So We'll Go No More A-Roving, for Fear of Furry Monsters

[The Count]

Poit!

*Fatatita snatches one of those mice-flavored muffins.
Don't let Rhonda know you actually found some place that makes those.

 

[Ruahnna]

Sleep? To sleep!

*quietly: Sleep. To sleep.
Hey buddy, you mind throwing in an adverb in there somewhere?
To dream!
The impossible dream!
So you're a chicken for not killing your uncle for murdering your dad, there, that's all you had to say!
Oh great, now I'm stuck in MST3K's Hamlet.

Countie--you get points for Hamlet, but a thumb's down for NOT referencing Yorick.

Things I liked, and I might miss some of these nods here and there.
1 Parade of Former Contestants. *Hands out ramchips to every one who passes by.

Um, would those ramchips be made of former contestant, John Lamb?

3 A few words from our judges. Yes, I got that joke. And another ramchip for properly choosing "frabjous".

What about “oddment” and “tweak”? I know you know what I'm talking about....

5 Rosie getting Gonzo to help free Jazmin. And they say chivalry's dead.

It’s not DEAD—it’s just passed out under the table.

6 As for Jazmin's predicament... Channelling your Slave Leia manifestation are you?

Okay, so I’m not the only one who thought that outfit seemed familiar…. And love comes in strange packages, so you never know what will happen!

Now, as to the story…I love the succession of interruptions that keep keeping Rosie from telling Gonzo what he needs to know, but it IS making me bite my nails. I’m ready for Gonzo to come home and sleep in his own, um, featherbed. My guess is he’ll be more than welcome when he does.
I am dreadfully anticipating (or anticipating dreadful things) when the haunting begins in earnest. Here’s hoping that there will be limited damage to Kermit and Piggy and all of the others—I’m not so much worried about the rats. As Rhonda pointed out, they’re survivors!
So much going on and so many things to go wrong. I can’t wait to see what’s going to happen next!

 

[The Count]

Dear Aunt Ru...

1 Failing to mention Yorick? Apparently you failed to read my post all the way to the end as we now have the game of identifying famous dead celebrities or personages by fragmented pieces of their skeletal system, phrased in the form of "Alas, Poor *Insert name*".
2 Sorry... That's supposed to be RAM-chips, the bots favorite snack, earned by good behavior which means they rarely get any. Except for Gypsy.
Could munch down some barbecue-flavored ones about now. Especially to tide over till some good fic gets posted.
3 "Oddment" and "tweak"? Mmm, I'd say "twas brillig" instead.
4 As far as getting Gonzo back into his welcome, er, featherbed... Don't you have some work on that front to do yourself?
5 *Pours vile of poison down Fortinbras' ear after he complains he didn't even get included in the movie. Meh, at least people know who you are, it's not like you're Rosencrats or Gildenstern who get shipped off to England and never even heard of again after that.

 

[newsmanfan]

--------------
Excuse me?? Have you not seen "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead", one of the funniest surrealist plays of all time? (The film was decent too.)

Working on it. Appreciate patience, all!

--------------

 

[The Count]

, to George, you're my patients, but what she wants with you I'll never know.
*Groucho glasses-waggle.

 

[newsmanfan]

Part Forty-Seven

Dr Bunsen Honeydew pottered cheerfully among the server racks, reams of cables, and command center desk with its two monitors and keyboard controls. One computer screen would show commands entered into the intricate system of motorized contraptions, motion sensors, night-vision cameras, and video and audio output channels; the other had nine tiny windows open showing some of the various video feeds throughout the decrepit hotel. “Oh, Beakie, isn’t this wonderful? Here we are, after weeks of hard work and intricate tactile-hypokinesthetic programming, finally at the big night!”

“Mee mee meep might,” Beaker corrected, his eyes flicking from readout to readout as he tested the conductivity of the tiny electrosensitive pads which each participant in the charity walk would be wearing. He wiggled his arms, shook his head, and rubbed his hands together to make each of the dozens of round, sticky sensors on his felt spike a small reading on another monitor.

“Well, yes, the day of the big night, I mean,” Bunsen replied, annoyed. He saw what Beaker was doing, and with a huff corrected him: “Beaker! You’re not going to get an adequate test run like that!”

“Mee mee meep?” Beaker wondered. He tried to point out that each sensor was indeed registering the subtle changes in his electromagnetic field from the physical activity, and even transmitting properly to the receiver, but Bunsen grabbed his arm, steering him toward the open panel-door from the old manager’s office to the front lobby of the hotel.

“Here, why don’t we do a full test run of all the equipment! Each participant tonight will have one of these...” He jammed a small red-hued LED lamp on a headband over Beaker’s fluff of red hair. “And one of these...” He clipped a small wireless mic to Beaker’s shirtcollar; it stuck up high enough to rub the edge of his mouth uncomfortably. “And one of these!” He smacked a glow-in-the-dark panel of fabric with a number painted inside concentric circles right across Beaker’s chest. “There we go! Now you’re ready for a test run!”

“Muh...muh muh meep?”

