverse gravity field energy generator yet! It’s already reacting oddly; introducing a new variable at this stage could produce wildly dangerous reactions!” Honeydew warned.

“You mean this thing isn’t even doing what it’s supposed to?”

“Regrettably, no,” Honeydew sighed, yanking some wires out of a computer bank. With a groan, the alarm fell silent, and Newsie breathed a little easier without its panic added to his own. “I built this in the hopes of reversing the psychokinetic field you’ve been manifesting lately, Newsman. Yet it would seem, instead of it readjusting your energy back to your normal level, it’s…well…” Honeydew shoved his weird little gadget right under Newsie’s nose, pushing it up an inch uncomfortably. “Oh dear! It is! It’s magnifying it! The entire lab is now the focal point of an energy spike of immensely dangerous proportions!”

Newsie didn’t understand half of that. He pushed the gadget away from his nose, shivering badly, glaring at the scientist. “Well, whatever you’ve done, undo it!” he shouted, making Honeydew step back.

“Oh dear,” Bunsen murmured. He ran to the door to the lab, calling out, “Beaker! Beaker, come in here, I need you!”




Beaker was backstage, trying desperately to get the workmen to leave. He kept making shooing motions at them, meeping frantically, but they just stood next to a large stove wedged immovably in the rear exit doorway, staring in dull puzzlement at him. Gina stopped upon seeing the odd tableaux: meeping scientist, stuck kitchen appliance, two identical-twin Muppet workmen leaning on either side of the stove, gazing unmoved at Beaker, who then began jumping up and down and waving his hands. “Meep! Mee mee mee meep mee mee!”

“Uh…you okay, Beaker?” Gina asked. He whirled, jaw falling open at seeing her standing there.

He pointed uncertainly at her, then at the still-dangling Scribbler. “Mee meep…me memee mee?”

“Found him trying to sneak out the front. Have you seen Newsie?”

Swallowing hard, Beaker looked from her to the lower stairs and back. Realizing the potential danger, he suddenly shook his head, crossing his arms, trying to look casual. “Huh-uhh. Mee me mee, mee mee mee…” He started shaking all over. If that was what she was doing to that guy, what would she do when she discovered Beaker had taken her voodoo doll? “Ulp…”

Kermit let out an exasperated snort as he saw the workmen still stuck in the doorway. “You guys! Didn’t you hear me? I said turn it the other way!”

“We did, didn’t we, Bob? We turned it.”

“We sure did, Steve, sure did. It still don’t fit, boss.”

“It has more than two sides!” Kermit yelled at them, frustrated. Surprised, the workmen looked at the stove, then at each other. Shrugging, they tried to back it out of the door.

“Dat’s a smart lizard, ain’t it, Steve?”

“Got the smarts all right, Bob. Sure does.”

“Eesh,” Kermit groaned, then turned to see the others. “Gina? What are you doing h—is that Fleet Scribbler?”

“I take it you haven’t seen the news today,” Gina said, giving the hanging hack another shake when he tried to speak up.

“Blaargh!”

“Uh, no,” Kermit replied, taken aback. “Scribbler, I thought I banned you years ago for hassling Piggy! What the hey are you doing back here?”

“Ooh, banned too, huh? Does that mean he’s officially trespassing, Mr Frog?” Gina asked gleefully.

“Well…yes. Yes it does. But that doesn’t answer my question,” Kermit said, curious.

“Well, this moron tried to launch a smear campaign on my Newsie today. Newsie came down here to find him. I came down to find Newsie. Caught this little snake in the grass instead.”

“Uh, don’t let the snakes hear you make that comparison,” Kermit told her.

“Kermit, where is he? Have you seen him?”

“The Newsman? No, I haven’t. Gina, are you aware I had to suspend him last night?”

“Yeah…about that. I think that’s really unfair. Newsie didn’t make any of that weird stuff happen,” Gina argued, Scribbler for the moment forgotten. He moaned, but was too ill to even try to escape right now.

“Gina, I’m sorry; but he has a problem! I don’t know what it is, or even how it is, but the Newsman’s reports are backfiring on everyone else! I was being generous not taking the damage out of his salary!” Kermit shook his head. He could sympathize with her being upset, but at the same time, his first obligation was to the theatre and everyone in it. “Right now, he’s downright dangerous! The best thing you can do for him is get him help of some kind.”

“Meep,” Beaker agreed. They both looked at him.

Returning her attention to Kermit, Gina shook her head, her brow set in a frown. “Kermit, I have to disagree. I don’t know what’s going on, but Newsie can’t possibly be the cause of it! I put a protection charm on him to try and keep him safe from his news stories. You should be blaming whoever puts out those silly reports in the first place, not the messenger!”

Weakly, Scribbler held his head up. “So it’s true? Newsie’s curse is wrecking the theatre? Was there really a tornado in here?”

“Shut up!” Kermit and Gina both snapped at him.

“Me meep…” Beaker murmured; he could’ve sworn he faintly heard Bunsen calling just now. What else was going to blow up today? Anxiously he looked toward the stairs.

“Look, Gina…I’m sorry. I really am. But the fact of the matter is, the Newsman’s stories are hurting the rest of us, and I can’t allow that!”

“But it’s not him!”

The battens above the stage shook. Gonzo yelled out, “Hey, could you guys not run the bulldozer right now? I’m trying to practice out here!” A few clucks of agreement floated out of the air as well. Peering out, Gina and Kermit could see Gonzo and the chickens swinging from trapezes rigged from several of the otherwise empty scenery battens. Gonzo held a large accordion as he hung upside-down, looking far more at ease with the position than Scribbler.

“Gonzo, there isn’t any bulldozer!” Kermit called out to him. Turning back to Gina, he continued, “I’m sorry. I can’t let him back onstage until he solves whatever this crisis is. If you can help him with that –“

“I’m certainly trying to!” she snapped at the frog. His mouth crumpled into a scowl.

Beaker looked from one of them to the other, shaking. Backing away, he headed for the stairs. “Meep-moh…”

Scribbler tried to right himself, one hand finding Gina’s and pulling up. “Unh…uh… So Newsie’s banned too? Heh heh… He really is the loser I thought he was if even you schmucks don’t want him!”

“GrrrraaAAHH!” Gina snarled, swinging the hack in a wide circle and letting him go like a slingshot. Screaming, Scribbler flew in a long arc out onto the stage.

“Catch the bar!” Gonzo called, swinging one of the trapezes at him. Scribbler’s head banged into it, abruptly arresting his progress. He crashed onto the stage. Gonzo looked down, wideyed. “Oops. Sorry.”

The electrics overhead made jingling sounds as they shook. “Whoooaaa,” Gonzo said, hanging on tight to his own trapeze. The chickens looked around worriedly. Everything onstage seemed to be shaking as if disturbed by the ridiculously low passage of a jet.

Gina yelled at Kermit, “He has a hard enough time as it is without his own co-workers blaming him for this mess! I spend every night in his company and you know what? Nothing bad has happened to me! He is not a jinx and I am tired of everyone saying that!”

Kermit recoiled, then, recovering, got in her face in return. “Oh, well that’s just great! How nice for you! How’d you like to have all your notes vanish suddenly when you were in the middle of a show? Or be swept up into a twister that shouldn’t even exist? Piggy was scared for her life, and with good reason! How would you like it if someone you loved was put in danger because of some ridiculous news story someone else read?”

“Those stupid stories put him in danger every night!” Gina shouted back, leaning over, the two of them almost nose to nose and angry as they could get. “Maybe it’s about time the universe dealt that kind of hand to all the rest of you! Now you can see how funny it is!”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Uh…guys?” Gonzo called uncertainly. The scenery hanging far above, out of sight, made ominous creaking noises. One of the other chickens squawked in fright when a piece of the large show-title board suddenly broke off and crashed onto the stage floor, the old plywood sign splintering. “Guys!”




In the lab, Newsie looked over nervously as Beaker came into the room so fast he nearly knocked into a desk. “Meeeep! Mee mee mee mee mee mee!”

“Oh, this is terrible!” Bunsen looked at the generator from all angles; Newsie kept holding it, the constant thrum of it going through his body making him quiver unpleasantly. “Beaker, quick! Check the reality differentiator module! We may still be able to—“

“MEEEEEEP!” Beaker’s eyes lit up the second he touched a screwdriver to the metal. Remembering his own experience, Newsie pulled up one foot and kicked the lab assistant as hard as he could. Staggering away, smoke coming off his head, Beaker clutched at one of the mainframes, gasping. He stared at Newsie. “Mee,” he said weakly. Newsie nodded at him, then watched Honeydew trying to poke at the machine without actually touching it.

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear! It would seem we aren’t able to get inside the generator! Beaker! I told you I wasn’t sure the gaskets were properly tightened down!” Bunsen scolded. Beaker stared at him, a shaking hand going to his open mouth. “Newsman! You will have to open it up and reconfigure the differentiator!”

“Wh-what?” Newsie trembled. “I don’t know anything about this junk!”

“Be that as it may, you’re the only one who can even touch it! Now here, take this screwdriver, and open up that panel there…”

The ceiling lights shook, swinging. Everyone looked up. “Mee mee meep, Meena meep!” Beaker explained hurriedly.

Newsie stared at him. “Did you just say Gina?”

“Uhhhh…” Beaker gulped, looking fearfully from him to Bunsen.

“He said she’s here, in the theatre!” Bunsen informed him. Beaker started waving his hands no, but Bunsen, oblivious, carried on. “Now, Newsman, if you would; that panel there, please…”

Newsie glanced upward, hearing yet another crash somewhere above. “Dr Honeydew, what happens if I can’t…do whatever it is you need done to this thing?”

“Oh…” Bunsen adjusted his spectacles unhappily. “Well, there’s a good chance we will survive, if we can get out of the range of the generator quickly enough…”

“Meep!”

“What?”

“When you get inside the generator, you’ll need to unhook the green wire, and switch it with the blue wire…oh, no, wait…or was it unhook the fuchsia wire and swap it for the puce one?”

A rumble shook the entire foundation, making the chemistry glassware on a nearby table jitter. Beaker tried to separate the delicate tubes knocking together. “Gina’s up there, and this thing is going to explode?” Newsie demanded.

“Well,” Bunsen frowned, “technically, I believe, it would actually implode, dragging much of the immediate matter within a radius of a mile or so down with it…”

Desperately, Newsie unscrewed the panel, tossing it aside; Beaker ducked. Newsie gasped, shaking, as he saw the impossible tangle of wires inside. A veritable rainbow of circuitry started to come unstuffed, gently falling in loops out of the machine. “Honeydew!”

“There! That one! Pull out that one!” Bunsen directed, pointing at a greenish, slim wire. Newsie yanked it out, even as Bunsen checked himself, “Oh, wait! It was the fuchsia one!”

The generator wheezed, shaking; the subsonic thrum of energy speeded up, making the chemistry glassware shatter with loud pops and tinkles. “Meep mee mee!” Beaker cried, ducking behind Bunsen, who threw up his arms in front of his face.

“Oh, no! Help!”

“You built it – you fix it!” the Newsman cried, letting go of the handle and breaking for the door. “I need to find Gina!” He hurtled along the hallway, heading for the green room stairs.

