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

[The Count]

*Wonders if an appointment for Aunt Ru should be scheduled with Dr. Otto von Scratchandsniff to explore her deep resentment towards a fellow scientist in the monstrifying field. Maybe transfering some latent hatred of Dr. Gene Splicer (look it up at the Tiny Toons archive kiddies) possibly? And I know Gina will make it out okay, it's all the other Muppets we gotta worry about.
BTW: I like Clarence, because of his speech and demeanor, he reminds me of Bartholomew Bat (yeah, another obscure character, check the Beetlejuice Animated Series sites).

Eagerly awaiting the next segment to be posted.
* hopes to hear back from Lady Ru about miss Mary.

 

[newsmanfan]

--------------
Thanks guys! I apologize truly for the sloppiness of that last chapter...I didn't take enough time to edit, breaking my own rule, and the result makes me wince...but I'm working on the followup now!

There will be reunions! There will be unusual alliances formed!

Will there be any FOOD?

Where did you come from?

From dat uddah post up dere. What's all dis I'm hearin' about a kangaroo rat? What kinda cockamaimie t'ing is dat anyway? I nevah hoid a' sucha t'ing!

Well, they DO exist. Try opening a book sometime, huh?

I tried one once.

And?

Very dry. Hadda use a LOTTA ketchup.

sigh... Anyway. I promise more action, more sliminess, mo' monsters, mo' monsters, and MO' monsters!

What about da Curly and Shemp ones?

*angry armwaving* Will you just GET OUTTA HERE?
---------------

 

[WebMistressGina]

*Wonders if an appointment for Aunt Ru should be scheduled with Dr. Otto von Scratchandsniff to explore her deep resentment towards a fellow scientist in the monstrifying field.

I think Dr. Scratchandsniff has got his own problems, you know?

But Chaz? Hellloooooooooooooo Nurse!

Like Ru, I'm also like why do I only find these tings when I go traveling about on this board, heh? Hey! Hey, yeah you! Up there in the notification board!

Mee?

Yeah, I'm talking to you! What gives, Beakie? You're laying down on the job, baby. I needs to know about my Mup fics, yo.

 

[WebMistressGina]

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

sigh... Anyway. I promise more action, more sliminess, mo' monsters, mo' monsters, and MO' monsters!
---------------

I give that two snaps and an around the world! *snap snap*

 

[The Count]

Hey Rizzo... If you wanna see a kangaroo rat, just go to Tennessee Tuxedo's zoo and visit with Jeremy Jump, one of the few antagonists.
Like I've said before... I've watched a looooooooot of animated stuff, including stuff I'd like to erase from my mind but can't, can only condemn it to dark recesses and blow 'em up when they try to resurface.
*Kablam!
Thanks Harry, needed that.

 

[WebMistressGina]

Hey Rizzo... If you wanna see a kangaroo rat, just go to Tennessee Tuxedo's zoo and visit with Jeremy Jump, one of the few antagonists.

You get a like just for knowing who Tennessee Tuxedo is.

Now, I'll give you a cookie if you know what other show the voice of Tennessee did(trick question - one was animated, one was not. Two cookies if you get both)

 

[The Count]

Please, that's easy. Inspector Gadget and Agent 86 of CONTROL, aka Maxwell Smart.
Or should I have said Don Adams as exterminator extraordinaire in that one SD Movie Mystery episode he guest starred as the animated character instead?

*Thinks 2PM is too early for CN to be airing SDMI Season 2.
Hello Nurse?
Would you have me committed if I said Fifi was more in my list of cartoon crushes along with Cleo the Cat and Teen Lobster and others that'd sound weird? Yeah, I gots a messed-up mind sometimes.

 

[WebMistressGina]

Please, that's easy. Inspector Gadget and Agent 86 of CONTROL, aka Maxwell Smart.
Or should I have said Don Adams as exterminator extraordinaire in that one SD Movie Mystery episode he guest starred as the animated character instead?

<----- my reaction to the above.

No one ever gets that! Or rather, no one EVER gets the Get Smart one (which means you actually get my Get Smart references!) AND...no one ever remembers the episode of the New Scooby Movies.

I love you.

*Thinks 2PM is too early for CN to be airing SDMI Season 2.

I don't even want to get started on that, but...

I love you.