“Well, we should test each and every little gag we’ve installed, don’t you think? After all, tonight, the whole world will be watching! We wouldn’t want any of our little spooooky pranks to be a whopping dud, now would we?” Bunsen insisted, waggling his fingers again and chuckling. “All right, I’ll stay here and check the readouts to make sure everything is picked up by the sensors, the mics and the cameras!” Beaker stared at him, unhappy with the idea of walking through the whole building; although it was a clear, if chilly, day outside, very little of that light penetrated the walls and boarded-over windows. The interior hallways, in particular, would be pitch-black.

“Meep mee meek mee mee!” he pointed out.

Bunsen snapped his fingers. “Good point, Beakie!” Beaker relaxed a little; in order to test out all the equipment, Bunsen would have to accompany him with another microphone, and they’d – he froze, startled, when the scientist turned back to him with an armful of wireless mics on clips. “Here you go!”

Beaker could only try to stammer a protest while Bunsen quickly fastened the mics all over him; soon a small electronic forest of microphones crowded his shirtcollar and tie, making it almost impossible for Beaker to even open his mouth. “Meef moof?”

“Oh, don’t worry, each of them is on a slightly different and distinct audio channel! You know I always think of every possible contingency so nothing will go wrong!” Bunsen beamed at his stunned assistant. “And here’s an earphone for you, so you can hear my instructions! Off you go, Beakie! Just start out here in the lobby, like the walkers will, and wander around randomly – but try to hit every room. We need to make sure every single trap and trick is working right!”

With a heavy sigh, Beaker trudged out of the command center and into the lobby. He paused, looking around. Bunsen’s voice made him jump. “Testing, testing, can you hear me, Beaker?” With an exasperated look, Beaker turned and nodded at the scientist standing ten feet away in the office. Bunsen smiled. “Wonderful! All right; to replicate the exact conditions for tonight as nearly as possible, I’ll shut myself up in here, and you get started walking around! Remember: every room!” Cheerfully, Bunsen closed the panel in the wall behind the old reception desk, and it was as if Beaker was alone in the hotel. Beaker took a deep breath, looking around glumly. His eyes fixed upon the darkened arched entry to the formal dining room, and he shivered. He craned his head to see the ceiling; nothing moving showed in the reddish light from his headband among the tattered wisps of webbing overhead. Reluctantly Beaker walked across the immense lobby, peering fearfully at every broken chandelier, the paper streamers draped everywhere not lifting his mood in the least.

When he reached the dining room entrance, he paused again, shining his light into the gloom. Round tables and silent chairs sat everywhere, with darkened centerpieces and silverware still laid out for guests among the dust and decay. Beaker took a step inside, another, another...as he passed the first couple of tables, the skulls sitting among the dead flowers and broken candlesticks laughed eerily, their eyes lighting up. “Meef!” Beaker squeaked, jumping again at Bunsen’s chortle through the headset.

“Good, good! That’ll give them a little start, don’t you think? Go on, make sure they’re all working!”

Irritated, Beaker tried to calm himself, and walked all around the room, his fright dying to annoyance as one after another of the motion-sensor skulls lit up and laughed or said boo or some other cheap-scare contrivance. When he’d walked all around the room, Beaker headed for the swinging doors to the kitchen. He stopped at one of the doors, trying to peer through the dusty, round glass porthole set into it, unable to recall what gags they’d wired in here; Bunsen had taken care of this room while Beaker was upstairs. Hesitantly, he pushed on one of the doors. It swung open, but as he crossed the threshold, a pressure-trigger underfoot made the door thwop back, sending him sprawling. “Ooh hoo hoo, yes! Perfect! Was that enough force, do you think, or should we amp it up just a touch? The servo-motor can withstand another ten pounds of pressure from the compressed air pump, I’m sure...” Bunsen mused.

Beaker muttered under his breath about kicking some foot-pounds up someone’s amp, and shoved the other door open to enter the kitchen. He swiveled his head around slowly, the red light sweeping over an enormous dormant grill, rows of dirty steel countertops, and racks of pots and pans. As he cautiously made his way down the first aisle of prep counters, the pots and pans overhead began to quiver, then jangle, then swing wildly. Nervous, Beaker reached up to still them, but before his hand touched them they stopped on their own. Beaker gulped, reminding himself this was all motorized and triggered by his own weight on floor-pads or by motion detectors. Peering closely at the nearest counter, he saw one such detector, and relaxed a little. No ghosts here, he thought, trying to reassure himself. No ghosts, this is all our stuff, all tricks...

“Beaker, you’re supposed to let the swinging-pan gag play out all the way!” Bunsen complained. “It’s supposed to rattle and clang a while until you move away from it! Why did you make it stop? Was the noise too loud?”

Frozen, Beaker stared at the perfectly still pans hanging overhead. “Meef mohh...” he gulped, still muffled by the army of mics. Nervously he hurried past that counter, heading for the grill.

“Oh, goody! The ‘Flaming Pork of Doom’! This is one of my favorites!” Bunsen exclaimed.

“Morf?” Beaker asked. Just then, the grill burst into green flames, and the image of a twisting, struggling, ghostly pig trussed like a roast, with a small skull stuffed in his mouth instead of an apple, appeared atop the metal grates. “Meeee!” Beaker shrieked. He stood there shaking, trying to tell himself it was only an illusion, a projection, why see there, if you look you can see the laser light behind it! He took a breath, uneasily watching the illusion snort and shudder, trying to free itself from the flames. Just as he’d begun to calm down, the ghost-pig turned its head to look directly at him, and it spat the skull. The projectile bounced off Beaker’s nose, startling him.