Behind him, the two terrified scientists backed away from the shaking, glowing generator. Sparks flew out of its innards. Suddenly the noise dropped in tone. Bunsen, hands shaking, scanned it with the psychokinetic energy detector. “Beaker! It’s…it’s synchronized itself with the Newsman!”

“Me meep?” Beaker looked at it, startled. Wasn’t that what they had wanted it to do, so it could reverse the energy field?

“No, that’s not a good thing! In his current emotional state…”

Gasping, Bunsen jumped away as a huge whirlpool opened up at his feet. The floor rapidly liquefied, sucking in one of the mainframes; it swirled around in a descending circle a few seconds, then winked out of existence. “Aaaaagh! Beaker! We did it! We reversed the tornado!”

“Meeeep?”

“It’s the counter-manifestational tornadoterminal transsubstantialized psychokinetic energy ev---look out Beaker!”

“Meeeeeeeeee---“

Beaker had taken his eyes off the swirling, moving floor for a second to look at Bunsen. The edge of it caught him, sucking him instantly into its maw. He zoomed around and around, screaming, heading inward to the center of the whirlpool. Bunsen reached out a hand, but his assistant was already too far gone. With a tiny meep? Beaker was sucked down. Horrified, Bunsen fled the lab.




Scribbler came to on the hard stage floor, still nauseous and now sore all over. “Wh-why’s everything all shaky?” he muttered, unable to get to his feet; it seemed as though the whole stage was shuddering. He assumed at first it must just be him, out of whack after that undeserved assault by that crazy redheaded chick, but then he saw the little hook-nosed freak and his poultry brigade clinging for dear life to a bunch of swinging bars above the stage floor as everything shook and danced. “What the heck?”

“You said you were looking for the Newsman?” Kermit shouted, looking at the shaking battens. “I’d say you found him!”

“According to you, it’s his news reports that cause stuff like this!” Gina yelled back, holding onto the dressing-room stair rail. “How can he be causing it if there’s no News Flash?”

“What else could it be? You know, I didn’t believe in jinxes before, but this is making me rethink my position!” Kermit snapped. He stared around worriedly. “Guys? A little help here?”

The twin workmen stared in stunned immobility at it all from their post at the still-stuck stove. “Hey, help!” Kermit yelled at them, staggering away from his desk helplessly; the floor seemed to be buckling. Suddenly he leaped, startled, landing several feet away. It felt like the floorboards had turned to sludge right under his feet! Looking back, he saw a whirlpool where that patch of floor had been, rapidly growing in size; it caught the corner of his desk. His notes flew into the air as the desk, its wood groaning, cracked and then broke in half, both halves swirling into the maelstrom like a battered ship going down. “Ack!”

“Gina!” Newsie came running up from the green room, saw her clinging to the stair rail to the dressing-rooms, and came straight for her. “We have to get out of here! Those crazy scientists set off some kind of explosive machine that’s going to tear the place apart!”

“What?” Kermit yelled, shocked. He jumped aside as another whirlpool sucked at his flippers, the floor becoming watery and dark. “What the hey?”

Newsie grabbed Gina’s hand; Gina simply scooped Kermit up onto her shoulder as they ran past, heading onstage. “Gonzo! Get out of here!” Newsie shouted. Then he saw Scribbler standing up slowly, still woozy. “Scribbler?”

A whirlpool opened up on the stage directly in front of Newsie and Gina, between them and Scribbler. They skidded to a halt, then turned toward the front of the stage; another pool sucked into existence straight ahead. “Go up!” Gina said, and tossed Kermit into the air toward one of the empty trapezes. Although the scenery was still swinging, it didn’t seem as immediately deadly as the multiple maelstroms opening up everywhere they looked.

Kermit caught the bar and clung there, looking down in consternation. “What is going on here? Bunsen!”

“Kermit, stay away from the whirlpools!” Honeydew shouted, hurrying up, dodging more pools opening around him with hops and ungraceful staggers. “They’re the reverse-manifestational form of the psychokinetic energy field tornado! They’re being generated by the Newsman’s agitation!”

“What?” Kermit, Newsie, and Gina cried as one. Newsie pointed a shaking finger at Bunsen.

“N-no! This is your crackpot machine! I didn’t do anything to it! Scibbler started it!”

Everyone looked at Scribbler, who was standing in the tiny triangle of space between three separate whirlpools now, shaking and glancing from one to another rapidly. “Hey, you can’t pin this one on me!” he yelled over the disturbing sucking noises. “I heard those lab geeks saying this was all about some energy field thing he’s giving off!” He pointed at Newsie.

“I am not giving off any weird energy field thing!”

“I’m afraid you are,” Honeydew said. “We…we were trying to fix it for you…” He dabbed at his eyes with a hankie. “It…it got Beaker!”

Shocked, Kermit shuddered, then glared at Newsie. “Well whatever you’re doing, stop doing it!”

Equally shocked, Newsie howled back, “I’m not doing anything!”

More floorboards splintered as another whirlpool started eating the orchestra pit. Kermit shuddered. “Bunsen, how do we stop it?” he shouted down.

“You better do it fast!” Gonzo called.

Rizzo trotted out, looking around. “Hey, did you guys know there’s a stove being sucked into a whirl—oh my gawd what the heck!” He jumped back from the edge of another pool. The tiny strand Gina and Newsie stood on seemed to be one of the few islands left as the various sucking, swirling masses of water started to merge onstage. “Aaaahhh! I’ll be good! I’ll be good! I’ll never talk to scummy insurance adjustors again!” Rizzo screeched, but the water slupped over his feet as he tried to run. Shrieking, the tiny rat was quickly sucked under. Gina turned her head, wincing; Newsie clung to her, horrified. Gonzo gasped; the chickens bawked in terror.

“Hey you, Red! Get me outta here!” Scribbler yelled.

“Why should I? You started this!” Gina yelled back angrily.

“’Cause if you don’t, I’ll throw this in!” Scribbler threatened, holding aloft the doll.

Gina’s eyes widened. “You? You took Newsie’s protection doll? How the heck did you get into my apartment?”

“I didn’t take anything! Those lab geeks had it!”

“P-protection doll?” Newsie stammered, looking up at Gina.

“I made it for you,” she said guiltily. “I was trying to keep you safe, and to bring good things into your life! If I’d thought for a second anyone else might get hold of it… Newsie, I am so, so sorry! I never thought it would put you in danger!”

Stunned, he could only stare speechless at her. “Scribbler! You give that back this instant!” Gina yelled at the hack, who was waving the doll over one of the pools, dancing in place, trying not to let the water touch him.

“Get me outta here, and I’ll let ya have it!”

“Kermit! Can you reach him?” Gina shouted. Kermit looked from her to Scribbler.

“Uh…maybe!” Gamely, Kermit tried to swing the trapeze back and forth. Scribbler started laughing, holding his arms up. Within a few swings Kermit was in range; grunting, shaking in fear, he tried to lower himself down, hanging by his back flippers from the bar.

“That’s it! That’s it, Kermit! You’re doing great!” Gonzo called. To Camilla he said, “Wow, who knew he could do acrobatics, huh?”

“Uh – uh – gotcha!” Kermit said, feeling his hands grab Scribbler’s. Unfortunately, Scribbler was heavier than the frog.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaa!” both of them shrieked, overbalancing. Scribbler pulled Kermit off the bar, and a dirty gray and bright green tumbling mass suddenly fell into the surging, roaring water. Kermit tried to swim, but the current was too strong.

“Kermit!” Gina yelled.

“Nooo!” Gonzo howled.

Newsie stood shaking, completely in shock, as his boss vanished below the roiling, circling surface of what had been the stage floor. Suddenly his whole body was jerked sideways into the water. He cried out. Gina grabbed for him, but immediately he was out of reach. She saw Scribbler’s arm, still holding aloft the doll in his hand, being sucked under in the center of the pool. “Newsie!”

As he circled around the edge of the pool, fighting, gulping dirty water, wishing he’d taken those swim lessons at the Y when he was a boy after all, he heard Gina shouting his name again. Looking up, he saw a rope flying at him, and frantically grabbed for it. His fingers snagged it, and quickly he twined it around one hand, then the other, holding tight, gasping. It felt strange, too many open threads to be a rope; he realized, startled, it was some sort of scarf. The current pulled at him; Gina hauled on the other end of the makeshift rope. He clung to it, spitting out water, feeling as though he was being stretched like Gonzo in that silly pirate movie. “Gina!”

“Hold on!” she yelled back, desperately pulling in the shawl handhold by handhold. The spot where she stood onstage was the only bit of solid floor left. She didn’t pause to question it; she just hauled in the lifeline with every ounce of strength she had. Please, Grandmama Angie, please! I can’t lose him! Please!

The shawl dug into her palms, burning. She didn’t stop, straining, going hand over hand steadily, slowly pulling him back to her against the current of the bizarre maelstrom. When at last she could reach him, she kept pulling, hoisting him free of the water, looping the shawl over her shoulders and clasping Newsie to her chest. “Don’t let go,” she panted, “Don’t let go. Don’t fall. Don’t let go.”

Breathless, Newsie held tight to her shoulders, the shawl still twined through his fingers. Gina was crying. “I love you,” she said. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

“I love you,” he gasped, laying his head on her shoulder, “Don’t be sorry. You saved me!”

“If it wasn’t for that stupid protection doll…”

“You made it to keep me safe?”

“I tried to. Some great job I did of it…”

“I love you,” he said, heaving for breath, soaked, shivering, clinging to her. At least, if it sucked them in, they’d go down together, he reflected unhappily.

The whirlpool still raged, and there was nowhere they could go. From a rope hanging above the stage that he’d somehow managed to grab before the floor disappeared, Honeydew called out, “Newsman! This phenomenon is dependent on you! It’s feeding off your subconscious fears!”

“What can I do?” Newsie cried, his voice shaking.

“I’m afraid, in order to shut the generator down, I’ll need you to be unconscious,” Bunsen shouted apologetically. “Miss, I don’t suppose you can knock him out?”

“What? No!”

“But, Miss—“

“I am not hurting him any more than he already has been! Forget it! You built some kind of machine to do something to Newsie? You were responsible for his protection doll winding up here?”

“Well, technically, that part was Beaker –“

“No! No! You figure it out!”

Suddenly an accordion thwacked down on top of Newsie’s head. With a groan, he slumped. Gina’s head jerked up to see Gonzo hanging from a trapeze. He gave as much of a shrug as he could while holding on with both arms. “Sorry.”

Slowly, the roar lessened; the water withdrew. Gina watched it, worried, holding her unconscious Newsman tightly as the whirlpool sucked in on itself, going faster the smaller it became, until with a ssssslllluurrrrrrrkkkk-POP it was gone.

However, so was the stage floor. Whole chunks of it were simply not there, bits of the support beams sticking out randomly, the center of the stage simply a large hole opening down into the tunnel, the lab, and a couple of storage rooms. Looking around slowly, Gina saw entire areas of the audience missing as well, a small chunk of the balcony gone, and some of the stage curtains ripped in half with the bottom sections vanished. Shaking, she didn’t let go of Newsie, turning to look up at Honeydew hanging precariously over one of the open-floor areas. “What…what about Kermit? And Rizzo? And…anyone else?”

