Part Five
The lights swirled wildly, the music flubbered to a wet-sounding crescendo of tubas and gargling octopi, and Snookie yelled out the intro: “Want a tremulous trout? How about a splendiferous salmon, or a charming char? These and more could be yours if you’re picked to play – You Win a Fish!”
The audience slapped their fins, tentacles, and tails loudly against their benches or each other as the greenish studio lights brightened and the smiling, jovial host paddled the inflatable boat into the center of the gigantic holding tank. Rumor held the network had purchased the eleventy-thousand-gallon tank from a defunct Octo-World sea life park, but Snookie was positive he’d never seen any branch of Octo-World which had anything comparable to this. At least he didn’t have to get wet. He tossed his tiny anchor overboard with a splash to keep himself roughly in the center of the tank and waved to the audience filling the half-submerged bleachers on three sides. “Hey! Are you ready to play?”
The squid, octopi, sharks, and unidentifiable deep-water predators all gurbled enthusiastically at him. “All right then! Let’s bring out our current champion! With a five-week winning streak totaling three hundred and twenty-two fish,” he paused a moment for the cheering and applause, “heeeeeere’s Goompah Gobrobbler!” As the portly Great White shark lumbered into the tank, doing fin-pumps for his cheering fans and showing every one of his five hundred reticulated teeth, Snookie continued, not even needing his waterproofed cue card to recite the shark’s accomplishments after five weeks of cringing away from him every workday: “As you all know, Goompah is a six-year-old resident of the Great Barrier Reef who arrived at our studio by hitching a lift on the back of a nuclear submarine – with his teeth!” Too bad they didn’t assume he was another sub and fire a warning torpedo at him, Snookie thought. “He’s proven himself quite the fish professor around here, he weighs four hundred and twenty-two pounds soaking wet” (audience laughter) “and ladies, he’s single! Now, let’s meet our challenger today!” Snookie glanced at the cue card, his brows briefly creasing as he realized the contender wasn’t another shark, polar bear, alligator, or Marianas Trench Squid. “O-kay! Well, here’s a surprise! Our contestant today is a Muppet! He has a degree in plumbing technology from Cal State, he likes peanut butter and caviar – together, and he says he’s never met a fish he didn’t like! Let’s give it up for…Lew Zealand!”
“Ooookaaay! Wuh-huh-huh! Hi, Snookie! Wow, this is exciting!” A rounded man with wide fat bobble-eyes and a fluted collar swam out into the tank. He waved at the crowd while treading water. “Hi, everybody!”
Goompah the shark snarled, but Snookie held up a hand. “Hey, now! No eating until the game is over or you forfeit all your winnings so far! Heh heh!” Deeply relieved when the shark decided to obey the rules, Snookie checked to make sure Lew was headed for his side of the tank while the shark cruised on the opposite side. “Everybody in place? Fan-tastic! Let’s play!”
The audience hushed. The strobes sparkled in sequence over the water, and the computer-controlled lights all swung down and inward at once to focus on Snookie, Goompah, and Lew, the rest of the tank dark. “All right players, your first question, for one brown trout minnow, is: name the Mesopotamian fish god whose followers sometimes threw sacrifices into the sea!”
Both players shook their cuttlefish; both cuttlefish pulsed vibrant electric blue, but Lew’s was a split second quicker, and Snookie called on him. “Well, that’s an easy one! Dagon!”
“Correct! Next question, for one farm-raised catfish: what prehistoric fish was confirmed not extinct in the 1930s?”
Again, Lew beat Goompah to the buzzer…so to speak; the cuttlefish didn’t actually buzz. Snookie had always felt the show would make more sense if they did. Well…as much sense as something this bizarre could make, at least. “Ah, that would be the coelacanth, Snookie!”
“Correct again!” Snookie proclaimed, as the scoring basket above Lew’s head now had two flopping fish dripping down on the delighted contestant. Goompah shook his cuttlefish, which turned three different shades in protest.
“Hey, I don’t think my buzzer is working!” the shark growled. A technician in a wetsuit hurriedly swam over and pulled the tentacles, squeezed its eyeballs, tickled its beak, and finally handed it back to the shark.
“Well, the tech guys say it’s working fine, Goompah, so why don’t we continue the game?” Snookie asked, growing a little nervous. “The third question, for one fat blowfish: what river is the black-skirt tetra found in?”