“Oh my goodness, Beakie!” Bunsen laughed over the headset. “I had no idea you’d snuck in there and modified the animation program! And using an air cannon and a physical skull – that’s genius, Beakie! Bravo!”

Beaker stared at the image. It glared back, and slowly stood up on the grill.

Beaker hadn’t even known what programs Bunsen had installed in the kitchen.

With a choked-off scream, every carroty hair standing straight up, Beaker fled.

“Beakie, wait! You didn’t even look in the ‘fridge yet!” Bunsen protested.


-----------
Newsie awoke with a shiver, nearly crying out at his reflection before he remembered where he was and how he was dressed. Clapping a hand over his beak, he stared at the image he cast in the mirrorlike side of a steel counter across from the niche he’d wedged himself into. Gradually his heartbeat settled, and he exhaled. Did I fall asleep? Frog, that’s not good...what time is it? He unrolled the black velvet glove from his left hand to check his watch. Nearly ten in the morning... He slumped, dismayed. Gina, where are you?

He’d run as hard as he could from the raggy monsters attacking Deadly; if they could shock a ghost with their tentacles of terror as Newsie had seen, what might the awful creatures do to a simple Muppet? When he’d slowed finally, panting, to look over his shoulder, there was so sign of Deadly, or the weird jellyfish monsters...or anyone, actually. Hoping to find his beloved, the Newsman had roamed what seemed like an endless catacomb of prison cells, searching for hours. When he’d come across a rough ramp leading down, he followed it, winding up in what seemed to be the production studios for MMN. He’d cautiously peeked into every room along the rough-hewn corridors, but most of them were dark and deserted...until he’d wandered into this kitchen set, and before he could exit, a group of Hideous, Deformed Things had bustled in, each one wearing a poufy chef’s toque. Frightened, Newsie had wedged himself into this storage area under a prep counter, but then a large lizardish creature with dripping fangs spotted him.

Frantically Newsie had yanked on the sliding panel to shut himself in the steel cabinet, but the lizard screeched and ran right for him – and brained itself, running face-first into the opposite cabinet, chasing Newsie’s reflection. Then a monster with big orange eyebrows and clawed, furry hands had grabbed the dazed lizard and thrown it into a gigantic Roc-Pot pressure cooker. “Right! Giorgio, we never let the main course run loose in the kitchen; it disrupts everything!”

“Yes, Chef,” mumbled one of the Hideous Things. Newsie had listened in utter shock while the monsters began what apparently was a kitchen competition called ‘Boredom Ramslay’s Kitchen Frightmares.’ Newsie huddled in the half-closed cabinet, not daring to breathe too loudly, but the monsters, intent on not displeasing the snappish head chef, never noticed him while they hustled around fixing appetizers and learning the proper way to serve raptor á la Provençale. The clean-up afterward had gone on for what seemed hours...and Newsie, exhausted and forced to remain motionless all that time, had nodded off.

Disgusted with himself, he craned his neck out of the cabinet. The kitchen was dim and silent. With a soft groan, he climbed out, stretching from his shoulders all the way down to his ankles, hearing quiet creaks and pops from joints cramped too long. Looking around, he saw the kitchen set was indeed empty. His stomach growled. Hopefully he crept to the large ‘fridge and locker-style freezer in one corner. However, what he saw upon opening the ‘fridge made his guts churn. He shut the door hastily. Oh frog. Oh frog oh frog...were those...toes in cocktail sauce? Don’t want to know, don’t want to know, he thought, shuddering. For once, his reporter’s instinct to dig into everything was quiescent. Some things should remain a mystery! A muffled thump from the freezer made him jump. “H-hello?” he asked aloud, his voice hoarse, his throat dry and fuzzy. The thump sounded again, and the freezer shook a little. Someone’s alive in there! Oh my frog, they stuffed someone in there alive! Quickly he grabbed the handle of the lid, straining his shoulders; he had to put all his sore muscles to work just to break the frozen seal and thrust the lid upward. “Hello? Are you okay?” he asked, standing on tiptoe to peer inside.

Something coughed. A clawed hand curled over the top, followed by the icy nose of the same lizard which had been the featured menu item last night – or perhaps its cousin. It glared at a very startled Muppet, then tried to growl, but its jaws were frozen shut. Before it could jump out, Newsie leaped up, caught the edge of the lid, and slammed it down hard, whacking the thing on the head and catching its claws in the door. It gave a muffled snarl. “Ungh! Ungh! Ungh!” Newsie puffed, slamming the lid down repeatedly until the claws slipped back inside and he heard the lock catch. Gasping, he backed away. The freezer thumped again. Newsie left in a hurry.

He entered the next room down the hallway, another deserted studio. This was dripping and cavernous, and when he stopped to take a breath, he heard a strange, soft sound. Waves? What on earth... Puzzled, he fumbled through his knapsack for his flashlight, and carefully shone it around. A huge structure like a rainbarrel took up most of the room, with raised wooden bleachers perched in a semicircle around its rim. Newsie walked up to it, locating a simple wooden staircase, and climbed up to look into what had to be the biggest indoor water-tank since that terrible Kevin Costner global-warming-post-apocalyptic flick. What the heck do they do in here? He shone his light up and around, picking out stage lights and boom mics suspended from ceiling trusses overhead. He was familiar with such things from the television newsroom and the movie sets he’d been privileged to stand on for a few minutes’ work. They definitely film something in here. Ripples coursed over the black water, and he heard them lapping softly against the lined sides of the huge container. Nervously he stepped well away from the edge. An odd smell filled his nose; he raised his mask a moment to take a deep sniff unhindered by the fake beak. Salt? Is that salt water?