Bunsen nodded thoughtfully, “Well, if I can just get to the generator and uncouple the nuclear accelerator…”

“The what?”

“Er…the power source… I theorize any living organisms taken into the transdimensional psychokinetic manifestational event will simply pop back into this reality! They should be fine, now that the event itself has stopped!”

“Oh, good,” Gonzo sighed. “Hurry up, Doc!”

Grunting, Honeydew tried to swing himself, but didn’t quite have the muscle strength to reach the area over the lab. “Er…I seem to be…not quite…”

Angrily, Gina, holding onto Newsie, jumped from her island to a small patch at the edge of the wing which still looked intact. When Bunsen wobbled closer, she reached up with one hand and gave him a hard shove. “Whoooaa!” The scientist flew, his hands sliding off the rope, falling right into the half-destroyed lab where the generator sat untouched among the wreckage. He coughed, picking himself up shakily. “Oh, yes…that did it…”

“Did you get it shut down yet?” Gonzo asked after a few seconds.

With a strange popping sound, Muppets appeared in the undamaged section of the audience seats. Gonzo and Gina looked up eagerly, then recoiled. “Oh wow,” Gonzo said. He looked at Camilla, who seemed equally flummoxed. “Now there’s something you don’t see every day, even around here!”

A person about the size of Fleet Scribbler and wearing his jacket also had Beaker’s red nose and orange hair. Beaker squeaked unhappily, looking at his green skinny flippers. The two workmen stared at each other, no longer identical: one had frog eyes, and one had rat whiskers. Rizzo complained, “Hey! Where’d everybody go? I can’t see!” as he staggered around with Scribbler’s enormous shades and the large flat feet of the workmen…both left feet, apparently.

Kermit looked around at everyone else, then down at himself with squinty, dark-browed eyes and long floppy pink arms. “Yeesh!”

“Hey, Dr Honeydew? Everyone’s back…uh…but do we still have that Vend-a-Face thing in storage?” Gonzo called down.

“Er…yes, I believe so, why?” came the reply.

“I think we’re gonna need it,” Gonzo sighed.

Gina gently set Newsie down on the dressing-room stairs, which had come through unscathed except for a two-foot section gone from right at the top. She stroked his hair, carefully removing and wiping off his dirt-splashed glasses, and kissed his forehead. He muttered, stirring slowly. She sat down by him, holding him against her side with one arm, examining the rope burns the shawl had left on her palms. It hurt, but she was deeply relieved he was safe. She kissed him again as he blinked. “What…what hit me?” he mumbled.

“Ha,” Gina said, thinking of their first actual meeting, though he hadn’t seen her clearly then either. “That was Gonzo. Are you all right?”

“Sure,” Newsie said dazedly. He stared unsteadily at the air in front of him. “Those are pretty colors…”

Clucking huffily, a flurry of chickens came through the wing, settling onto the other stairs. Gonzo followed after a minute, leading Rizzo gently. “You okay, buddy?” he asked the rat.

“Yeah, sure. I always wanted to have bug-eyes,” Rizzo growled.

“We’ll get you sorted out,” Gonzo promised.

Unhappily, Scribbler followed the other unfortunates backstage, treading carefully around the multiple gaping holes. At least it looked like the Muppet Theatre wouldn’t be hosting any performances anytime soon. And this entire adventure would make one heck of a story…of course, he’d have to leave out the part where he got his face swapped with someone else’s…

The odd-looking Kermit stomped awkwardly up to Gina and Newsie, his too-long Beaker-arms dragging the floor. He tried to wave one of them at the couple. “Look at this wreck! Look what you’ve done!”

“What’d I do?” Newsie gulped, trying to focus.

Bunsen came cautiously upstairs, and looked Beaker over, frowning. “Hmm. Beaker, your nose is gone! How will you smell now? Tsst, stt, stt!”

Beaker was not amused. “Mee mee meep meep!” He tried to thwap Bunsen with a flipper.

Kermit surveyed the backstage damage, which although not quite as bad as the stage itself, depressed him even further. “We’ll never be able to keep the theatre open like this! Newsman, your ridiculous energy field has destroyed everything! Everything!”

“Hey!” Gina said, holding the still-dazed Newsie tight, “Your mad scientist there admitted he built the whatever generator! You can’t possibly –“

“I can, and I am!” Kermit shouted, making everyone but Gina flinch. He turned briefly to Bunsen and Beaker. “Bunsen, don’t think this won’t fall on you too! I don’t know what the heck you think you were doing, but this one really takes the cake!” Beaker cringed, startled; Bunsen raised both hands to his mouth, worried. Kermit glared back at Newsie, an especially unnerving effect due to having beady eyes at the moment, and eyebrows he could actually scowl with. “The Muppet Theatre is closed! I don’t know if we can ever reopen! Look at this place! Look at me! Newsman, you…are…”

The Newsman’s voice was quiet but distinct. “I quit.”

Kermit shook, flabbergasted. “Y-you what?”

Exhausted, Newsie stared right at Kermit, his eyes tired, clothes soaked and probably ruined, muscles spent, heart strong. “I quit.” He looked up at Gina. “Can we go home now?”

Gina glared at Kermit, then around at everyone else. They all suddenly had somewhere else to be looking. Even Scribbler seemed chastened. “Yes. Let’s go home.” She stood slowly, helping Newsie to his unsteady feet. He held her hand, but stood up as straight as he could, and walked on his own feet out the back door, where the stove had vanished and nothing blocked their exit. Quietly, heads high, they went down the rear steps and into the steady rain.

Rizzo poked Gonzo. “Hey, correct me if I’m misrememberin’ here, but didn’t he already quit? I thought this was like the new Newsman or somethin’.”

“Oh…no, that was just a skit, to do the silly Muppet Labs clone joke,” Gonzo whispered back. Kermit was still looking out the back door, stunned.

“Clones? Those guys made clones?” Rizzo wondered, looking at the scientists. Beaker was sadly flapping his thin green arms as Bunsen studied him thoughtfully.

“Don’t be silly, Rizzo! Real Muppet clones don’t exist. Right, Camilla?”

“Bawk, bawk,” three different identical chickens clucked.

Gonzo stared at them. “Hey, c’mon! That’s not funny! Camilla...” All three chickens clustered around Gonzo. Bewildered, he looked from each to another. “Uh...which one of you is my girlfriend?”

Kermit turned wearily back to the theatre, his gaze sweeping across the gaps, the wrecks, the exposed lower level. He sat down on the bottom of the dressing-room staircase, sighing, feeling hopeless. Sure, if they could get the Vend-a-Face to actually work, everyone might be restored to their normal selves in a few hours, with luck…but the Muppet Theatre was thoroughly wrecked.

The show might never go on again.

 

[Muppetfan44]

Wow, powerful update!

Totally feel bad for Newsie-never seems to catch a break.

Hopefully everyone can get turned back to normal, but I laughed out loud picturing all the newly-morphed muppets.

Keep up the good work- I love reading a new update every day!

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 27

By the time they reached the apartment, Newsie was shivering badly. Inside the door, Gina stopped and held onto him a long moment. He gulped, deeply uneasy about what he’d just done. He searched her eyes, looking for judgement. “Do you…do you think that was foolish of me?”

She smiled gently at him. “No. I think that was brave. Very brave.”

“Oh good grief…I’m…I’m unemployed!” he exclaimed, the fact of it finally hitting him. His legs felt weak; he sat down right there on the carpet. He’d been through periods where he was barely getting by with the minimum in food and shelter, but he’d never been one hundred per cent insolvent before. “What…what am I going to do?”

Gina crouched, hugging him again. “Before you start panicking, let’s look at the immediate situation, okay?”

“Okay,” he gulped, eagerly looking into her face. She seemed weary as well. Concerned, he brushed her wet hair away from her eyes. “You’re soaked, and you didn’t even go into the whirlpool,” he said.

She sighed. “So…let’s both of us get a nice, hot shower, and then some hot food. We have…” she checked her watch; Newsie was surprised it still worked. It had some kind of hard case over it. Techies must be prepared for anything, he thought, impressed. Even stage floors turning into raging waters. “About three and a half hours before we should head out for the theatre.”

“The theatre?”

“The Sosilly. Final dress rehearsal tonight. Opening’s tomorrow. It’s one heck of a short rehearsal week they’ve run, and everyone is freaking out. I’m certainly not going to make you, but I really think you should come with me,” Gina said quietly, and softly stroked his cheek. “I don’t want you alone here all night after what you just went through.”

“What about you?” he asked. He took her hands in his, wincing at the red scars in her palms. “That really looks painful. Can I do anything?”

“Okay, so it hurts,” Gina said, managing a smile for him. “But you nearly drowned and got sucked into some kind of face-swapping dimension. Just imagine if you and Rizzo had exchanged noses or something!”

Newsie shuddered. “Or Scribbler. At least he got a taste of something bad…”

“Oh! You didn’t see!” Gina dug her phone out of the pocket of her sweatpants, keyed something on it, and showed him the screen. His eyes widened at the images of the tabloid reporter hanging upside-down by his scrawny ankle from what looked like Gina’s hand. In one shot, he appeared on the verge of throwing up. Amazed, Newsie looked back up at Gina. She grinned. “Sorry you missed the wind-up and the pitch.”

“You…you did that?”

“Yep. Caught him trying to leave the theatre. I was bringing him to you.” Her face darkened. “Wish now I hadn’t thrown him onto the stage.”

“It’s all right,” he said, looking delightedly at the pictures again. “That’s really good quality…can I get a print of that? I’d like to pin it up in…oh.” His face fell as he realized he no longer had so much as a closet to call a dressing-room anymore.

“I’ll save them for you, and you can pin them up at your new office, or wherever you wind up,” Gina promised, kissing his nose. She didn’t seem to mind how soaked he was.

“Gina…who’s going to want to hire me? I’m…I’m nobody,” Newsie said. “I’m a jinx.”

“Okay. I’ve had about enough of that.”

He looked up, startled; she seemed angry. He gulped nervously. She put her eyes an inch from his own, glaring. “You. Are. Not. A. Jinx. Got that?”

“B-but…”

“The only but I want to see around here is yours, in the shower, right now!”

“Erk!”

“Move it!”

A few minutes later, she surprised him again by suddenly attacking him with the soap. Startled, he nearly fell back against the hot and cold knobs; she caught him quickly, then very, very gently began rubbing foamy suds on his chest. He swallowed anxiously, feeling completely vulnerable, but she wasn’t being harsh. Calming after a few moments, he stepped forward, embracing her. She made a pleased sort of hmmm. The water falling on them both was wonderfully, endlessly hot, and in her arms he felt some of the anxiety dissipating. “I thought you were angry with me,” he muttered in her ear.

“What? No.” Gina smiled. “I just want you to stop thinking of yourself like that.”

He sighed, happy with everything he felt at that moment. “Uh…you know what?”

“What?”

“This is kind of nice,” he admitted. They stared at one another. Newsie broke into a grin. Gina giggled, then pelted him with the soapy scrubbie-scrunchie.

“’Bout time you figured that out!”

When they were both dry, Gina pulled on a clean pair of sweatpants and a t-shirtwith a theatrical-lighting logo and the letters AUM, and tossed one of her oversized tees at Newsie. “Here. Pull this on.”