Determinedly the shark slammed his cuttlefish into the wall of the tank, making it fluoresce brighter than Lew’s. Snookie looked at him expectantly. “The Chattahoochee!” the shark shouted.
“Uh – no! Lew, do you have the answer?” Snookie asked, wincing as the shark’s beady black eyes widened in disbelief.
Lew laughed. “Huh-huh! That’s a trick question, Snookie! All tetras come from the Amazon or one of its branch rivers!”
“Correct! So as we head to the break, that’s three fish for challenger Lew Zealand, and one strike for reigning champion Goompah Gobrobbler! Stay with us for this unexpected heat on You Win a Fish!” The cameras went to commercial standby, and Snookie nervously sleeked his hair down with one hand. Half the audience was rooting loudly for the shark; the other half booed Lew, but the clueless Muppet only smiled and waved at them. Oh, frog. What is this guy doing? Doesn’t he know after the first bite the blood in the water will draw every shark in the northern Atlantic? He wished he could say something to Zealand, but interfering with either of the players was grounds for immediate devourment if he was caught. The scaly orange monster who directed this show snapped his finny fingers, getting Snookie’s attention; commercial almost over. Snookie took a deep breath and presented his widest smile for the camera. “O-kay! So, let’s find out a little more about our players! Lew, it says here that you throw fish?”
“Oh, not just any fish, Snookie! I throw boomerang fish! You see, I throw the fish away…” He produced a very smelly dead fish from inside his strange Elizabethan doublet and threw it at Snookie; the host ducked, and the fish bounced off Goompah’s nose before flying back to Lew. “Heh-heh-heh! And it comes back to me!”
“Weh-heh-ellll, that certainly is an interesting hobby, Lew! Now, Goompah –“
“Oh, it’s not a hobby, Snookie! I do it for a living!”
Snookie paused, dubious. “You actually make money at that?”
“Well…not so far, but—“
“So, Goompah! I understand you have a special fan in the studio today?” Snookie continued with the fluff questions, the shark’s scowl an incentive to move things along.
Goompah nodded, pointing with one sharp fin at a small blue shark bobbing in the front row of the audience. “That’s right, Snookie. Smitty here is a very special young shark. Y’see, Smitty was born with only one set of teeth.” A low murmur of pity ran through the assembled sea creatures. Goompah nodded firmly. “He swam all the way here with his family to see me compete in person after watching me on the show! I was so inspired by his story that I’m gonna give half my winnings today to the Make-a-Fang Foundation, which helps kids like Smitty catch fat boaters and other easy-to-digest prey!”
“Ooo-kay,” Snookie responded, keeping the smile frozen on his lips, though he shuddered inside. “Are you both ready to play?”
“Wuh-huh-huh! Sure!”
“Bring it.”
“Let’s play!” Again, a hush fell with the darkness around the ring of the tank. “Gentlemen, your next question, with a red snapper on the line: what fictional pirate named his ship after an ancient denizen of the deepwater with a hard, circular shell?”
Lew won the buzzer. “That would be Captain Nemo!”
“Correct! Next question –“
“A nautilus isn’t really a fish,” Goompah objected. “Is that question fair?”
Snookie glanced past the tank wall to the control booth. He saw the director nodding his orange, glistening head, gills flexing. “I’m sorry, but yes, that does fall within the range of questions allowed! Moving on, fellas: in which waters can you locate the Portuguese Man-o’War?”
Goompah slammed his cuttlefish nearly insensible to win the tossup. “Indian Ocean!”
Snookie tried to speak as quickly as possible in the hope it might take the shark longer to react: “No I’m sorry Lew do you know the correct answer?”
“Of course! Those are found mostly in the Gulf of Mexico!”
“That’s right! A flat sunfish for Lew and a second strike for Goompah on that one! Uh-oh, our shark champion is dangerously close to striking out of the game! And we’ll be right back.” Snookie flinched when a large fin suddenly flashed in front of him and the shark reared up next to his tiny rubber boat. “Uh, heh-heh, Goompah, buddy! You know the rules say you have to stay in your corner until the game is settled!”
“I’m winning this game, you scrawny plaid appetizer. Get that?” the shark snarled.
“Hey, sharkie! Wanna see my boomerang yellow-and-black mackerel? Go get ‘em, Prince Charlie!”