A memory instantly came to him: Gina examining tiny crystals on a cracked tunnel wall. The ConEd tunnel leak! Am I near there? He had no way of knowing...but as he sniffed again several times, he became convinced it was indeed the exact same mix of moisture and pungent salt that he’d smelled in that other tunnel, what seemed like months ago... Only weeks, he realized, dismayed. The memory of being stuck in bed with a bad sniffle hit him then, and he yanked the mask back down, hoping it would block some of the dampness of the room. Have to be a hundred per cent right now! Can’t save Gina if you’re so stopped up you can’t even breathe!

Depressed, he sat down on a warped bleacher bench. What if she’s not even down here anymore? What if...if they...NO! He refused to even consider that possibility. He sat there, shivering in the damp chill air, listening to the quiet sounds of water. So hungry...so tired... He hadn’t eaten anything since last night’s hasty supper of soup and sandwich while he packed the—the knapsack! Didn’t I pack some peanut-butter crackers? Eagerly, he rummaged through the bag, bringing out a coil of plastic rope, the mousetrap (nearly catching his fingers in it), a package of tiny jacks and a rubber ball, a small bottle of water, and some lint. In dismay he checked again. Frog it! Must be in the other pack...which is back at the apartment, he realized. He opened the water bottle and allowing himself two small swallows. Better conserve supplies. Gina might need it. Have they allowed her any water, any food at all? Feeling a sniffle trying to creep down his long nose, he shook his head angrily. Have to go on! Keep looking! She has to be down here somewhere! Keep going! But his stomach rumbled again.

Hopelessly, he nevertheless stuck his hands in the pockets of the costume, thinking perhaps he’d tucked a mint or a candy in there the last time he’d worn this, at the Bears’ Halloween party. Something scratchy met his questing fingers, and surprised, he drew forth the iced sugar skull he’d won at the costume contest. He blinked at it, a little uneasy; he wasn’t a big fan of death symbols...But Mrs Bear said it was supposed to be good luck, he recalled. And it is made of sugar...

He popped it into his mouth, crunching carefully. The confection dissolved quickly on his broad tongue, and he swallowed what tasted like pure sugar. Almost immediately his sensitive Muppet system jolted awake. “Whoa,” he muttered. “This stuff’s better than coffee!”

Feeling energized and more determined than ever, the Newsman climbed down from the tank. He heard a splash behind him, and whirled, training his light at the noise. Large black eyes blinked at him. Newsie stared, recognizing the curve of the mouth, the fin standing up behind it as it leaned over the side, before it even spoke and revealed multiple rows of jagged teeth.

“Hey,” said the shark, “We filmin’ today or what? I’m hungry!”

The door slammed behind the Newsman. Goompah stared after him. “Well...how about just a bite, then?” he yelled. The black bird-creature didn’t return. Goompah frumped, slapping a fin against the top wall of the tank. “Aw, c’mon! Just a nibble? Somethin’? I’m dyin’ in heah!”


-----------
Beaker tossed aside the extra rubber calipers, the fifty yards of cordless extension cord, the Y-hooks they hadn’t needed after all...it had to be in here somewhere... “Meep!” he exclaimed, pulling from the junk-box the exact instrument he wanted. He held it up, turned it on, and checked the screen. Only background energy showed on the portable psychokinetic scanner. Tiptoeing to the half-open panel of the old manager’s office, Beaker cautiously stuck his head out and looked around. Bunsen was still out fetching lunch; he’d elected to take on that particular task while leaving Beaker to “sort through that junk-box and find the rest of the power couplings for the centrifugal farce generator – that scary bouncy-bed in room three-fourteen needs some extra oomph.” Beaker had been less than thrilled about remaining alone in the defunct hotel, even in daytime, but as soon as Bunsen had trotted out, Beaker realized he might have the means to prove to his colleague that he hadn’t imagined scares throughout the test run which neither of them had actually programmed! He glanced down again at the readout screen, but so far, the PKE meter wasn’t showing anything out of the ordinary.

Stepping slowly out of the relative shelter of the command center, Beaker held up the scanner at arm’s length and swept it across his line of sight. Nothing...nothing...beep...nothing... wait! He swung it back toward the grand staircase, and another small beep sounded. Beaker gulped, and with his head down into his shirt, trembling, he advanced across the lobby. He pointed the scanner up the stairs, thinking of that awful spider which had attacked him on their first day here...and of the creepy kissing things he was positive he’d seen in a room upstairs, despite Bunsen’s insistence that they hadn’t rigged any kissing creeps, just ones that swung down and yelled “Boo!” However, nothing registered from that direction. Confused, Beaker stepped closer, checking the meter again, tweaking the settings a bit to pick up lower levels of energy. Now he did get a reading...but it seemed to be coming from...down... Beaker moved even farther from the comfort of their tech gear in the office, casting a longing look back at it, but he needed actual proof, something Bunsen couldn’t sneeze at! Carefully, Beaker eased around the newel post, sweeping the scanner ahead of him. Another blip: he oriented on it, and realized it was emanating from the stone steps behind the main staircase, the ones heading down to the basement...