“Huh?” He stared at it; the gray shirt bearing the statement Property of Deep 13 Athletics looked too long. He’d already pulled up a pair of his boxers. She tossed over his bunny slippers. “Wait. What are we doing?”

“Going to the basement to put your clothes in the dryer.” When he looked up in surprise, Gina shrugged. “I started some laundry for you earlier.”

“Oh…thank you.” He couldn’t recall how many years it had been since anyone had done that for him. He might have been nine.

Gina bundled up all of their wet clothes. “Might as well wash these too. We really need to get you some more clothes. How do you get by with so few?”

“Uh…I did have more.” Blushing, he thought of the burns, the stains, the garbage, the various accidents and incidents of late which seemed to be taking a toll on his wardrobe.

Gina grinned at him, picking up her change purse of quarters and the apartment keys as she stepped into her own slippers, which looked satin, oriental, and a bit worn down. “Tell you what. I will put three more outfits for you on my credit card, if you agree to let me pick one of them out!”

“Uh…er…” He swallowed nervously, trying to shrug down the t-shirt over his shorter frame. It reached to his knees. “No pink?”

Gina laughed. “What’s wrong with pink? Serious newscasters wear pink!”

“Like who?”

“Jeffery Brown on PBS. Anderson Cooper!”

Newsie winced, giving in. “Not the coat! Or the tie!”

“I was thinking shirt.”

He sighed, following her out of the apartment. “Okay, sure.”

“Hee, hee, hee…my Newsie in pink!”

“Stop it,” he muttered, turning that exact shade.

She kept giggling, but in the elevator she hugged him, and he decided to just shut up. She was being extraordinarily generous to him. He thought suddenly of what she’d said to him when she’d rescued him from the whirlpool; he hadn’t been hit so hard this time that he’d forgotten that. Did she mean it? He glanced uncertainly up at her as they exited the elevator in the basement. He wondered what she’d thought about his saying the same to her this morning, foolishly, in the heat of strong emotion, when he’d left to find Scribbler… and then again when he was sure they were about to be sucked into a horrible deadly pool together. Should he bring it up? Should he even ask?

No, he decided, frightened by the thought of her possible denial. Everybody says things when they’re upset, he thought. What if she didn’t mean it like you did? No…best not to know. Not right now. Anxiously he tried to quell the shivering starting all over again. Why wreck things? Hadn’t he caused enough damage already today?

Unhappy, he stopped in front of the row of dryers while Gina fished his clean, damp clothes out of a large washing machine and picked a dryer to heave them into before starting their rain-drenched clothes to washing. While she fed change into a laundry-soap powder dispenser, Newsie paced slowly along the row of machines, head down. “Uh…thank you for doing all this,” he said.

“Sure,” she replied, then paused. “Newsie? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I –“ Startled, he froze. “Did that just move?”

“What?”

“That…that washing machine. I think it grinned at me.”

Gina stared from him to the machine. “Newsie…it’s just a washer. Not a monster, not a Muppet. See?” She rapped on the thick front-loading door of it.

“Gina, step back,” he warned her, positive he’d seen something.

She sighed. “Newsie, I promise, there’s nothing scary down –“

“RRROOOAAAAGGHHHH!” the thing roared, lunging forward, its door swinging open and teeth sprouting from the round edges. With a startled scream, Gina fell, her slippers skidding on the slick concrete floor. The washing machine monster shook its enormous head (or was that its body?) at her, clawed feet rapidly growing beneath it, raising it off the floor. Gina scrambled backward, but the thing crouched for a leap.

“Leave her alone!” Newsie yelled, beaning it between its setting-knob eyes with one of his bunny slippers. Surprised, it reared back a moment. Gina got to her feet, moving fast, retreating next to Newsie. His hand found hers, and they clung together, eyes wide, backing away as the empty washer snarled, clapping its mouth-door open and shut several times as if anticipating how good they would taste. As it broke free of its plug with a sizzling spark and lunged at them, Newsie shoved Gina toward the elevator. “Run!”

He threw his other slipper as they raced for the closed elevator doors, but the washer caught it midair, eating it. He saw it squealing in fright inside the thing’s circular maw. Gina pounded the call button. The washer roared again, bounding after them, banging up its bottom side with every hard landing; it didn’t seem to care. The elevator dinged, and Gina and Newsie pushed inside before the doors finished opening, throwing themselves to either side of the car as the monster crashed into the doors. It was too wide to fit inside. It raged at them, shaking its open door-mouth. Newsie hit the button for the ninth floor. Gina kicked the thing’s hatch shut right before the elevator doors slid shut again.

As the car traveled up, they panted, staring in fright at one another. “What…the heck…was that?” Gina asked.

Shaking badly, Newsie staggered to her and held tight. “A m-monster!” He took several deep breaths. “I really h-hate those guys…”

“How can a washing machine turn into a monster?” Gina demanded.

Newsie felt his heart slamming inside his ribs, and simply hugged her. “Same way my desk did once, I g-guess.”

“Oo-kay,” she said, gulping air as well. “Heh…I guess life with you is going to be a little different.”

Worried, he stared into her face. “I…I shouldn’t…I mean, you shouldn’t have to…”

Gina glared at him, then hugged him tight. “Don’t you even say it.” She nodded firmly, sighing. “Whatever it is, I say we just get some lunch and wait. Maybe it’ll go away, right?”

Newsie shuddered. “Maybe it’ll bring more! Maybe it’ll eat my clothes!”

“Well, better that than us, right?”

Slowly getting his breath back, he met her gaze, then nodded. “Right.”

They endeavored to pass the next hour quietly, calmly, both of them deliberately not saying anything about either laundry or monsters. Rain pattered down relentlessly outside the windows. Gina fixed them both a thick tomato soup, stirring mixed chopped veggies and lots of savory spices in, and grilled a couple of gouda-on-sourdough sandwiches to go with it. They camped out on the sofa to eat, wedged close to one another beneath a soft fuzzy throw blanket, watching something about spawning salmon on a nature cable show. After a while, when Gina wriggled her thigh against him and then slid down in her seat, he took the hint, and surprised her by moving over.

Looking up at him, Gina smiled. “About time you did that.”

“Really?” Pleased, Newsie enjoyed the view from this angle. Feeling his pulse quicken without being terrified was a new, and assuredly much better sensation.

“Mm-hmm. Like it there?”

His breath caught as she did something under the blanket. “Uhm. Very much,” he managed, his voice dropping.

“Gonna do something about it?”

He considered it. “Like what?” When she started to protest, he grinned at her, and showed her he’d figured out a thing or two.

“Oh…” Gina said. She smiled, and the sight of her hair spilling over the sofa was one of the loveliest things he’d ever been privileged to. “My journalist has a fast learning curve, I see.”

In response, he kissed her, sighing happily.

Gina took his glasses off. He didn’t mind.




The first one Kermit called was Scooter. It seemed like only a few minutes passed until his right-hand young man ran up the back steps, closely followed by Piggy. Scooter stared in awestruck silence at the stage. Piggy ran to Kermit, and he didn’t object to her strong arms going around him. It had been the worst possible day. The rain continued to fall, as if mourning. At least the much-quieter Honeydew had been able to tinker with the Vend-a-Face successfully, and one by one each Muppet affected by the whirlpool was restored to their original face…at least, as far as Kermit could tell. The two workmen had walked off lost in a discussion of whether Bob now had Steve’s nose, or vice versa.

“Santa Maria!” Pepe said, stunned, carefully going around the edge of the big hole just inside the back doorway. “Did we get hit by the meter-iters or somethings?”

“No, it was all that stupid geek’s fault ag—the what?” Rizzo replied, startled.

“The meter-iters. You know. Like big meter maids that crash down from space.”

“That’s meteorites!”

“Whatever…”

Fozzie kept gasping, horrified, as he walked around the circumference of the open stage. “Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Kermit! This is the biggest hole I’ve ever seen!” He paused. “You know, I think this is even bigger than the one J P made that time…”

“Uh, yeah, Fozzie. Just a little,” Kermit fumed.

Piggy kissed his cheek, and he sighed. “Oh, Kermie, this is awful! What are we going to do?” she asked, her blue eyes brimming with tears.

The others all gathered around the bottom of the dressing-room stairs. Kermit sat with Piggy on the steps. He shook his head slowly. “I…I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Beaker nudged Bunsen. Meekly, the scientist stepped forward. “Er…Kermit… Beaker and I have a little money set aside from our patent sale of the edible paperclips. It’s almost a hundred dollars. We’d, ah…we’d like you to have it.”

Kermit sighed. “Gee, thanks, guys.”

“Mee mumbred molla,” Beaker echoed hopefully.

Kermit shook his head. “Great. With what’s left in the theatre account, plus the money we already owed for the new stove and the repair work today, which is now completely useless, I think that puts us only twenty dollars in the hole…without counting the holes!” He scowled at the ruined backstage floor.

“Oh, Kermie…at least you’re all right,” Piggy said softly. He looked into her eyes, feeling grateful for the hope he saw there, but then shook it off.

“Piggy, what difference does it make? Look at this place! We’re sunk!”

Scooter tried to shine a better light on things. “Well…what about those celebrity friends of yours? Maybe we could ask them for help! We could hold a fundraiser, maybe…a dinner or something!” Kermit shook his head. Scooter tried again: “Uh…an auction?”

“What could we possibly auction? Ruined drapes? Souvenir floorboard toothpicks?” The frog rose, gesturing around. “Even with all the money in the world, it would take months—“

“A date with moi,” Piggy said, standing up, throwing her head back.

“Excuse me?” Kermit said, startled.

The others exchanged looks. Piggy nodded purposefully. “I will auction off a date with moi to the highest bidder! One date only, and no going back to their hotel room,” she growled, her voice dropping.

Scooter nodded. “Yeah! Piggy, that’s a great idea!”

Kermit frowned, shaking his head. “No, Piggy! I…I won’t have you debasing yourself like that!”

Touched, she caressed his shoulder. “Oh, Kermie…” Straightening her back proudly, she nodded at the wrecked floor. “I will offer up one single date, to help fix the theatre.”

“And…and I’ll be someone’s personal assistant for a week!” Scooter announced.

“We’ll jam all night for the lucky winner at their house party,” Floyd Pepper offered, checking the expressions of his bandmates. Dr Teeth and Zoot nodded. Janice slipped an arm around his waist.

“You have the biggest heart, honeybunny,” she told him proudly.

“House par-TEH! House par-TEH!” Animal yelled, bouncing in place.

“Maybe I could bring someone to the swamp for a play-date,” Robin piped up.

Kermit shook his head. “I don’t know that that’s such a good idea, Robin…unless they’re a frog too. But thank you.”

People started speaking up loudly all around the room.

“I’d autograph my cannon!”

“Sern de boorn fer snikty-snookty!”

“Aa-AA-aaaahhh…my very first rubber chicken!”

“Perhaps they’d like a boomerang fish-throwing lesson! Eee-hee-hee-hee!”

“I would be honored to lead a tour of the Capitol, including all of our sacred, national, American monuments…”

“Oh! We could put the full experience of Muppet Labs to work solving their most complex scientific problem…”

“Mee meep mee mee!”