Hello Nurse?
Would you have me committed if I said Fifi was more in my list of cartoon crushes along with Cleo the Cat and Teen Lobster and others that'd sound weird? Yeah, I gots a messed-up mind sometimes.

You're talking to the person who was madly in love with Dick Grayson aka Robin from BTAS. Madly in love. And my friend and I decided last week that if Google was a man, I'd marry him.

So no, would not have you committed.

Sawry for muffin!

 

[The Count]

I agree that SDMI has flaws, everything has flaws.
Did you say fleas?
No, flaws. But it's the new Scooby-Doo series and I've been a fan and I watch when Scooby's on air. The one thing that frustrates me is my CN channel's identity crisis of airing some stuff which is the new series or newer SD animated movies like from Goblin King onwards in English, but it airs the older stuff like What's New and older movies in Spanish.

At least the Season 2 Crybaby Clown episodes have Mark Hamil back as part of the voice cast.

BTAS, ah the silver age of my animation-watching fandom. That's when most of my cartoon crushes were being defined.
*Has memory of Ivy in full-color from the Nintendo Power coverage of the BTAS Game Boy game. * faint.

So yes, we're a couple of crazy fans. *Leaves muffin for

 

[newsmanfan]

Part Forty-Four

The stairs proved slimy and treacherous, and the Newsman reconsidered his choice to descend in darkness. He could hear alarming scratching and skittering noises all around him, and suspected that if he suddenly switched his light on he would see hundreds of creepy-crawlies shying away...or veering closer. Monsters don’t use flashlights, he reminded himself nervously. Be a monster. Act like you belong here. Rizzo said bluffing is all about sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong and telling everyone it does. He’d asked the rat to give him some card-playing tips a few weeks back, when Gina accepted an invitation to attend a poker night at her friend Scott’s place and coaxed Newsie into coming along. There had ensued more advice about kings and aces and drawing for a straight flush than Newsie had been able to process, but he remembered one phrase, and it seemed useful now. Act like you hold the right cards, and they’ll have to play along.

He wondered how Rhonda was faring. That charity walk simply couldn’t take place – at least, not here! She has to get that transmitter down...and warn the rest of the guys! If she doesn’t... He chided himself. Hey, have a little faith in your colleague! She’ll get it done...after all, she knows all that technical stuff – she can even EDIT! Nodding, feeling sufficiently humbled, he stiffened his foam against whatever lay below. Just focus on YOUR job here! Everything will work out fine with Rhonda...just go find Gina! Step by careful step, he continued down.

The feel of the rock against his hand, even through the glove, became rougher, more like a cave wall than concrete, and then his feet found a flat level, making him stumble. Catching his balance, Newsie patted the air with his hands, trying to sense how large this area might be, advancing slowly. After a moment his foot found an edge; he tapped lower cautiously, and found another stair. A landing, he realized. Some kind of landing...so what’s here? His questing hand discovered something that squeaked and squirmed before he yanked away in disgust. Don’t turn the light on, don’t turn the light on... He found a piece of wall off to the right which felt smoother; further investigation gave him an idea of how big it was, about as far as his arms could stretch and bounded by a frame of some sort...and then he found the doorknob. A door! But there’s more stairs going down... He hesitated, then realized since he really had no idea where exactly to start looking for Gina, this was as good as anyplace. He tried the knob.

The strings of small pumpkin-and-skull-shaped twinkle lights hit him like streetlamps after so much darkness. He stood in the doorway several seconds, blinking, trying to adjust. What the hey? Some kind of chemistry lab? Tables full of glass beakers, distillation flasks over simmering burners, and strange machines took up much of the space. More disturbing were the body parts scattered around: bug-wings pinned to a piece of cardboard, jars labeled “fang marrow” and “octo-arms” and “cute fluffy feathers” lined a series of shelves. “What the heck is going on in here?” he murmured aloud.

A loud scuffle and squeak jerked his attention outside to the landing; in the light cast through the open door, numerous centipedes, worms, and unidentifiable bugs scrambled up the walls. Newsie gulped, shuddering, and then heard what was causing all the disturbance: a heavy set of feet tromping up the lower stairs. Something roared, “Doc? That you?”