Beaker gulped again. Maybe...maybe it’s just something that Van Neuter guy is working on? He hoped so. Wait. Maybe he didn’t. What would a vet and bioscientist be messing with which would throw off measurable levels of psychokinetic activity? The front door crashed open, and Beaker jumped, squealing. “Meeee!”

“I’m back!” Bunsen announced. “Drat that wind...nearly blew the hinges off! Give me a hand, would you, Beaker?”

Anxiously looking back at the shadow hiding the lower stairs, Beaker went to assist Bunsen in bringing in an armload of takeout bags. “I got that ‘moo goo gone wrong’ you always order!” Bunsen said, waggling a white carton at Beaker with a smile. “I know that’ll perk you right up! You’ve been so worried all morning...” He carried the food into the office. “And although I appreciate and share your determination to make all of this go off tonight without a glitch, Beakie, I must say I think you’ve been a little overwrought. So, here’s some hot green tea and some won ton soup to cheer you right up!” He paused, seeing his assistant’s anxious stare wasn’t going away. “Beaker? Why the long face?”

“Mee mee meep mee mee,” Beaker explained, and thrust the PKE meter at Bunsen. “Meep meeper mee mee mee! Mee meep, meep meepie...”

Bunsen cut him off with both hands upraised. “Now, now, we’ve been over this! Just because that silly Rick Steves claimed this hotel was haunted does not mean it’s any such thing! You know these tour guides always exaggerate in order to get more visitors!”

Beaker protested vehemently. “Meep mee-mo meemee meeep!”

Bunsen sighed, unpacking his own bag of goodies from Cowboy Feng’s. “Well...that could have been caused by any number of things! Suppose our friend Phil is working on a cosmological reverse-mitosis perpendicular-chronophysiological bypass of terabytical proportions?” Beaker stared at him. Bunsen shrugged irritably. “Well, you never know, he might! All I’m saying is, a reading that low doesn’t signify anything important!”

“Mee mee meep,” Beaker argued weakly, seeing Bunsen’s mind wouldn’t change.

“Well of course we’re still going ahead tonight! Honestly, Beakie...one tiny, itsy-bitsy little peak on the meter and you’re convinced the boogeyman is about to jump out from behind those servers!” He chuckled; Beaker cast an uneasy look at the rack of hard drives. Bunsen dug a pair of chopsticks into his carton of fried squid in peach sauce. “Mmm-mmm good, as they say! Come now, Beakie...eat up while it’s still nice and warm.”

Reluctantly Beaker picked up his paper cup of hot tea, and made several attempts at drinking through the tiny spout on the lid; his nose kept blocking it. He sighed, and checked the PKE meter again: only background-level energy. Noticing this, Bunsen patted his shoulder. “There now, you see? You’d get a reading like that from simple subway activity crossing an electrical conduit! Nothing to worry about.”

“Meep mo mo mee,” Beaker said glumly.

Bunsen shook his head tolerantly. “Tell you what...keep checking it throughout the evening, if it makes you feel any better. But don’t worry about any reading under two-point-two megajoules! All right?” Beaker nodded, and Bunsen resumed his lunch. “Lots of good antioxidants in that tea,” he reminded Beaker. “As much stress as you’re creating for yourself today, that should be just the ticket. Drink up now.”

Sighing, Beaker popped the lid off the cup, tilted his head back, and poured the tea into his mouth. Immediately his eyes turned red, steam whooshed out of his ears, and his tongue shriveled into a tiny burnt strip. “Woo-woo-woo-meeeeeee!” he howled.

Startled, Bunsen checked the cup, then looked at another identical cup he’d just pulled from the bag. “Oh...oh dear! I think the kitchen mislabeled our cups! That was my hot-hot-so-hot-and-extremely-sour soup... Here’s your tea, Beakie!”

Beaker crumpled into a steaming heap, groaning. Concerned, Bunsen leaned over him, still holding out the correct cup. “Beaker? I really think the tea would help...you’re falling apart over nothing today, honestly!”


--------
Noise, applause and music, drew Newsie to a door. A blinking red light outside notified him that taping was going on inside. He crept close to the narrow window set into the studio door. Inside, he could see a small audience of monsters clapping and whooping as lights came up in the center of a black platform, its edges marked in strips of blue neon. A Muppet walked down a series of black risers at the back of the stage, and an announcer snarled from hidden speakers: “It’s the All-Meal Challenge today, and our latest contestant will soon discover there’s more to worry about than staying alive, right now – on Meal or No Meal!” The audience roared. Stunned, Newsie stared at the host, a man of yellow felt with sleek black hair and broad shoulders clothed in a tasteful brown plaid check jacket. “And now here’s your host, Snookie Blyer!”

“Oh holy frog,” Newsie gasped, pressing his beaked nose to the glass. “Chester!”

“Welcome to Meal or No Meal,” Snookie said, his tone one of extreme contempt. “Today’s contestant is facing double-meal-points, whether he likes it or not...let’s say hello now, and goodbye soon enough...Pembroke Tonkin, hello there and welcome to the last game you’ll ever play!”