“Definitely not a good idea,” Kermit interrupted that one. “Everyone, everyone! Quiet down!”

“…And so I was, like, I am not doing a bikini calendar for that, but this would be a rully good cause, you know?” Janice paused, looking around at everyone, then fell silent.

Kermit sighed. “Guys…look. I appreciate what you’re all trying to offer, but I don’t think anyone is going to be interested enough in any of it to bother! We’re talking thousands of dollars of damage here!” He turned, gazing unhappily at each of them in turn. “Probably hundreds of thousands! There’s just no way we can raise that kind of money!”

Piggy started to sniffle. “I mean…thank you. All of you. Especially you, Piggy. But…it’s just not going to be enough,” Kermit finished quietly.

Everyone was silent.

Finally Scooter said, “But…but we can try, right?”

Kermit looked at him, then at Piggy. She blinked big wet eyes at him, and he felt his insides twist up. Well, maybe it would at least pay off any debts we still owe, Kermit thought unhappily. Every Muppet was staring at him, waiting, desperately hoping he’d somehow work a way out of this for them. Feeling overwhelmed, he sighed. “Sure. Sure, we can try.”

“Oh, thank you Kermie!” Piggy hugged him, planting kisses all over his face.

“I’ll start rounding up everyone who’s ever been a guest,” Scooter said, pulling an unharmed legal pad from somewhere and starting to make notes. “Maybe some of them would be willing to donate their time, or something for the auction.”

“I’ll put the word out on the grape-vine to our musically inclined brethren,” Dr Teeth said, to the approval of his fellow musicians present. “I can see it now: MuppAid!” He laughed widely, making everyone grin.

Kermit watched all of them hurriedly making plans, and shook his head. He sat by Piggy, holding her hands, resigned. No matter how high their hopes, he knew the sickening truth: it wouldn’t be enough. Not by a long shot.

The Muppet Theatre, as of today, no longer existed as anything but a broken shell.




In the basement of a sturdy, stately building which had existed since the early 1930s, an elevator dinged. Its doors slid open.

The monstrous washing machine shuffled forward, opening its doorish mouth, its interior cylinder spinning quietly once in hungry anticipation. It peered into the elevator, tilting itself left, then right, to view the whole car. It didn’t see anyone. Puzzled, it wedged a front corner inside as the doors tried to shut once more, making snuffling noises.

The door to the stairs flew open. One short yellow-skinned man and one slender redhaired woman rushed out in t-shirts and bare feet, aluminum baseball bats upraised, and charged the monster washer before it could pull free, shrieking their war cry: “Aaaaaaaaaahhhhh!”

“Whuuufff!” the washer snorted as blow after blow rained upon its side, the racket of metal on metal ringing dully off the concrete walls.

The side of the washer dented, and the monster, enraged, pulled out of the elevator doorway, backing up. Gina smacked it over its control knobs, and it roared, the door-mouth open wide, showing rows on rows of sharp teeth. “Now!” Gina yelled, whacking its top again.

Newsie whipped the makeshift sash off his shoulder, swinging the jug of bleach it was tied to up and out. He’d never been a good shot at anything, but the monster’s mouth was too big too miss: the bleach jug sailed whole into the open hatch. Gina kicked it shut and pounded her bat against the latch, then reached over and set the knobs to PERMANENT PRESS. Newsie hefted his own weapon again, stepping back in fear, but as Gina retreated with him, the washer growled and shook itself from side to side, but couldn’t reopen its round mouth. “Ha hah! Chew on that!” Newsie yelled at it, thrilled.

“Mmmmuurrrgh,” the washing machine protested. It whirled its cylinder around violently. Its knob-eyes popped wide. “Mmmmmuuurrrgghhhhhh!”

The jug of bleach cracked open, splashing toxic liquid inside the thing’s gullet. The monster shuddered, reeling from side to side. Gina and Newsie dodged as it careened down the aisle of immobile machines. It beat itself against the far wall a few times, in a futile effort to unstick its mouth latch. The bleach spun inside it, splashing the interior window of its hatch. At last, with a low groan, the monster sank down, its feet disappearing beneath it, and shuddered once more before its eyes hardened into simple knobs again. The spinning interior slowly came to a halt.

Breathless, Newsie looked at Gina. She grinned back. With a loud cry of triumph, he ran to her, and they spun once in an embrace, laughing. “We did it!” he yelled.

“Look at that,” she panted, happy. “The Muppet Newsman, Fearless Monster Killer!”

He laughed, delighted. They hugged a moment longer, then Gina sighed. “Whew… Okay. That was fun. Let’s get your clothes.”

“Sounds good.”

They unloaded the dryer, which had not in fact eaten even one of his sports coats, and reset it to dry the second load. Stepping into the elevator with his arms full of warm, dry, clean clothes, Newsie couldn’t stop smiling. He wondered if this was how Indiana Jones usually felt.

The doors closed and the elevator started up. Neither of them noticed the ironing board back in a corner of the basement beginning to unfold spindly, insectoid legs…




In the lab, Beaker slowly swept what was left of the floor, pausing to consider the dustpan a moment before shrugging and sweeping the dirt and small debris down the hole the whirlpool here had left. Honeydew sighed, poking at the smoking, fused hulk of metal and wiring which had formerly been the glorious psychokinetic reverse energy field manifestational generator. He wondered if auctioning off what was left of their weapons-grade plutonium would be fruitful. He hadn’t said so to Beaker, but privately he knew he did bear some of the blame for the horrible events of the day.

“I really thought we had the solution,” Bunsen mused aloud. Beaker looked up briefly, gave him a curt meep in reply, and went back to sweeping. Bunsen looked around at the remaining mainframes. At least the whirlpool here had simply gone away once the Newsman’s energy field had drawn all of the pools together onstage, so the lab hadn’t suffered as much damage as some other areas. Oh, how he wished he’d been able to program in the data Beaker had brought back! Maybe then…

Bunsen started, straightening from the chair-back he’d been leaning dejectedly on. “Beaker! Where’s the mobile psychokinetic energy field detector?”

Beaker stared at him. Was Bunsen actually thinking about pursuing the experiment? After all that? His nose still ached from being squashed around by that blasted Vend-a-Face!

“Beaker, don’t you see? The Newsman’s lady friend was giving off an equally strong energy field, correct?”

Beaker sighed, shrugged, and held his hands up. “Mee meep mee mee me mee!”

“No, no; it might not be a lost cause! Think about it! As far as we know, she didn’t previously have things falling on her, right?”

Irritated, Beaker shrugged. “Meep mo?”

Growing excited, Bunsen began digging through the pile of smashed chemistry things with a spent carbon-arc rod. “Beaker! Don’t be so defeatist!” Beaker sighed. “If the Newsman’s girlfriend didn’t originally have as strong an energy field around her as he did, perhaps blocking her energy will decrease his as well!”

Startled, Beaker watched his colleague searching the room for the lost detector. He considered it carefully, wondering about covalent bonds, and concurrent energy fields, and the Mumford Scale, and…well…mippy-mippy.

“Ahah!” Bunsen held up the psychokinetic energy field detector, largely intact save for one bent antenna. He checked its data readout screen, then waved it excitedly. “Yes! Yes! Look, Beakie! Look at the readings!” Seeing his lab partner simply staring silently at him, Bunsen’s enthusiasm dropped. He came over to Beaker, and the two gazed at one another. “You know, Beaker…I admit, I was a bit too hasty in setting up this generator. I really…I really ought to have waited until all the data was in. I’m…I’m sorry.” He blinked apologetically at Beaker.

Beaker sighed. He took the detector from Bunsen and studied the screen. After a minute he looked up. Bunsen’s air was hopeful, attentive. “Well? What do you think?”

Beaker nodded. He patted his friend on the shoulder.

Bunsen smiled widely. “Well! Then let’s get to it, shall we?”

“Meep mee,” Beaker agreed. He rolled up his sleeves, looked around at the wreckage, and sighed. With renewed energy he resumed sweeping, and Bunsen began clearing space on a lab table to cannibalize what he could from the ruined generator.




The umbrella was large enough for both of them to huddle beneath. Newsie hung on to Gina’s free hand as she kept the shelter over them, trotting as quickly as he could to keep up with her longer strides. She was dressed in what she called “running blacks,” black leggings and a black long-sleeved tunic with black tennis shoes and socks, and her hair was braided and pinned up in back. Newsie had elected to wear his new blue-green check sports coat and the charcoal pants with his usual dress Oxfords, as being darker than the brown-and-tan-check outfit and therefore less conspicuous in the lighting booth. Gina had insisted he ought to sit with her there for the duration of the rehearsal. They both wore long russet-colored overcoats against the chilly rain. In his other hand, Newsie carried a small satchel containing two large Thermoses of coffee and a bag of trail mix for them to share at intermission.

The excitement palpable just in Gina’s preparations, and the rush of his victory over an actual monster, buoyed Newsie’s mood and kept him from dwelling on the disaster at the Muppet Theatre. The rain splashed him only occasionally as they hurried along the wet sidewalks toward the Sosilly. Yet doubts nagged him; it couldn’t really have been his fault, could it? Seriously: Scribbler set the darned thing off, and if Honeydew hadn’t built it in the first place--! He didn’t really have some kind of dangerous energy field surrounding him…did he? But the maelstrom vanished when they knocked you unconscious. Doesn’t that prove something? Uneasily, he almost tripped on a curb as they ran across a street.

Gina slowed, checking to make sure he was all right. “I’m sorry, Newsie! I’m going too fast. Here, we can slow down, that’s the last crossing; we’re almost there.” Just ahead, Newsie could see the newer theatre in its old factory building; a few lights were on in the lobby, visible through the large exhibit windows out front. She gave him a smile. “There’s one other theatre superstition, which I’m telling you now so you won’t get too worried if things seem screwed up tonight.”

“What’s that?”

“If your final dress rehearsal is terrible, then your opening night will be wonderful. I swear some people subconsciously mess up just because they know that tradition!” She laughed. Newsie tried to smile back, nodding.

He hoped it didn’t go that way. He wasn’t sure he could take feeling any worse than he had today.

Holding Gina’s hand, he leaped from step to step, pacing her. Together they pushed open the lobby door and went in. The Newsman took down the umbrella quickly, recalling another old superstition about those, and gently set it down on the floor next to the door. Not that he was a superstitious man…but.

It couldn’t hurt, tonight.

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 28

The Newsman waited anxiously in the lighting booth, staring out the window into the catwalks as Gina moved from instrument to instrument, all of them glowing softly, checking to see all was in order before the house would be opened to the audience. Despite his worries, she seemed fine, and when she dropped back down into the booth, she smiled at him. “All good,” she said, and Newsie nodded once in relief. Scott looked up from the console where he’d been fine-tuning a couple of the lighting cues already programmed in.

“Cool. All set, then. I’m gonna go grab a coffee. Want anything?”

“We brought our own,” Gina replied, lifting her Thermos. Scott grinned. He gave her shoulder a friendly smack, then Newsie’s the same, startling the Muppet reporter.

“Have a good run. Kayla should be up any minute.” He left the booth, shutting the door behind him. Bewildered, Newsie looked at Gina. She shook her head, smiling.