Hastily Newsie ducked back into the creepy lab and shut the door, but the footsteps continued to close in, echoes shaking the fragile test tubes in their stands. Frantically Newsie looked around; this room was too crowded with junk, he couldn’t see anyplace he might hide, and suddenly the idea of bluffing a monster with a silly raven costume seemed less than wise. He spotted another door half-hidden by party streamers. He didn’t allow himself time to wonder why the whole room looked decorated for a Halloween party, lunging at the door and pushing it open. A room full of cages startled him, and he stood confounded a moment, staring at the winged kitten and the blue hamster with ram’s horns and the slithery thing that looked like a feather boa come to life. Mewlings and growls and barks sounded all over the room. The loud tread outside stopped at the lab door, and a heavy hand knocked twice. “Yo, Doc! Saw a light – that you? Hey, didja finish that dancing spider yet? Haw, haw...always wanted ta see a tarantula do a tarantella...” The doorknob turned.

Panicking, Newsie cast about for any haven at all, and saw one corner of the room which seemed unoccupied, holding only a large glass enclosure. He opened the front of it, barely noticing the symbols etched into the glass, and turned to face the room again, shutting himself in quickly. When the door to this room opened, Newsie held as still as he could, willing the trembling in his limbs to stop shaking the feathers, pretending to be a stuffed specimen. Something with the face of a bulldog and crablike eyestalks, all covered in stripey yellow-and-green fur, shoved its head through the doorway; Newsie expected the creature to be too big to come all the way inside, but then it squeezed its head through, and the outlandishly tiny body which trotted in under it almost made him gape and give himself away. Straightening stiffly when the monster’s gaze swung his way, Newsie held his breath. “Huh. Guess he ain’t here. Maybe he went upstairs...” The monster glared around at the caged creatures, which all fell silent. “You freaks shut up! Don’t you know it’s daylight? Time for good little monsters to get some sleep!” With another scowl around at everyone, the bulldog-headed thing slammed the door. Newsie heard its disproportionately heavy tread stomping back to the landing, and then going upstairs. “Hey Doooooc! I wanna see that tarraaaaantulaaaa!” it howled.

Newsie exhaled. Everything else in the room seemed to do the same, and then numerous pairs of eyes were staring at him. “Uh...hi.” Newsie tried, with a halfhearted wave of a black-feathered glove, to be friendly. However, the creatures backed away, cringing into their cages as tightly as they could curl themselves. “No, no...it’s okay...see? I’m a Muppet,” Newsie tried to reassure them, pulling off his raven mask and resettling his glasses on his golden-felted nose. “See?”

“Youuuu,” a throaty, threatening voice sounded...right behind him.

The Newsman whirled; a blue snout wrinkled in contempt shoved up against his nose. “Aaaauuugh!” Newsie cried, stumbling away; his back slapped against the glass wall. The spectral blue dragon in a ragged velvet cloak pressed closer, still snarling. A clawed finger poked Newsie in the chest, and he choked on a shriek.

“This is all your fault!” Uncle Deadly accused, raised both arms, and lunged. “Grrrraaaaaaaahhh!”

Newsie yelped, turned on a toe, and smacked his face right into the glass so hard he knocked himself unconscious.


------------
They had to splash cold water over Snookie to wake him; the party had raged on all night, and Pew, BD and Hem had insisted he stay until the very last Smell-O shot had been downed. It felt like he’d barely staggered into his cell and lain down on the cold, hard floor before the guards were laughing at him and dragging him to his feet. “N-no,” Snookie groaned. “No, I can’t...so tired...”

“Come on, slug! Move it!” the goblin ordered, jabbing Snookie’s soft round nose with a sharp finger. “You’re due on set in an hour! Gotta get you all presentable!”

“Too bad ya can’t make him handsome, too,” rumbled the guard, one of the weekend-shift members with huge crawfish arms. He used a claw to hoist the weakly protesting show host along the corridor. “Shower time, lunch meat! C’mon, ya smell like strawberry Smell-O...”

“I think Pew threw up on my shoes,” Snookie groaned. He could barely move his feet across the floor, and this dragging was really straining his shoulder. “Froggit, stop! You’re pulling my arm off!”

“Oh yeah? Well den we’ll just hafta call the Doc and have him stitch you up, Muppet!” the guard chortled. Snookie had no say in the routine; he felt about to lose whatever might be left in his stomach. He nearly collapsed when they shoved him under a chilling showerhead, but the three-degrees-above-freezing water shocked him into a howl of outrage.