Newsie gaped. A large tan-furred cat, looking much less suave and debonair than the Newsman had last seen him at Nofrisko, was shoved forward onto the stage. He stood uncomfortably while Snookie put an insincere arm around his shoulders and glanced at a cue card. “So Pembroke...I understand you used to be the head of a major snack company, but ran afoul of upper management and wound up drugged and dragged off in the middle of the night by slimy monster bugs, is that right?”

The cat grimaced. “Really, must we continue this appalling charade? Do be a chap, and let me loose...”

“I see,” Snookie continued, ignoring the cat’s request. “Well, that was abysmally stupid of you! But maybe you’ll get the chance today, if you guess correctly, to go home in one piece...and maybe centipedes will fly. So, let’s bring out the girls! Girls, come on out here!”

As pumping techno music played loudly, almost drowned by the cheers and whistles of the mostly-male audience, rows of presumably female monsters of all shapes, colors, and levels of hideousness in sequined miniskirts walked down the risers, and each displayed a beat-up miniature coffin to the audience. “All right Pembroke...choose your coffin!”

“This is a travesty!” the cat protested.

“Look, it’s not like it matters, but wouldn’t you rather have thirty extra minutes of life? Just play the frogging game,” Snookie muttered.

The cat sighed. “Number fourteen,” he said, gesturing disdainfully.

“Fourteen, huh? That your birthday? Lucky number?”

“She has fewer warts.”

“Okay then!” The blobbish ingenue, midriff flowing over her skirt as she moved, wobbled down the stage to deposit the coffin (and a fair amount of yellow slime) on a table at the front of the stage. “Let’s get right to it! Pembroke, choose your first four coffins, and remember, this is double-meal today, so instead of starting at one per cent of your total body mass, the stakes begin at two per cent! Name your coffins.”

Newsie looked at the audience between the door and the stage. I have to make contact somehow! Will they let me pass? Do I look monstery enough? Carefully, he eased the door open and slipped into the studio. A stagefrackle with a clipboard and a headset glanced at him, then jerked a thumb at the audience seats. Newsie nodded, and climbed onto the edge of a bench. So far so good... The monsters sitting nearest him barely looked his way before returning their eager attention to the show. Newsie waited while Tonkin picked four more coffins from the monster-girls and each was opened to reveal a percentage figure; the corresponding numbers on a huge chalkboard hanging stage left were scratched out by a grinning webbed-toed thing clinging to the top of the board by its prehensile tail. When Snookie turned back to the audience, Newsie tried to wave at him surreptitiously, but just then the lights all turned red, and a phone rang loudly.

“Well, well, we all know who that is!” Snookie said, and the monsters laughed. Snookie picked up the phone; Newsie noticed a shadowy figure with hunched shoulders and what looked like two heads in a glassed-in booth above stage right. The host listened a moment, then hung up. “All right...the Butcher says...and I gotta tell you, this is the biggest first offer I’ve ever seen him make...he says, he’ll give you one internal organ to walk away from that coffin right now!”

Boos and cheers filled the studio. Tonkin looked worried and angry. “Why would I want that?” he demanded.

“Because it’s one whole organ you’ll get to keep inside your body,” Snookie explained.

The cat turned pale under his fur, eyes widening. “So...Meal, or No Meal?” Snookie asked.

Desperately Newsie waved his arms, realizing suddenly that in costume, in this dim reddish light, he probably looked like just another weird creature cheering. Oh frog...but I can’t take off the disguise! If they see me...

“Uh...No Meal!” the cat said. The lights came back up, and the crowd cheered loudly.

“Okay...then you will have to pick another...three coffins!” Snookie said. Shivering now that he realized the seriousness of the game, Tonkin was more careful in picking numbers; Newsie wondered how he could possibly tell which case held what percentage. Is this just a random drawing? Just blind luck? I’ll bet not one of those horrible little coffins holds a chance for him to go free! Feeling somewhat sorry for the former Nofrisko exec, Newsie shook his head. Guess they don’t spare their employees either. I wonder if he ever understood what he was in for. Snookie called for each girl to open her coffin, and three more varying numbers were revealed and chalked off. The phone rang again, and the lights turned red. Annoyed, Newsie glared up, then suddenly realized this might be a chance for him to reveal himself without being too obvious, as every monster’s attention was on the booth upstairs. Quickly, Newsie pulled off his mask, and waved again. Snookie turned toward the booth, however, completely missing Newsie’s gesture...but Tonkin saw him. Feline eyes turned wide, then narrowed down to slivers. Hurriedly Newsie pulled his mask back on, fumbling with his glasses.

“All right, if you do not accept this ridiculously insulting offer, you have to open three more coffins,” Snookie informed Tonkin, “but if you want to, you could be carried on a stretcher out of here with...three internal organs and your ribcage still intact!”

“Well...” Tonkin said, taking a breath, but Snookie interrupted with a wide, patently false smile.

“And we’ll hear your decision when we come back, on Meal...or No Meal!”