Snookie ducked again when a very floppy fish sailed low across the tank. The shark reached up with giant teeth, snapping once. “Heyyy! That was my mackerel!” Lew protested.
“Aaaand we’re back! In case you’re just tuning in, there seems to be an upset in the making –“
“You could say I’m upset, yeah!” Goompah shouted. Snookie did his best to keep smiling, laughing off the implicit threat for the camera’s benefit.
“Now, now, Goompah! Let’s get on with the game, shall we? Next question, for the staggering amount of one kingfish,” Snookie said, going marginally slower so the lights could dim and the enormous, struggling, sail-finned trophy fish could be swung into position over the tank for everyone to see, “is…what country is depleting the Pacific shark population for a tasty soup?”
“What!” Goompah yelled. “Are you kidding me?”
Lew buzzed his cuttlefish. “That would be Japan, Snookie!”
“Right you are! And Goompah, please remember if you have the answer, you must use your buzzer to –“
“That is an insult! You’re deliberately offending me! I am so degraded!” Goompah yelled, charging the rubber boat. With a shriek, Snookie jumped straight up, his shoes kicking the angry shark in the nose as those powerful jaws snapped shut right where he’d been; the boat deflated with a loud pop and hiss. “You’ff piffed off da wong fark! Come back heuh!” Goompah bellowed around the rubber now shredding all over his teeth. Snookie scrambled over the shark’s slippery head, desperately diving and winding up involuntarily crowd-surfing over the yelling, roiling audience.
“Hey, Snookie! I’ll throw you a fish! You catch it and it’ll bring you back here!” Lew called out, tossing fish after fish at the host, although most of them were caught and eaten by the audience, and one slapped Snookie square in the nose.
Carl the Big Mean Chef stormed into the control booth. “Hey! What’s goin’ on here? That was a stupid question! Who writes this stuff?”
Beautiful Day Monster chortled, halfway raising a hand. Carl scowled. “Figures! Lemme guess – you’ve entered the cookoff too?” B.D. shrugged, grinning. “Well go get him outta there! He’s my prime ingredient! Get that shark off him!”
Some growling and posturing ensued, but in the end, B.D. waded into the pool and grudgingly extricated the terrified, ragged-clothed host from the jaws of death before he could become Goompah’s donation to Make-a-Fang.
--------------------------
“Hey, uh, Frog of my Heart,” Fozzie began tentatively. Kermit gave him a curious look, reminding himself not to smile; Fozzie usually only wrung his hat like that when what he was about to say or do would prove unintentionally comic.
“What is it, Fozzie?”
“Um, I know you and Miss Piggy are, uh, busy and everything, but, um…well I was wondering if you could…I mean, if you’re not busy…”
“Fozzie, spit it out! What is it?”
“Oh, right! Right! Uh…” The bear gulped, and asked in a shaky voice, “Could you come to my Ma’s Halloween party?”
Kermit took an extra beat to allow that to sink in. “Your mother’s throwing a party? When is it?” And why is Fozzie acting so nervous about it? Despite having to keep half his attention on the usual backstage pre-show chaos, Kermit was intrigued.
“It’s next week. Saturday da twenty-second. At her farm.” He stared so earnestly at the frog that Kermit became suspicious. “Do you…do you think you guys can come?”
“I’ll check, Fozzie.”
“Okay,” the bear mumbled, turning to go.
“Fozzie – why is this such a worrisome thing?”
“Who said I’m worried?”
“Fozzie,” Kermit said, growing impatient. He could hear Animal shouting Pen-guin! Pen-guin! somewhere below in the green room, and hesitated to even visualize what that could be all about.
Fozzie groaned all in a rush: “Kerrrmiiiit…it’s just dat Ma wants me to come up dere and see Dora and I didn’t think I could do it all by myself so could you please just come to da party? Pleeeeease?”
Kermit frowned. “Dora? I thought that was a kids’ show.”
“No, no, no, not dat Dora! Dora Bruin! She and I kinda grew up together, and…and da last time I saw her I made a total fool of myself with all dat Wormwood Soames stuff, and…and…” Desperately he grabbed Kermit’s arm. “Look, Frog, can you just say yes you’ll be dere?”
Kermit sighed. “Fine. As long as it doesn’t interfere with location scouting, yes, I’ll be there. Piggy too.”