“Aaaagh! Stop it! Stop it!” He thrashed, but strong hands shoved him back under the stream of icicles, and another yanked his undershirt and shorts off. Snookie whimpered, barely able to stand, as another monster scrubbed him haphazardly with a grungy loofa. The smell of whatever soap they’d lathered in it made him heave. “Frog, what the frog is that frogging stuff?” he moaned, hastily protecting his more sensitive area with both hands.

“Sheesh, language!” the guard scolded. When they decided he was mostly clean, they dragged him out of the water and slapped a rough burlap towel around him. “You should be grateful! One a’ your sponsors ordered you special soap, not burning lye like the rest’a the mooks down here!”

“If that’s special, I’d hate to see the regular menu,” Snookie gasped, teeth chattering. “Come on, guys, I can’t work like this! That stupid party went all night, I’ve had no sleep at all, I feel like foam on a shingle...”

The goblin overseer snorted. “Well then I guess you shouldn’ta stayed out so late, should ya? Move it, Muppet! Your schedule says...” He consulted a bright pink clipboard. “You got ‘Are You Dumber Than a Box of Rocks’ up first today. Studio thirty-seven, let’s hustle.”

Snookie tried to stay on his feet as fresh clothing was unceremoniously pulled onto him; he didn’t have the energy or the will to bother with tying his tie or tugging his shirtsleeves past the cuffs of the ugly plaid sports coat. He stumbled after the goblin, shoved frequently by the clawed guard. “No...no more...can’t do this any more...need sleep...” Snookie mumbled, but they ignored him. Vaguely he saw a door opened for him, camerafrackles stretching and yawning, and a yellowish feathery thing with a duck’s bill and enormous flippers surreptitiously checking the cheat sheet it had written on the inside of its wing before the game show started. “I can’t...” Snookie groaned, but he was dumped into a chair just off the set.

“He’s all yours,” the guard grunted, leaving the studio. Snookie strained to open his eyes fully; when the director-monster, a giant pink thing with six-foot-long arms, dipped his head to stare into Snookie’s face, he was too exhausted to react.

“All ready,” a stagefrackle announced; the director bobbed his mouthless head in a nod, and gestured at Snookie. The host looked slowly around at them all: monsters at the cameras, monsters at the sound board, monsters in the small audience, and a box of rocks and the duck-thing both squared off against one another at raised, lit podiums. Snookie shook his head, clinging to the arms of the canvas chair.

“No...no,” he muttered. “Just leave me alone...I can’t do this today. I just can’t.”

Outside the door, Carl checked the half-eaten taping schedule tacked to the wall. “Aha, here he is...” He pushed open the door, looking around, careful about interrupting a show taping, but they didn’t seem to have started yet. He hailed the leggy director: “Hey, Bob! You seen Snookums here yet?”

The monster which seemed to be all arms and legs waved at Snookie, then back at the set; one white-gloved hand grabbed Snookie’s wrist and tried to pull him up. With a groan, Snookie struggled to his feet. He took a step, eyes barely open, then another – then fell face-first to the floor and remained there. The director poked him with a shoe, then began gesturing angrily. Carl hurried over. “Hey, language!” he snapped; the director gave him a rude gesture and loped away, flinging down his headset. Carl shook Snookie’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy, c’mon, ya gotta show to do! Up and at ‘em!”

Snookie registered the familiar, if not exactly welcome voice. “Carl...? Whaddayouwant?” he groaned.

“Well, I just dropped by ta give you your script for tomorrow’s ‘Monsters Tonight’; there’s this great bit I thought up, where you come out dressed as a pumpkin, and I stuff you in a piecrust, and...” Carl trailed off, blinking in surprise. He’d expected a joyful argument, a tart protest, something, anything much more energetic than the reception this news garnered: Snookie had drifted off again, his face pressed sideways to the ground, damp black hair falling over his eyes. Carl stood up fully, regarding his Muppet sidekick in some confusion. The show director took two steps and loomed over them both, long arms reaching down to grab Snookie. Carl stepped in his way.

The director jerked up, startled, then launched into a series of gestures and head-shaking which made even Carl, the Big Jaded Cynic wince. “Can’t ya see he’s bushed?” Carl snarled. He hefted Snookie over his shoulder; the Muppet felt lighter than a sack of saffron. When the director angrily shoved his round head with its cucumber of a nose into Carl’s fat, flat one, Carl took that bobbing nose firmly in a huge furry paw and shoved it back as hard as he could. Off-balance, the director flailed and crashed in a pile of loopy pink limbs. “Use a re-run!” Carl shouted, glaring around at the rest of the crew to see if anyone else had a problem. Since he was bigger than all of them, none of them did, though they all stared at him. “Stupid slave-driving wombats!” Carl growled, and with a huff, carried the unconscious Snookie out of the studio.