Newsie waited. Snookie walked offstage to get a drink of water. The crowd argued among themselves about how many body parts should be enough to tempt the contestant into taking the offer. Tonkin’s gaze remained fixed on the Newsman, who fidgeted anxiously. Would the cat rat him out in an attempt to save his own neck? Would he tell Chester there was a Muppet in disguise in the studio? When the director cued everyone, Snookie fastened the smile back on his face, though his brown eyes held no trace of the excitement he tried to project in his voice: “So, Pembroke Tonkin has an offer on the table...along with salt, pepper, and some other basic condiments. Pembroke, tell us: will you take the meal offer and be our next tasty entree, or will you keep playing? I’ll point out here, the one-hundred-per-cent coffin is still in play!”

“No Meal, Snookie,” the cat huffed. As the lights shifted and the girl monsters clapped and blew kisses, Tonkin spoke up again, “I’d like to confer with my family before I pick the next coffins, if I may.”

Snookie looked startled. “Your...your family?” He looked offstage. “You kidnapped his family too?”

“My...nephew...is sitting right up there,” Tonkin purred, and with a languid paw pointed right at Newsie.

Snookie looked again at his director, shrugged, and beckoned. “Well, great! Hey, folks, another first – living next of kin! Whaddaya know.”

Newsie was hustled by the stagefrackle down to the platform. “And who do we have here?” Snookie asked, genuinely curious, looking from the raven to the cat.

Tonkin smoothed down his whiskers sleekly. “This is my nephew...Murrow. He works at the Health Department,” he said, smiling.

Snookie gave Newsie a skeptical look. “Really? How odd. I met another guy with the same name and occupation just this morning. Wonder if they’re related.”

“Possibly,” Tonkin purred. “Small world, and all that.”

Newsie did his best to stand upright and look imposing, but his nerves quivered terribly at the sight of a few dozen monsters all staring right at him...and drooling. It’s the costume, it’s the costume, they think you’re a bird, he told himself...but then realized his species probably wouldn’t matter all that much. This crowd looked ravenous enough to eat each other after they’d finished off the contestant. “All right, let’s move on!” Snookie said with a shrug. “Choose your coffins!”

Tonkin leaned close to Newsie, and hissed, “What the slimy frog are you doing here? That is the most ridiculous disguise I’ve ever seen – worse than your inspector act!”

“They have my girlfriend,” Newsie muttered in reply. “Have you seen her? Red hair, tall, lovely, could kick your sorry furry butt into next week’s litterbox?”

“No one like that, no,” Tonkin murmured. “Will you get me out of here? I can make it worth your while.”

“I doubt you have anything I’d want,” Newsie growled. “But I’ll do what I can if you’ll help me.”

“Fair do,” Tonkin said, and turned back to Snookie. “Numbers twenty-two, fifteen, and forty!”

The coffins were opened with much dramatic flourish. Every monster in the house groaned when the one-hundred-per-cent figure turned up and was marked off the board. The phone rang just as Newsie was trying to signal to his cousin with a nod and a waggle of his fingers, out of direct sight of the audience. Newsie stood frustrated while Snookie talked to the mysterious monster on the phone. Tonkin noticed. “What are you trying to do, make it obvious you’re not a turkey?” he hissed.

“That Muppet’s my cousin!” Newsie whispered. “He’s the whole reason I started this investigation! He’s been missing for a long time!”

Tonkin looked between them. “I do see something of a family resemblance...you’re both stupid enough to get involved in monstrous affairs.”

“So what does that make the guy who worked for them?”

“Wiser now,” Tonkin muttered. “Talk to him!”

“What?”

Snookie turned back to Tonkin and Newsie. “Well, it’s not a fantastic offer...after all, the hundred-per-cent number is now out of play. But I think you should consider it! You’ve got a lot of coffins to go, and anything could happen...” He smiled at the cat, his eyes turning puzzled as he saw Tonkin and the raven elbowing one another and glaring. “The Butcher’s offer is—“

“Uh, ahem,” Newsie said, trying to make his voice sound hoarser and lower than normal, “Uh, Snookie, is it? Tonkin says No Meal, and I’m going to choose the next coffins for him!”

“Er...hey, buddy, getting a little ahead of the game here,” Snookie said, his eyes narrowing. “Heh, heh, it’s considered polite to at least allow the host to run the show! So, Pembroke, the Butcher’s offer is...what we’ll hear when we come right back! Stay tuned to Meal or No Meal!” The audience clapped and began talking loudly, arguing whether the cat’s nephew was considered part of the entree or just an appetizer or a separate course altogether. Newsie shuddered, but then Tonkin shoved him forward, giving him a significant look and nod when a startled Newsman glanced back.

Newsie cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and suddenly Snookie was in his face, angry. “Listen, you featherbrained jerk, so far today I have been smeared in mud on Wipe-In!, nearly had my nose clawed off on Leopardy!, and I’m scheduled for something positively horrific that I don’t even know the details of yet for Monsters Tonight! This is the one taping I have today which doesn’t involve me being eaten, mauled, or humiliated – that’s the stupid cat’s job here, and yours too since you stepped up to the plate! Now the least you can do is shut the frog up and let me run my show, okay?”

“Chester!” Newsie said hurriedly, “I’m your cousin Aloysius!”

The weary, angry Muppet’s jaw fell open. “What?” he choked.

“Hey! He’s gettin’ away!” someone yelled.

Newsie whirled, frightened, and saw Pembroke Tonkin leaping for the nearest set piece, trying to climb it to the ceiling trusses. “Son of a...” Newsie growled. He looked back at Snookie, who was staring at him. All the monsters in the audience were roaring, howling, and scrambling out of their seats, trampling the stagefrackles to reach the set. Newsie grabbed Snookie’s hand. “It’s me! Did you get my note?”