“Oh thank you Kermit! Thankyouthankyou—“
“Okay, sheesh,” Kermit said, shaking free of the bear hug to go yell at the scientists inexplicably dragging a llama through the wings. “Bunsen! What have I told you guys about bringing walking rugs in here!”
Elated, Fozzie stopped the janitor as he ambled by, mop in hand. “Oh hey, hey Beauregard! Wanna come to a Halloween party? It’s gonna be at my Ma’s farm a week from Saturday!”
Beau blinked slowly. “Me? A party?”
“Yeah! It’s gonna be great! There’ll be pumpkin-picking, and apple-bobbing, and everyone can wear a costume! Whaddaya say?”
“Uh, I don’t know, Fozzie,” Beau mused. “I don’t think I even have a pumpkin pick.” He brightened. “Would an ice-pick do?” He frowned again. “But what will I use for the apples?”
“Just be there! Saturday after this one! Okay?” Fozzie hurried to a group of chickens preening atop a stack of crates, waiting for their opening number, a feather-fan dance to the tune of “Anything Goes.” “Hey, you chickens! Wanna come to a party?”
“Dat’s so sweet of him to toot his ma’s horn,” Johnny Fiama murmured respectfully. “Hey Sal. Make a note. We’ll need five dozen pumpkin cannolis, Sattiday after next.” He shot the ape a significant look. “Make sure it’s Ma’s recipe!”
“Uh, sure t’ing, Johnny,” Sal agreed at once, though he immediately remembered all the other preparations for Johnny’s own Halloween bash he was supposed to be coordinating already. “So dat would be anuddah five dozen? ‘Cause you already ordered dat many for your party on da same night…”
“Whaddayou now, an accountant? Eh, a dozen here, half a dozen dere, who cares? Commie see, commie saw, like dey say, ya know? Just make it happen, Sal!”
“Uh…but your party is da same night, Johnny…you want we should invite Fozzie, like, as a return gesture?”
“Whaddayou, nuts? My party’s only for people in show biz! I can’t have bears droppin’ in!” Johnny lowered his voice, leaning close to his trusty flunky. “Besides…I’m tryin’ ta get dat Cal-bert guy to interview me on his show, and he’s on my guest list, capiche? You know how he is about bears.”
Camilla clucked affirmatively at Fozzie, and he bounded off to the next Muppet in his line of sight, apparently frantic to get everyone possible involved. The chicken smoothed down her lovely wings with her beak, pleased by the idea of an old-fashioned autumn harvest theme for the party; she’d offered to bring along real candied corn. She never spoke of her chickhood to anyone but Gonzo, but the truth was, she did sometimes look back upon those innocent farm days with nostalgia. She’d immediately liked the practical Emily Bear when they’d met years ago at a Christmas celebration at the farmhouse, and seeing the country in all its autumn splendor appealed strongly to her as well. She’d suggested a bonfire to Fozzie, and he’d agreed enthusiastically, perhaps forgetting the necessity of keeping certain members of the Muppet company away from large open flames… The chicken’s glance slid speculatively over to Beaker, who was meeping in loud protest and growing panic when the llama refused to stop chewing his hair.
The Newsman was surprised when the bear suddenly jumped in front of him. “Newsie! Hey Newsie! Are you free Saturday after this one?”
“Er…” A quick, confused review of his mental calendar didn’t bring up any conflicts, but he was wary about agreeing to anything around here without further investigation. “I’m not sure. Why?”
“Oh! See, my Ma is throwing a Halloween party, and I want everyone to come! Uh, and…and…” The bear appeared sheepish. “Uh, can you bring Gina?”
Pleased but still cautious, Newsie gave him a careful nod. “Uh, I’m not sure if she’s scheduled at her theatre that night, but I’ll ask…”
“Oh great! Uh – uh – and can you, um…can you ask her to be da entertainment?”
“What?”
“Well, um, I saw her out front earlier, doing dem card tricks…I asked her if she’d teach ‘em to me and she said it was a special Gypsy card trick thing. So, uh, could she bring dose cards to da party?”
The Newsman started to smile, then saw how absolutely in earnest the bear was, and suppressed it. “Well, er, you realize I can’t speak for her, Fozzie. But yes, I think she’d be happy to attend as long as she doesn’t have a schedule conflict. Count us both in.”
Fozzie gave him a quizzical look. “You can’t speak for her? I thought married people could do dat!”