Snookie came to briefly, smelling cinnamon and allspice. He turned his head slowly, hoping to disturb the pounding as little as possible, and saw a fluted rim all around him; the stuff under his head was soft and a bit gushy, and smelled pleasantly spicy. He managed to focus his vision a little more, and saw Carl cheerfully whistling “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” as his paws massaged a giant pile of dough. “Did you...did you say something about a pie?” Snookie whispered, unable to find any strength for his voice.

Carl perked, and turned to him with a grin. “That’s right! But it’ll take some practice...I hate pastry, it’s so darned hard to get perfectly flaky...you just lay down a while, Snookums. You can play pumpkin filling soon enough.”

“Great,” Snookie mumbled, turned his head away from the obscenely perky monster, and within seconds had passed out again.

Constanza paused in her grating of the fresh nutmeg to glare at Carl. “That’s really, really mean of you to bake him when he’s like that!”

Carl growled at her, suddenly looming over her shoulder. “It’s not your place to criticize me! Now shut up and grate that nut, or I’ll practice my mince-Muppet technique on you!” When the dual-toned girl clamped her mouth shut, but continued to glare while she worked, Carl relented, going back to his dough. “Besides,” he muttered, “I’m not cooking him today.”

Constanza stopped cold, staring. “You’re not?”

“Are you kidding?” Carl snapped, with an angry thump of his paw against the giant pie crust Snookie was curled in; the sleeping Muppet groaned, and Carl hastily drew back, with a worried look at his pie filler. “He’s...he doesn’t taste nearly as good that way! I like ‘em better awake and screaming!” Two huge yellow eyes narrowed at the sous-chef. “Back to work!”

Constanza did as she was bidden, but after a moment, glanced back at Blyer... and was very surprised to see Carl stroking back that dark hair almost gently, and then prodding Blyer’s mouth with a spoonful of pumpkin pudding until the Muppet accepted it. Carl watched, making sure he swallowed, then offered another spoonful. Sensing eyes on him, Carl turned, but his kitchen helper was diligently scraping the nutmeg into a bowl. Carl resumed trying to feed the malnourished Muppet, gently urging him to swallow spoonful after spoonful of pudding. “Come on, buddy,” Carl whispered. “Gotta keep your strength up. That’s it. I even used milk instead of sewer gunge...there ya go...”

The kitchen remained quiet all morning, and although one trial pie was baked, no Muppets were harmed. Snookie slept soundly, tummy full and sore head cradled in soft dough, breathing in autumnal spices and steamy air, and dreamed of places and times long ago, when he last felt safe.


--------------
“Are you going to lay around all day, or can we expect something possibly useful out of you?” the sonorous voice demanded; the Newsman blinked to clear his vision, but what he saw made him cry out hoarsely and scramble to escape it. The ghostly dragon frowned. “Oh come now! That wasn’t even my Carradine impression!” He preened his floating whiskers. “Although I must say I found your reaction quite flattering...er...do you need a change of pants?”

“What? No!” Newsie snapped, managing to rise after taking a moment to figure out which way his feet were. Dazed, he stared at the phantom. “You...you’re the ghost from the Muppet Theatre!”

“You know, as you call yourself a journalist, I would expect you to remember proper titles and actually address people by them,” the spectre sniffed. “That would be the Phantom of the Muppet Theatre, thank you! Uncle Deadly, to my friends.” He leaned closer to a trembling Newsman. “Which you most definitely are not!”

Recalling what the ghost had said, Newsie tried to formulate a coherent protest. “Wait...I...what’s my fault? I didn’t do anything to you!” Memory returning, he scowled right back. “In fact, last I remember, I asked you for help, and was roundly ignored!”

Deadly lifted his chin haughtily. “You idiot, how do you think I wound up imprisoned in this horrible dungeon, trapped cruelly far from all I hold dear...and you simpletons as well?” He flicked a well-clawed hand at the glass walls. “Were it not for your insistence that the monsters were up to no good, I should not have come here to investigate, and never have been so foully tricked and stuffed into a glass case like some sideshow specimen!”