“What kind of sick joke is this?” Snookie demanded, pulling away. “Carl put you up to this, didn’t he!”

“Who? No!” Desperate, Newsie pulled off his mask, jamming his glasses back on his nose. “It’s me, Chester! We have to get out of here! Quick, while they’re all—“

“Muppet!” Tonkin yowled from the ceiling, clinging by two paws and trying to heft his weighty bottom over the edge of a truss. The monsters climbing one another to reach him froze, and the cat pointed frantically at Newsie. “Muppet!”

Half the crowd turned, saw Newsie, and gaped. “Oh frog,” Newsie and Snookie gasped together. Then Snookie gave his cousin a hard shove toward the door. “Run, you idiot! Run!”

“But—“ Newsie cried, stumbling, but then a snarling thing took a swipe at him. He ducked, and looked back. Snookie was clambering into a big metal cage labeled For Host in Case of Unruly Audience. He gestured at Newsie to go, his eyes wide and desperate. “Eep!” Newsie gulped, nearly clobbered by a swinging chunk of bleacher; the ogre wielding it overbalanced and toppled, but more monsters rushed toward him. Newsie yelled at Snookie, “I’ll find you! Stay alive! I will find you!”

The door slammed in the face of the first monster to lunge after Newsie; the others crumpled atop him, and it took them a couple of minutes to untangle and wrench the door open. Snookie shivered inside his cage, watching as the cat was summarily knocked down from the truss with a thrown, screaming goblin. He turned his head, unwilling to see the results; the munching sounds were bad enough. The show director, a particularly large Frackle with an upward-curving snout, poked him through the bars, making him jump. “Say, who was dat bird guy, anyhow?” the director asked.

Snookie took a deep breath, trying to calm his frantic heart. “That was...the bravest, dumbest Mohican ever to try a rescue mission down here,” he said.

“Ah,” said the director. He scratched his topfur, indifferently watching cat fur raining down center stage, and admiring the girls as they giggled and jumped into the fray. “Say, you, uh...ya think ya can get him back? We seem ta be kinda short a player now. Mohican, ya say...ya know, da boss been sayin’ we needs more diversifyin’ around here!”

Snookie closed his eyes, ignoring it all as best he could. Someone yelled for another bottle of catsup.
-----------

 

[newsmanfan]

-----------
Author's Note: There are several silly references in the above chapter. Two of them are rather Six Degrees of Sam Neill. I defy anyone to name the more obscure one. Anyone actually managing this feat will have my undying admiration and a batch of chocolate pumpkin cookies personally baked and sent by me!
------------

 

[The Count]

Oh, how positively vonderful was this last chapter.

Delighted in Beaker's exploration of the dining room and kitchen areas above ground.
*Wonders if the plates and saucers were moved to create a Hidden Mickey, as that's the more infamous one in that haunted portion of the attraction.

Bordom Ramsley's Kitchen Frightmares... That sounds awfully similar to the Nightmare parody they did on Mad the Animated Series. And yet I'm intrigued as I don't rully know who this personality is, he doesn't have a show on Food Network does he?
The raptors, are those holdovers from the attack last summer at the museum? Leftovers are okay by me, so long as they're heated up, but I usually don't eat live food anyway.

*Laughs at the mix-up with the scientist's take-out orders.

A much more monster-based parody of Deal or No Deal than the one we saw on Sesame Street.
Er, what's an "ingenue"?

*Tosses bottle of blood to the one who called for catsup. The last time we used ketchup we ended up with a vegetarian vampire duck.
*Defies someone to identify that reference.

And Chester and Newsie finally met, only to have the journalist be put on the run as his disguise has been shattered.
Please, continue when possible. *Leaves some black cherry lemonade.

 

[newsmanfan]

-------------
Hah! Ed...vampire duck...wasn't there one on Darkwing?

That would be, I think, about the third or fourth Gordon Ramsey joke I've done in this fic. Check out "****'s Kitchen", Ed, for primo kitchen diva antics. I'm not a regular fan, but every now and then I catch one of his several shows...he's the sort of person I find fascinating. From a distance.

"Ingenue" is a classic 1940s sort of word that best fit the visual image I had. Typically a classy lady singer/actress. Often one quite aware of her own seductive image who uses it to get more gigs.

Ed, Ed, Ed...those weren't raptors, those were Velocimuppets. And killer throwback chickens. Go watch "Jurassic Park" again. See? Totally NOT chickens. Or turkeys, despite Grant's proclamation thereof.

No hidden Mickeys. Although mickeys may well be slipped into a drink or three soon around here...

Thanks for reading!
---------------

 

[The Count]

Er, there was the instance where Launchpad was turned into a vampire-duck bat... But the vegetarian vampire duck I'm thinking of is older than that, *still defies anyone to identify it.

Jurassic Park? Never watched it. Got no plans to watch it, though I know RedPiggy's another huge fan of that franchise what with her dino interests.

Slip a Mickey into a drink?
*Has bad mental image of Rhonda in the oversized drinking glass, waiting for a male rat to slip into the bubbling waters.
Good night everybody.
You've got a dirty mind on you brotha'.
As a little pink bunny once said... I just can't help myself.