“Shhhhh!” Newsie clamped a hand over the bear’s mouth, glancing around worriedly, but then relaxed; Gina had left the backstage area a few minutes ago and should be sitting out in the house by now to watch the show, as she had almost every night since the two of them had started dating earlier this year. “Don’t ever, ever,” he cautioned Fozzie, “EVER use that word around her!”
“But I thought – she was wearing dat ring you gave her –“
“It’s a matter of semantics,” Newsie explained, sighing. “Yes, as far as I know we’ll be happy to come to the party, Fozzie. Sorry…I need to get ready…” Bewildered, Fozzie nodded, and with a nod back, the Newsman hurried downstairs to his dressing-room.
Fozzie scratched his head. “Semantics,” he repeated, confused. “Huh…someone should tell him not all of us have learned Gypsy language like him…”
“I speak Urdu, Bawkbawk, and a little Yiddish,” Gonzo commented, overhearing him. “But I think that was more the language of compromise than anything else.”
“Oh, hi, Gonzo! Hey, my Ma is throwing a party…”
Camilla noticed Fozzie chatting up Gonzo. She felt deeply regretful about having to turn down her darling Whatever’s latest crazy attempt at stardom…especially when he looked so smart in that fall-colored outfit. She knew exactly what snuggling against that soft sweater would feel like… A pang of loneliness caught her by surprise. She envisioned Gonzo holding her tight next to a smoky bonfire, sharing a cup of fresh cider, gazing up at the stars on a crisp rural night… Slowly, she walked over to where the stylish but overeager daredevil was listening to Fozzie expounding the attractions of a celebration in the countryside.
“So dress up as whatever you want, and come join us! It’ll be a bla…” Fozzie caught himself in time, disappointing Crazy Harry, whom he caught listening in over the balcony. “Uh…it’ll be great! And Ma would love ta see you again!”
“Eh…I dunno, Fozzie. I mean, sure, it sounds wonderful…but I’m auditioning for a new show tomorrow, and I’m sure to get the part, and I don’t know when the show will be shooting!”
“Oh,” Fozzie said, taken aback. “A…a new show? You mean like…not dis one?”
Gonzo sighed. “Well…you know I love you guys, Fozzie. You’re family! But…but I need room to grow as an artist, and, well…this other show wants insanely dangerous stunts! I mean, it’s exactly what I’ve always dreamed of!” He patted the crestfallen bear on the arm. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be there if I can! Hey, who would turn down the chance to walk through a bonfire in their bare feet, right?”
“Uh…okay,” Fozzie said.
Camilla stopped. Her feathers drooped a moment. Then she turned around, straightened her neck up, and trotted back to the other girls fussing with their beaded costumes before Gonzo could notice her. Sighing inwardly, she cast an unhappy look at the daydreaming daredevil as he hustled down to the canteen, then responded to a clucked question from one of the other hens, keeping her tone light, pretending she didn’t mind at all that Gonzo was choosing a new act over what he might have held onto here.
She kept her head high, her demeanor professional, when the chickens danced out onstage, and her voice didn’t waver one bit as she took up the song: “Bawk bu-gawk buh-bawk-bawk bok bok buk bawk buk…buk-kawk-kaw baaawwwk!”
Not one little bit.
Beau stuck a large spike with a handle in front of a startled Fozzie. “Do you think this will work for the pumpkins? I found a pickaxe too…”
----------------------------
Carl leaned over the shorter monster, his enormous pink nose wrinkling in distaste. “Well, he can do the intro voiceover thingy later when I’m done! I got dibs!”
“Dibs! When did you call dibs? He’s scheduled to be here for this thing right now!”
Snookie cautiously poked his head into the sound booth. “Uh…heh heh…I thought I was supposed to be doing a voiceover for…” He glanced at the paper in his hand, and adjusted his grey tie nervously. “Uh, American Sidle – the hit show where everybody slinks sideways for cash?” he read the show’s promo blurb aloud. Oh, frog. Am I at the wrong soundstage? The monster crew tended not to be understanding about schedule confusion, even though they frequently changed details at the last minute, and finding his way around this warren of studios and show sets was worse than navigating the Atlanta airport during the holidays.
Carl shoved the smaller monster, a greenish frackle, roughly aside, squashing its mouth all the way up to its furry ears against the sound mixing board in the cramped booth, which settled the argument. The Big Mean Chef grabbed Snookie by the collar of his jacket, grinning toothlessly at him. “Not right now you’re not! I have a cooking contest to win, and I need a taste test!”