“That’s just Scott. Don’t worry, he likes you.”

“That was like?” Newsie grumbled, rotating his shoulder back into place.

“Yep.” She beckoned him closer; he rose from the seat he’d been given, a few feet behind her and just to the side so he’d be able to see the actors through the window. Gina gave him a long hug. “How’re you feeling?”

“All right,” he replied. “I’m glad I came with you.” He couldn’t imagine how alone he’d have felt back at the apartment without her, especially after Scribbler, the wreckage at the Muppet Theatre, and the monster washer. Now he sighed into her arms, and cautiously stroked a few strands of her soft, shining hair down her temples. She smiled at him, encouraging his boldness. Slowly able to smile in return, Newsie leaned forward and kissed her. Ah, that was amazing. He’d never get used to that, to how soft her lips felt against his own, how willing she was to kiss, to touch…

The door to the booth swung open; Newsie pulled back, embarrassed. “So this one controls the house lights,” Gina said loudly, then looked up. “Hey, Kayla.”

“Hey,” Kayla replied. Clearing his throat nervously, Newsie was about to return to his seat when the dark-haired young woman with skull earrings put her fingertips against his chest. Startled, he froze, looking up. The stage manager’s mouth was set in a grimace. Oh, no. He’d thought his presence here had been approved! Was she going to kick him out? “I think I owe you an apology,” she said.

“Wh-what?”

“I, uh…I didn’t realize you and Gina were really dating. I thought it was some kind of prank, the last time you were here. I’m sorry for assuming. Okay?” She stared down at him. He wondered what he was supposed to say.

“Kayla, it’s all good,” Gina said quietly. Newsie glanced at her, then back at Kayla, and nodded agreement. Instantly the stage manager relaxed, flashing a big grin.

“Hey, good. Welcome to the booth,” she said, sticking a hand with scarily long nails out. Newsie shook it gingerly.

“I’ll, uh, try to stay out of the way,” he promised, backing into his chair.

“Just remember: absolute quiet in here once I start calling cues. The door to the grid stays open so we can hear the lines, ‘cause the stage mic is horrible; but that means any audience members back this far will be able to hear us if we’re loud,” Kayla said, indicating the door at the top of the short ladder just past the lighting console. She dropped into her own seat, checking her watch. “Nuts…five minutes!” Quickly pulling on a headset, she adjusted the tiny mic on it and repeated the five-minute-to-house-open call. Below, a couple of stagehands grabbed a small bucket and paintbrushes and hurried backstage. Kayla snorted. “Final dress, and Dr Rob wanted more little gray bits over there! Can you believe it?”

“Yep,” Gina said, stretching, then gently touching the soft gloves on her hands. Newsie had helped her treat and bandage the rope-burns on her palms, and she’d pulled on a pair of black cotton gloves to keep them clean during the rehearsal. Concerned, Newsie leaned forward, watching her. Seeing this, Gina gave him a smile, and he relaxed somewhat. He listened, understanding very little, as Kayla chattered at Gina a few minutes about other people in the company. Finally Kayla announced to everyone that the house was open. The heavy doors below the booth were swung in and propped open, and Kayla started a CD playing over the house speakers, something classical and moody which Newsie didn’t recognize.

Gina stood, peering down into the tiered seats of the audience. “Do we actually have anyone coming tonight?”

Kayla shrugged. “Dunno. Heard Dr Rob saying something about inviting a few critics, and I think some of the cast have friends here. I doubt it’ll be many people, with that rain still pounding down. You didn’t walk all the way here, did you?”

“We ran,” Gina grinned, looking back at Newsie. He smiled at her. Suddenly the stage manager turned to him.

“So, I heard you work at the Muppet Theatre?”

“Er. Ah.” He wasn’t sure what to say. “Uh…I did until recently. Yes.”

“What’s Miss Piggy like? I hear she’s as bad as Shannon!” Kayla seemed to be addressing Gina as much as him.

“Shannon…?”

“Lady M,” Gina supplied.

“Oh. Er. I wouldn’t know…Miss Piggy is…she’s…er…a forceful personality,” Newsie managed.

“And does that weird little blue guy actually do his own stunts?”

“Uh…yes. Yes he does.” Newsie reflected unhappily that Gonzo wouldn’t be doing his crazy, death-defying acts at the Muppet Theatre anytime soon. He had no idea what it would take to make the theatre usable again, but he doubted it would be running a show for months.

“I only went once, but I’ve heard some stories,” Kayla continued. “Do you guys really have dancing chickens? And flying cows?”

“Uh…the cows don’t fly. They drop.”

Kayla laughed. “That is so crazy! I bet you have some great stories, yeah?”

Newsie winced instinctively. “Er…stories?”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry! You’re the only one from there we ever see over here; nothing will get back to them, if you tell it to us,” Kayla assured him. Newsie threw a helpless look at Gina.

“Hey Kayla, listen…” Gina began, but the stage manager barged on, oblivious.

“I heard about this one guy over there, who tries to do some kind of act about breaking news, and stuff keeps falling on him! Man, I’d love to see that! Jimmy told me about it once, and it sounded so funny!”

“Kayla!”

Surprised, Kayla stared at her. “Gina! The grid door is open!”

“Kayla. Not a good topic right now. Okay? We’ve had a really long day, been through a lot of stuff, and I’m here to do the show, and Newsie’s here to try and relax and keep me from going nuts. Okay?” The two young women locked eyes. Bewildered, Kayla finally held up her long-nailed hands.

“Okay, sure, sorry.” Kayla gave them both a puzzled look, then picked up a large notebook with her cue script in it and stood. “I’m gonna go talk to Frank about the thing with the witches. He was late the last two nights making the demon pop up. Back in a sec.” She left quickly. When the door had shut, Gina let out a frustrated sigh.

Newsie sat silently, head down. “Ignore her,” Gina advised.

He shrugged. “Maybe…maybe my leaving was the right decision,” he said, dejected.

“You deserve more respect than you got there,” Gina said firmly. Newsie looked up at her, feeling the familiar old resignation and shame.

“I only wanted to be a serious journalist…”

“You are. Newsie, trust me, we’ll find someplace for you that’ll treat you better.” Gina stretched her headset cord back to his chair, flipping the mic out of the way, and crouched to put her hands lightly on his thighs. He looked at her miserably.

“I’m just a joke,” he muttered.

“Newsie, you are not! You are…dedicated, and persevering, and a man of integrity, and…” She kissed his nose. “Handsome, and adorable, and caring…” He could feel himself turning bright pink; thankfully the lighting inside the booth was very dim and already tinted reddish. She made him look her in the eye anyway. “And…mine, if you want to be.” He swallowed hard, wishing immediately they were somewhere else. Somewhere private. When she leaned in, he met her kiss gratefully. “All right?” she asked softly. Unable to speak, Newsie nodded.

Something came over her headset, and quickly Gina retreated to the lighting board, flipping her mic back in front of her lips. “Yeah…I see it. On it now,” she spoke quietly, adjusting something on the console in response to whatever she was being told. The Newsman watched her, silent, enveloped in the enormity of unfamiliar emotions. Did this mean she’d meant what she said earlier, during the horrible catastrophe with the whirlpools? He’d never even hoped for that kind of relationship with anyone; for decades, his unhappy duty to his mother had completely excluded any other person becoming close to him, and even though he’d been alone a few years now, the ridicule he’d endured all his life had made any kind of…well, romance…seem impossible. Who would want him? Even other Muppets thought he was laughable, much less anyone else of the female persuasion. Gina said…Gina said she loved him.

He wasn’t aware he was even staring at her until she spoke his name the second time. “Newsie? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

His vision seemed blurred. He took off his glasses, trying to wipe his eyes surreptitiously as he cleaned off the lenses with one of the pre-soaked cloths Gina had advised him to tuck into a coat pocket. “Nothing. I’m fine. Nothing.” He reset the glasses on the bridge of his nose, blinked at her, and saw her worried expression. He forced a smile. “Gina, I’m fine. Um…I just… Thank you.”

“For what? Saying you’re adorable?”

“No, for…” His throat felt stuck. “For…for wanting me. I mean, I’d…I’d like that. Being around you. Er. That is…”

Relaxing into a lovely smile, Gina leaned over the back of her chair, taking his hand in hers; he touched it carefully, mindful of her injury. She didn’t heal as fast as a Muppet would, he’d noticed. “Together, then?”

He nodded eagerly. “Together!”

“Good.” She smiled at him almost shyly, then cleared her throat and picked up her coffee mug, releasing him. She tried to open the Thermos, wincing, unable to unscrew the stopper. Immediately Newsie jumped down and took it from her. Swiftly he opened the jug and poured a hot cup of the coffee for her. She set it carefully on a small table away from the lighting console, then leaned over and embraced him. Newsie hugged her tightly, his chest oddly strained, wanting badly to be useful to her, helpful, pleasing. “Thank you,” she murmured right into his ear.

“Thank you,” he whispered back.

They heard footsteps coming up to the booth, and separated. Newsie resumed his seat just as Scott returned. Scott nodded at them both, then gazed out at the dim gray and blue illumination washing the stage area. “Looks nice,” Gina said.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“You’d better,” Gina teased. To Newsie she said, “He designed the set and the lights on this one.” Newsie nodded. The scenery of various platforms and things which appeared to be crumbling walls puzzled him; it certainly wasn’t anything like the more traditional sets or bright lights of the Muppet Theatre, and he was somewhat curious as to how the complete production would look. He suspected it would prove as dark and scary as the movie version Gina had shown him.

“Hey, did ya hear what the director said to the followspot operator at the end of the song?” Scott asked.

Gina was shaking her head, scowling. Confused, Newsie realized Scott was addressing him. “Er…I’m usually not privileged to technical conversations,” he said.

Scott laughed. “He said, ‘Out, out –‘”

“You’d better shut up right there!” Gina growled. “I’ve already had to deal with one Scottish curse this week! I will make you run around this building in the rain if I have to!”

Newsie shuddered, thinking of tornados; he glanced out at the grid nervously. Scott, however, only chuckled, and stole a sip of Gina’s coffee from her mug. “Man, that’s good! You gotta bring me some of that!”

“I’ll bring a pot of it to strike. Don’t you have designer-y things to do?”

“Yeah, yeah. I just came up to see what it looked like for the pre-set.” Scott grinned at them both. “I won’t be on headset tonight, but I am making notes.”

“Of course you are. Now beat it! Only serious people are allowed in the booth!” Gina smacked him with a rolled-up script.

Still chuckling deeply, Scott left. Gina exchanged a look with the Newsman. “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “I won’t let anything go wrong. Still have your bracelet?”

Newsie nodded, sliding back his coatsleeve to show her. She smiled. “Okay. Just sit back and try to enjoy the show… Fifteen,” she acknowledged into her mic. To Newsie she said, “We start in fifteen minutes.” She blew out a breath. “Then it’s only three hours, ten minutes to go!”

He nodded again, fidgeting a little, looking down at the string bracelet. Not only did he plan to wear it until it simply wore out, he was thinking of asking her for another. Hopefully, now that he wasn’t at the Muppet Theatre, there wouldn’t be as much wear and tear on such things… Swallowing down an uneasy feeling, he tried to focus on the present moment. Gina wanted him here, with her. He shouldn’t think about anything else right now. He should be basking in that, not thinking about whirlpools…or angry co-workers…or people laughing at him.

The Newsman poured a cup of strong, rich-scented coffee from his own Thermos, inhaling its steam. Gina sighed, stretching again in her chair, and smiled at him. Newsie tried to smile back, tried to settle in, tried to be happy. He especially tried not to think about jinxes.




The one advantage to watching the show from the booth, he decided, was that hearing all the cues for lighting or scenery shifts spoken like a quiet counterpoint to the words of the play enabled him to distance himself from the story a little. The Newsman watched the first few scenes in silence, doing his best to keep still so as not to distract the two young women running the show from here. Although the production wasn’t as striking as the Patrick Stewart version, it was well done; he was surprised when Kayla cursed softly and Gina answered with a breathy laugh.

“He flubbed that one, didn’t he,” Gina murmured, as Macbeth left the King, saying he was going home to Glamis to prepare for his sovereign’s visit there.

Kayla sighed, and quietly called the next cue. When the lights shifted, she replied, “Well, what the heck. As long as they don’t mess it up tomorrow night…”

“Newsie could play Ross,” Gina offered. Startled, Newsie looked at her. She tossed him a smile before poising her hands over the console in readiness for the next sequence of lighting cues. He wondered why she would say a thing like that; he had no training as an actor! It had been so long since he’d even had a news story he could memorize ahead of time, he wasn’t sure he could anymore. He waited until she turned to him again, not wanting to interrupt the flow of cues.

“I don’t know anything about acting!” he protested in a rough whisper.

“Just a joke, I promise,” Gina reassured him. “I just kind of thought of him as your character.”

“Which one is Ross?”

“The Thane who delivered the news to Mac that the King had named him Thane of Cawdor,” Gina whispered. “In the movie version, he’s the one with glasses in the trenchcoat. If you noticed, he’s some kind of news-bearer in every scene that he appears in, except the banquet.”

“Oh,” Newsie said, surprised. He turned his attention back to the stage as Macbeth and his Lady began the plotting which would catapult them to power. He recalled the character, but hadn’t noticed any resemblance to himself. In this production, everyone was dressed in tunics and kilts which he assumed were more authentic; certainly no one was wearing glasses onstage. He suddenly realized he was fidgeting with the string bracelet, and forced himself to stop. There was no reason to be nervous. Nothing was going to happen. Here, there were no wild machines generating dangerous stage-eating whirlpools, no crackpot scientists, and no News Flashes. Newsie sank into his chair, thinking about that. No more News Flashes. Since he’d taken on the job, way back in ’76, he’d presented the news faithfully, every week, sometimes every night for stretches at a time, and not only on the Muppet Show. He’d moved up from field reporter to sub-anchor at KRAK in the ‘80s and ‘90s, persevering no matter what sort of drivel he was given to cover or to read. He still couldn’t fathom why he’d been let go; nothing at the news station had been destroyed. Should he have offered his services to KMUP? He’d been skeptical, at the time, about the station’s survival, apparently with good foresight; but all the same, maybe if he’d made himself professionally available for more than one show, the other Muppets wouldn’t have looked down on him quite so much. Clifford, for one, he knew, thought he was a sell-out for taking a better position at KRAK. Newsie had overheard the show host talking about it once at a party with Rizzo, after everyone had consumed more triple vanilla cream sodas on the rocks than was wise.

Well, what was he supposed to do? His mother’s medical bills at that point were barely covered, between her Medicaid and other benefits and his own desperate salary. He’d gone without luxuries like new shoes, or even non-packaged food, for years to try and make ends meet. Angrily, the Newsman shook his head. And then, after years of doing everything he was asked – everything! he’d even subbed for the often-tardy weatherman a few times – the station manager, Harlan Grosse Point Blanke (another nephew, he’d heard, of the Muppet Theatre’s former owner J P Grosse) had simply called him into the office one day and handed him his pink slip. No explanations as to why he’d been singled out. “Ratings are down, we gotta cut some folks,” was all Harlan had said. No way they’d hire him back after that ignominious sacking.

Noticing movement in front of him, Newsie blinked, refocusing. Gina waved to get his attention, then whispered, “Are you all right?”

Newsie nodded quickly. She gave him a very uncertain smile, and he leaned forward to touch her hand briefly. “Fine. Sorry.”

“Stand by cue fifty-three,” Kayla warned.

“Standing by,” Gina muttered, looking back at her lighting board. Newsie retreated again. He tried to keep his mind, as well as his gaze, on the play. Macbeth came walking slowly from the King’s chambers, bearing aloft the bloody daggers, looking much like a ghost himself. Newsie watched intently as the suddenly-sick Thane and his forceful Lady argued, admiring the players’ art. He himself had no such talents, and sometimes couldn’t even keep his own reactions to things inside, despite his attempted dedication to a professional demeanor at all times. He’d always striven to deliver the news gravely and with a sense of the importance of getting information to the public, taking the inimitable Edward R Murrow as his role model…even though he’d never had a story which compared to the McCarthy hearings. When big news did break, the star anchor or Washington correspondent had always been assigned it; never the Newsman. Depressed again suddenly, Newsie considered that. When had he ever had a fantastic story, an amazing scoop, been the first on the scene for something important?

Never. Not once. He’d even missed out when the Holiday diamond necklace was stolen here in the city…and to add insult to failure, Kermit had wanted he and Fozzie and Gonzo to cover the story even in the movie version! Sure, they’d been nice enough to give him a small cameo…but he would’ve liked to pretend, just for a bit, that he’d been the one on the scene at the theft, the intrepid reporter chasing the exciting story.

Why? What was wrong with him? Why wasn’t he ever chosen for the follow-up story, the half-hour special report, the digging-through-the-files research, even? Swallowing dryly, Newsie went for a sip of his coffee, and found it had gone cold. Moving as quietly as he could, he reached for his Thermos, unscrewed the top, inhaled the lovely warm scent within, poured the cold remains back in and gently swished them around. Just as he tipped the jug to pour a fresh, warm cup, a tremendous boom came from the stage.

Startled, he dropped the cup, spilling coffee on the old linoleum floor of the booth. Panicking, he looked around for something to arrest its spread. Kayla gestured at him angrily; he saw she was pointing to a roll of paper towels, and grabbed them, doing his best to sop up the spill. More booming knocks sounded, and he realized it was the knocking at the gate which summoned the porter. Part of the play. Ashamed of himself, Newsie knelt on the floor, making as sure as he could in the dim light of the booth that he’d wiped up every drop, although wet spots on his pants and shoes remained despite his efforts to daub them with a towel. With a smarting ego, he resumed his seat and recapped the Thermos, giving up on it. He noticed Kayla was giving him an irritated look, and mouthed “I’m sorry” at her. The stage manager merely shook her head, returning her attention to the stage below. Newsie wanted to sink into the floor. Perhaps he ought to just go home.

Gina caught his eyes, asking silently if he was okay. He gave her a nod, mortified, and clasped his hands together over his chest, sinking into the plastic chair as much as he could. Maybe he’d wait until intermission, after the third act, and then just go sit in the lobby, where he wouldn’t be disturbing anyone. He felt a tap on his knee, and looked up; Gina had shifted her entire seat back to touch him. He waved her off hurriedly, not wanting her to get in trouble as well. She frowned briefly, then blew him a kiss, looking concerned. Newsie did his best to smile for her, though he suspected it would look strained. When she scooted back to the console again, he lowered his head to his hands. That’s why no one wanted to entrust you with anything important, he thought. You have all the grace and poise of a walrus, without even the excuse of ungainly size! He realized it wouldn’t matter where he tried to go, what he applied for; if his reputation for jinxed newscasts didn’t precede him, his own awkward social skills would bring him down. He’d seen enough of what passed for news on most stations to grasp that style won out over substance every time. He wondered if even PBS would accept him now.

A light suddenly went dark. Gina and Kayla looked up. “What the hey?” Kayla muttered. “Didn’t you look at everything in the preshow check?”

“Excuse me, how long have I worked here? Of course I did!” Gina hissed back. “I can’t go up there now, it’d be too noisy. I’ll fix it at intermission.”

“Freakin’ Scottish Play,” Kayla grumbled, but went back to her cue-calling smoothly.

Newsie stared out at the grid catwalks, hoping there were no more faulty electrical cables up there. Maybe he should go up with Gina, just to be sure. If something was wrong, better it should get him than her. He swallowed nervously, his eyes darting all over the upper part of the theatre, where numerous lights shone, some fading down while others came up as the action continued beneath them. It all seemed far more intricate than the system at the Muppet Theatre.

When the assassins encountered Banquo and his son, as the deed was done, a crash sounded from somewhere backstage. Quickly Kayla was asking about it over her headset while the actors paused only a beat before continuing their lines and running off, leaving Banquo dead on the floor. “Well, can you fix it?” Kayla hissed in response to whatever she was being told. Apparently the answer wasn’t good. She raised her fists in the air, grimacing, and Newsie cowered back, the thought suddenly striking him that she might turn on him as a scapegoat; everyone else seemed to be doing so these days. She cursed creatively but quietly several seconds. Newsie had no idea what half those words meant, but clearly they weren’t happy phrases. Gina was shaking her head, hearing all of the crisis on her own headset. Suddenly she grabbed Kayla’s arm, and they had a fast and whispered conference. Kayla at first shook her head, giving Newsie several displeased looks, and he glanced in growing fright from one of them to the other. Was he about to be kicked out? He couldn’t recall even having been backstage tonight! He’d come straight up to the booth with Gina; he couldn’t possibly be responsible for anything wrong back there, could he?

When Gina scooted her chair back quietly, he muttered at her, “I’m sorry! Whatever it is, I’m sorry!”

“What? Newsie, you didn’t do anything. The demon’s broke,” Gina said. He stared at her in utter incomprehension. “For the start of act four, when Mac goes back to the witches and demands answers from them, and they summon their masters. We had this cool effect, with a big puppet that pops up in smoke and creepy lighting. One of the extras just tripped over it and caved its head in and tore half the costume off.” She searched his eyes hopefully. “Would you be willing to help us out?”

“I don’t know how to repair puppets,” he said, confused.

“No…would you be willing to play the demon? Just for tonight?”

Newsie stared at her, shocked. “M-me? A demon?”

“All you’d have to do would be stand up where and when the assistant stage manager says, and sort of gesture all floaty-ish,” Gina tried to explain, demonstrating with languid, liquid movements of her arms in front of her. It made Newsie think of a drowned person swaying in a current, and he shivered. “Just for tonight! We can set you up with the costume backstage during intermission. You don’t even have to speak; one of the actors is doing the voice.” She looked so pleadingly at him he didn’t feel he could refuse.

“Just…just tonight?”

“The prop guys’ll fix the puppet tomorrow before opening. Just for tonight. I wouldn’t even ask, but there’s a few critics in the audience.” She pointed out the booth window at someone in the center of the seats below, beckoning Newsie to come see. He stood as close to the window as he could, peering down, and saw a balding head and what looked like a notepad. “That’s Foppy Swofford, the new reviewer for the Times! We can’t just fake our way through it tonight.” Gina took his hand gently, entreating him with worried eyes. “Please, Newsie? Just this once?”