“You…you want me to taste something for your cooking contest?” Snookie wondered, utterly floored. Oh heck no, that can’t be good. What is it, eels flambé again? Maybe bugs in a light cream sauce? He shivered, immediately gagging.
Carl chortled, dragging him down the hallway. “Don’t be silly! I need to taste-test you! Now, do you think you’d go better with more cumin, or more paprika? I can’t decide.”
“Eeegh!” Snookie tried to wriggle out of his jacket, but Carl grabbed his arm as well, propelling him unwillingly toward the cooking studio. Another conflict awaited the gourmand monster, however. Beautiful Day yanked open the door just as Carl was reaching for the knob, having tucked Snookie’s head under his hairy arm so the host wouldn’t escape.
“Hey! No fair trying to peek at my recipe!” Carl snarled.
“Who says I care about your stupid loser barbeque? I’m gonna win it with my triple-slathered slime-glazed walrus!” B.D. claimed, holding up a quite slimy Fawningham Offawump. Snookie was gasping too hard to even appreciate his threat to the annoying walrus had come true.
“Whatever! But get outta that studio! I have it reserved from six to eight!”
“Oh yeah? Says who?”
“Says so right there!” Carl pointed to the room’s signup sheet, posted clearly on the dreary, dripping wall next to the door.
B.D. promptly ate the sheet. “Bwah hah hah! Now scram! I gotta practice my presentation for the judges!”
Incensed, Carl the Big Mean Diva roused himself from a growl to a howl: “Your presentation? As if! You’ll be choking on your own fur when the judges taste this spicy morsel, you fat slob! You couldn’t cook your way out of a tinfoil drainpipe!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah!”
Monster disagreements usually involved a great deal of posturing and threats, very seldom actual clawing, biting, or swallowing one’s opponent whole – at least, not when the monsters were more or less evenly matched. It then became an issue of bravado, Snookie had observed, and the best response was always to sneak away unseen if he could. Carl’s grip on him had indeed loosened a little, and if this argument over use of the fully-equipped, gas-fired, soundproofed-against-screaming-main-dishes studio continued much longer, Snookie had no doubt he and the walrus would be ignored while the monsters squared off and tried to force the other one to back down. However, something they kept repeating troubled him deeply enough he finally croaked out, “Uh, guys? Guys!”
Surprised an entrée would interrupt, both monsters stared at him. “What?” Carl grumped.
Fawningham was staring round-eyed at Snookie in pure shock. Snookie swallowed down a flash of fear, and asked, “Uh…you keep using the word judges, plural…how…how exactly is that going to work? I mean, heh heh, I thought you guys didn’t like to share!” The idea of being included in a cooking contest was horrible enough, but he had been devoured whole by several of these numbskulls before; often enough to be able to close his eyes, hold his breath, and go to his happy place while enduring the stink of monster digestive tracts. But being eaten multiple times? No, he didn’t think he could handle that. Not more than one trip through the alimentary canal, thank you…not to mention the intestines…
Carl actually gave him a straight answer. “Well, it wouldn’t be a very fair contest if there was only one judge, now would it? Any idiot can buy off one other monster!”
“The judges all hate each other,” B.D. chipped in. “So it’ll be totally fair…and of course that means my dish will win!”
“All? Wha---what do you mean all? How – how many times are they going to…to…” Snookie couldn’t finish the question, shuddering.
Carl snorted. “Once each! Well, okay, they each get a piece, of course! Duh! Don’t you ever watch Iron Chef?”
“A piece?” Panicking, Snookie struggled, but Carl clenched his arm around the host’s neck. Snookie choked out, “You…you can’t tear me in pieces! That goes against my contract!”
“Does not! I’ve read your contract!” Carl the Big Mean Lawyer produced a briefcase out of some huge hidden pocket of fur, flipping it roughly open and yanking a long roll of paper from it, which he snapped in Snookie’s face. “See? Right there it says, ‘The Host may be subjected to any action required for any show by any monster, pursuant to article X.13’!”
“You can’t tear me up!” Snookie gasped, fighting as hard as he could, but the headlock didn’t budge an inch.
“Maybe you better ask the boss,” B.D. muttered, looking a little doubtful.
“I’m not bothering the boss with this!” Carl growled, but then perked up. “Hey! Get the vet down here! Vet! One’a the critters is whining! Hey vet!” he bellowed.
Within a few seconds, a tall Muppet in a stained lab coat bounded into the corridor, irritably pushing a pair of large goggles up his long forehead. “What? What? Who called?”
“Hey, Doc. This troublemaker says we can’t rip him in pieces for our cooking contest,” Carl snorted, shaking Snookie like a ragdoll.
The vet looked Snookie over dismissively. “So? Call a lawyer! Not my problem!”
Carl rolled his eyes. “Well, look, we do need him for other stuff. He’s…” Carl leaned over to whisper roughly, “He’s the boss’ favorite, so we can’t actually turn him into pulled jerky if it’s gonna ruin his career.”
“Hmm, I see your problem,” the vet said. Thoughtfully he tugged Snookie’s hands, pulled his ears, and flopped one of Snookie’s legs up and down while the show host stared at him in shock.
“Hey, you’re…you’re a Muppet!” Snookie gurgled around the headlock, recognizing the strange doctor from the KMUP station both had worked for years ago.
The vet sniffed. “Well, isn’t he the obvious one!” He waved his hands in a shooing motion at Carl. “Yes, yes, you can rip him limb from limb if you want, he’ll be fine! I can always stitch him back up good as new! Well, almost. Probably. I think.”
Fawningham groaned and drooped in a faint, irritating B.D.
“No! No! I will not be fine! NO!” Snookie shouted. “No! If you do this, I’ll – I’ll – I’ll rig every game! I’ll cheat every contest! I’ll – I’ll –“ Desperate to find some kind of trump card, he fortunately thought of one thing he knew they’d hate. “I’ll make you eat me every show!” When Carl stared at him, one tooth sticking up from his lower jaw in utter bewilderment, Snookie continued breathlessly, “Every show! In a week it’ll be old shtick! Boring! Ratings will plummet like the production standards around here!” Panting in triumph, he stared wide-eyed up at the monsters. “You think the boss will like that? Huh? Ratings dropping? Think he’ll be happy with you guys?”
Uncomfortably, Carl shifted from one enormous green foot to the other. B.D. shook his head, muttering curses. The vet chuckled. “Well! Looks like you don’t need me after all! It’s not as though I was in the middle of anything important, like, oh, I don’t know…splicing tomatoes with piranha glands?” He glared at the monsters. “Next time, figure it out yourselves! I have work to do!”
As the tall, strangely floppy-limbed Muppet sauntered smugly off, B.D. yelled after him, “You’re only allowed lab space ‘cause you work for the boss, same as us, stringy-hair!”
“Ah, forget him,” Carl grumbled. He shoved past B.D. into the cooking studio, hauling a weak-kneed Snookie after him. “Now butt out, Ugly Day! I got a dry rub to perfect!”
“Dry rubs are so last year!” B.D. rumbled. “Who’s gonna tell them we can only have one judge?”
“You are! I’m busy!” Carl snapped, slamming the door in the other monster’s face. B.D. growled and grunted, but dragged the unconscious walrus off by the tail to take the unhappy news to the producers. Snookie could only catch his breath, his heart still pounding and his head still reeling, when Carl released him long enough to fire up the ten-yard-burner gas grill.
Oh frog. Oh frog. Shivering all over at how close he’d come to being an unwilling yellow felt pull-apart bread roll, Snookie clung to the prep counter’s edge, too shaky to move. He looked up worriedly when Carl turned around and grinned at him.
“Hi! For my recipe, I’d like to draw on the rich post-nuclear monster cuisine tradition, but with a twist! First, we coat the foam all over in my special secret spices…”
Snookie had just enough presence of mind to shut his eyes before the giant-sized sack of chili powder, cumin, parsley, and fine-ground Belgian cocoa flumphed over him in a cloud of sneeze-inducing dry powder.
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Christmas Music
Macy's Thanksgiving Parade
Jim Henson Idea Man
Back to the Rock Season 2
Bear arrives on Disney+
Sam and Friends Book
He's in what?
Mabel's here?!
You don't suppose Gorgon Heap vill be the judge do you?
Someone say me name?
And as for the daredevil show...well, stay tuned... And I am SO finishing this before Ru does hers. Nyah, nyah, noonan, noonan! Writing more tonight since I have TWO, TWO glorious days off in a row!