“Sure,” he agreed, overwhelmed. Gina hugged him quickly before returning both hands to the board to execute the next couple of cues. Kayla tapped his shoulder. Nervously he turned, but she was nodding at him.

“Thanks, man. It’d help a lot,” she whispered.

When she finished with cues for the immediate moment, Gina pulled him close for a kiss. He felt embarrassed about doing so in front of Kayla, and made it a fast one. Gina smiled at him, stroking back his hair. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Newsie!” She sighed. “What did I tell you about final dress mistakes?”

“Got nothing to do with final dress,” Kayla grumbled. “It’s just the freakin’ Scottish Play. Don’t know why Dr Rob picked this one. I thought he preferred silly musicals!”

Gina only smiled. Newsie backed away, finding his seat once more. He tried to watch the rest of the act, but even the frightening banquet scene didn’t hold his attention. He’d agreed to be on stage as some sort of witches’ boss. This was crazy! But then he thought about the day thus far; was this worse than being sucked down a whirlpool? Grimly, he set his jaw, shaking his head. No. Gina had pulled him from certain doom – what might have happened to everyone if he’d been sucked into that horrible thing? Would it have continued dragging things down? Would it have winked out of existence, trapping him somewhere else? Killing him? Shuddering, Newsie wrapped his arms around his chest, holding tightly. She’d saved him. The least he could do was play a silly part for a few minutes. If he was costumed, he doubted anyone would even recognize him, and he’d seen only a handful of people in the audience at all.

Trying to convince himself everything would be fine, the Newsman huddled in his chair, and waited for intermission.




“Is that too snug?” the young man serving as the assistant stage manager asked.

“It’s fine,” Newsie replied, although he felt terribly uncomfortable. Gina had convinced him she’d take every safety precaution, so even if there was something faulty with the electrics she wouldn’t be hurt; only after a long and insistent discussion about that on both sides did he relinquish his demand to go to the grid with her. Instead, he’d been shown backstage and given a weird costume to change into. He hadn’t caught a glimpse of the demon puppet, which was fine with him. Demon sounded too close to monster for his taste. With two minutes to go before the show resumed, and very few after that before he’d have to pretend to be some sort of otherworldly thing, he felt horribly anxious.

The costume consisted of layers of ripped and shredded cloth dyed gray and blue which covered his arms, his torso, flapping and fluttering around his bare legs (he’d refused to go without shorts, though). There was also a sort of horned cap of similar straggling shreds which one of the prop people had hurriedly pinned together, with an elastic strap under his chin to hold it on. Newsie felt like the ghost of birthday parties past. Provided, of course, that they’d been really, really awful birthday parties. His seventh, for example. Pushing the image of being smashed face-first into his own cake out of his mind angrily, Newsie tried to focus on the directions he’d been given. Lights down, I move over to that platform and get ready to stand up and do the arm-waving thing; then down, then hurry to the next platform and do it again, then down, then up from under that hole… It all seemed fairly complicated, and he hoped the young man herding him around knew what he was doing. He hoped he wouldn’t get it wrong. His anxiety increased a hundredfold when the young man (Newsie thought his name was Jimmy) suddenly removed Newsie’s glasses.

“No! I can’t see without those!” Newsie protested, but Jimmy tucked them into his own shirt pocket.

“I’ll keep ‘em safe for you. You can’t wear ‘em onstage! Now come on, we need to get you into place,” the assistant said, pushing Newsie toward the curtains which masked the backstage area from the larger open space of the stage floor. Newsie heard the dark, moody music swell and fade overhead, and then the lights rapidly dimmed almost to total blackness. “Demon moving,” Jimmy whispered over his portable headset, and nudged Newsie along behind the masking. Newsie tried to step carefully, deeply unhappy about not being able to see anything, but the hand on his back was insistent. Finally he was held still by one shoulder. He squinted back, and saw the assistant gesturing at a platform just above Newsie’s head. That must be the first stand for this nonsense. How was he even supposed to get up there? Jimmy nudged his shoulder again, pointing out a small stepladder. Cautiously Newsie climbed onto it, keeping his head down. This was insane. He took a deep breath. For Gina. He could do this for her.

He waited tensely, listening as onstage the witches chanted: “Double, double, toil and trouble! Fire burn and cauldron bubble!” With a start, he realized this was the scary scene Gina had pulled him into her lap for. Macbeth arrived, and demanded answers; they called the first spirit forth. Jimmy pointed at Newsie; a fan came on somewhere behind him, and a soft, spooky light rippled down. Newsie stood up, staring out at blurred figures barely visible in the low light of the scene, reminding himself to hold his arms up and sway. He almost jumped when an actor right below him called out in a deep, rough voice which completely belied the languid swaying Newsie was trying to do: “Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth! Beware MacDuff! Beware the Thane of Fife! Dismiss me – enough!”

Newsie ducked, quickly scrambling down the ladder, starting to pant in his hurry and nervousness. He was guided fast up the stepladder to a second platform, and the performance repeated for the second summoned spirit. Down again, and as he was rushed to the hidden hole which would enable him to pop up right in front of the startled Macbeth, Newsie hit his head on the underside of the heavy wooden frame of the surrounding platform. He bit his lip, trying not to cry out, at once pained and angry. Jimmy urged him up. Feeling tears at the corners of his eyes, and an immediate ache on the top of his head, Newsie stood up through the hole and did the slow wavy movement again, although he felt as though he was about to collapse, dizzy and unable to focus. When he was allowed to drop down, his part finally done, Newsie pushed away the arm of the assistant and just sat down under the platform for a minute. Jimmy patted his shoulder, apparently oblivious to his injury, and handed him his glasses before hurrying off.

The Newsman sat motionless, feeling angry and ridiculous in this stupid costume, holding his head. When he felt he could stand without being woozy, he put his glasses on and carefully crept along the edge of the stage to the masking curtains, and then backstage. The actor who’d been voicing the demons touched his shoulder briefly before heading onstage to do some other small part: “Hey, nice drowning dance there. Looked good.” Newsie was too exhausted and dispirited to reply.

He wanted to get out of this thing immediately. He wanted to get back up to Gina, and sit still until the show was over, and then go home. He wanted to crawl into bed with her, and feel her arms around him, and simply rest, and feel safe again…to feel appreciated. People were dashing around, getting ready for the next scene. Newsie wasn’t sure which direction the men’s dressing room was in the darkness. As he paused, trying to peer backstage -- just a crowded space between the stage area and the door somewhere back there for the green room -- he heard an actor onstage promising someone her husband was acting rightly. An image of the same scene from the film came to him, and he turned, listening.

The conciliatory Thane of Ross was musing aloud to Lady MacDuff. “I dare not speak much further… Cruel are the times, when we are traitors and do not know ourselves,”the character said softly, and Newsie stood motionless, the words striking some deep chord; “When we hold rumor from what we fear, yet know not what we fear, but float upon a wild and violent sea…”

Traitors, and do not know ourselves…why did that seem troubling to him? He’d never betrayed anyone! He’d been loyal, always, whether to his mother, to his jobs, to his friends…his friends… Newsie gulped. Did he even have any friends? Had they ever even been his friends? Certainly they wouldn’t be now! Not after today! Not after he’d…he’d…

Honeydew, looking sadly at him: “I’m afraid you are…it’s dependent on your subconscious fears…” “We know not what we fear, but float upon a wild and violent sea…” Whirlpools, violently dragging it all down: his friends, his work, his life. Newsie choked, trembling, staring out at the stage, just able from this angle to see the harried Ross taking his leave of Lady MacDuff, and the arrival of Macbeth’s soldiers, and the slaughter of the innocent family: this production showed one single knife slice across a child’s throat, and a spurt of blood, and the lights fell dark. Frightened, Newsie backed away, clutching one of the black curtains. It was fake, he knew it was fake, and yet it disturbed him deeply. Gina saw him in the character of Ross. The Thane of Ross bears bad news, and immediately after, the murders occur. Ross didn’t urge the family to flee; a friendly soldier did that. Newsie knew that soon, Ross would bear the news of the tragedy to MacDuff. Not the cause of it…but might’ve prevented it, and did nothing…

What if he hadn’t read the story about the tornado? What if he’d taken one look at that bizarre story about words vanishing, and dismissed it? What if he hadn’t chased Scribbler down in the theatre? It would still be standing, undamaged, and he’d still have a job, and no one would be furious and disgusted with him.

Newsie felt tears running down his face, but could only hold tight to the curtain, immobile, stunned. The whirlpools had disappeared as soon as Gonzo had knocked him out. Honeydew had been right. Newsie was the cause of it. Weird generator or not, nothing would have happened if he hadn’t been there.

It really was all his fault.

The actors murmured uncertainly; something was flickering brightly overhead. Newsie looked up quickly and saw one of the lighting instruments giving off a shower of white sparks. It was directly above him, hung at the far edge of the stage area. Frightened, he stepped back just as the instrument caught fire. Jimmy hurried over, looking up, reporting to Kayla in the booth: “I see it! I don’t know, but it’s on fire now! You guys better put it out fast before it sets off the sprinklers!”

Newsie groaned, staring up at the small fire. This was his fault! He must have some kind of energy around him, setting off bad things, just like Honeydew had claimed! It’s true, it’s true, it’s all your fault! his mind screamed at him. Above, he heard soft clanking sounds as someone ran toward the fire on the catwalks. He saw Gina hurrying to put out the flames, a small extinguisher in hand. I’m a jinx, I’m cursed, all I do is bring horrible things down on everyone! Newsie gulped, shaking his head, but unable to deny what he knew now was the awful truth. “Gina,” he whispered, staring up at her. He shouldn’t even be here! He was dangerous, he was cursed, it was only a matter of time before he hurt her…

At that thought, the Newsman sobbed aloud in anguish, unable to bear it.

Gina shrieked, grabbing wildly at the catwalk rail, the extinguisher falling to the stage floor loudly as the section of metal grating she stood on suddenly shook and the support bars broke away from the ceiling.

“No!” Newsie shouted, running underneath the catwalk. Gina’s injured hands didn’t have the strength in them to hold her; she fell. He threw himself beneath her, the breath knocked from his body when she hit. The catwalk section swung crazily above, hanging on by one support pole to the roof girders, the metal groaning deeply. People began shouting. Coughing, Newsie struggled to pull himself out from under Gina, frantic to check her, to get her away from the danger. She was unconscious. He had no way of knowing if any bones were broken. Crying, he put his ear to her breast; her heart still beat. She made a soft, painful sound. The six-foot section of grating swaying above like a drowned thing in a strong current moaned loudly as if in response. Then something cracked. The Newsman looked up to see one more deadly thing falling straight at him. Straight for Gina. With a scream, he threw himself over her head.

The last thing he felt was the impact of eighty or so pounds of steel and aluminum plunging from twenty-five feet up, crushing him on top of his first and only lover. He didn’t even have time to think it was better him than her, instantly sent into black unconsciousness.

 

[The Count]

Three chapters... One for each day I've been gone. Thank you so much for keeping this story alive. Now please post more as we all need to know what happened to the hapless reporter and his gypsy woman.