Newsie blinked at him, then turned his head to look at the glass. “Why don’t you just walk out? The door’s unlocked,” he pointed out. “Ungh...” He squirmed as his nose was shoved flat against the glass door.

“Do you not see those cabalist symbols, you fool?” Deadly demanded. “That is black magic of the lowest, most diabolical order, which holds me fast within this cell! I cannot simply walk out! It’s against the rules.” Releasing the Newsman, he folded his arms, snout in the air.

“Black mag—wait. Against the rules?” Newsie stopped trying to get his nose to resume its usual pointed dimensions, glaring at the ghost. “Are you telling me you’re stewing in this corner because of some stupid gentleman’s agreement?”

Deadly waved a hand at the etched symbols. “Well, it wouldn’t be sporting, would it, if the undead could do whatever we wanted? You lot wouldn’t have a chance! It would be utter chaos and pandemonium! It would...” He paused, considering it. “You may just have a point there, goldbeak.”

“Hey!”

“But enough with the petty discussions of who ruined whose weekend,” Deadly said airily. “Open this cell at once, and I shall be on my way!”

“Wait,” Newsie said, a crazy idea forming. “Did you just say you came down here to investigate the monsters?”

“Yes, what of it?”

“Well, what did you find out?”

Deadly sighed. “You know, I never did like your kind.”

“Muppets?”

“The press!” Deadly huffed. “Always pointing out my Othello was the bluest they’d ever seen! As if Orson Welles was Moorish!”

“I’m not that kind of press,” Newsie argued. “I’m a legitimate journalist, Phantom! Now tell me, please: what did you find out? What’s the monster plan?”

“Ho ho, good one!” The smirk died immediately, and Deadly turned serious. “They’re planning to destroy the city – to draw obliquely over it an endless night, as a hunting ground for all monsters! They’re not playing very cricket, I can tell you that.”

“H-how will they do that?”

“How should I know? It may just be campaign rhetoric,” Deadly grumbled. “That dictator they’ve got doesn’t exactly seem to be performing to a full house, if you catch my drift...”

“What dictator?”

“Oh, you know, the big shadowy fellow with the red glowing eyes,” Deadly said with a shrug. “Massive ego, proper diction, wields the entire monster population like his own personal Punch-and-Judy players...this isn’t ringing a bell for you, is it.”

“I knew it,” Newsie gasped. “I knew there had to be someone controlling them! They’re never this organized!” Anxiety rising again, he grabbed the dragon’s raggedy arm, though he quickly released it when both of them looked down at his gloved hand going right through the spectral fur. “Er...have you seen where they keep the other prisoners? Tell me!”

Glowing green eyes narrowed to pinpricks. “Why, are you going to break them all out? You haven’t done a spectacular job on that front yet,” he needled, looking from Newsie to the closed glass door.

Annoyed, Newsie swung the door open. “There! Now just tell me where the prisoners are! My girlfriend’s down here, and they say they’re going to kill her!”

“What?” Startled, Deadly reared back, studying the earnest Muppet’s face mistrustfully. “They’re not allowed to do that! Eating people, yes, certainly...but actually killing them? As in making them dead? Bereft of body? Corpsical casualties?”

“Yes!” Newsie shouted, getting nose-to-nose with the dragon. “Yes! Killing! As in dead! As in what they’ve threatened to do to my Gina!”

“That lovely Gypsy girl with the cute little cards?” Deadly put a claw to his lips, musing. “Oh now that simply won’t do! She did the most delightful reading for me the other day...all my cards came up Ghosts, of course...”

Newsie started. “What? Gina did a reading for you?” When the heck was that? She never mentioned it to me!

Deadly grinned, showing an unsettling amount of jagged fangs. “Ooh, looks like she doesn’t tell you everything, does she? How very naughty! Oh, I like her even better now...”

“When was this?”

“At that charming little soirée at the farm...where last I saw you in that ridiculous get-up. You were bumping into the grass.”

“I’m nearsighted,” Newsie grumped. He thrust a pointing finger out the glass door. “Do whatever you want, but first show me where they’re keeping her! I have to get her out of here!”

Deadly strolled out of the cell, making a great show of stretching immaterial muscles and taking a deep breath into nonexistent lungs. “Ahhhhh...that’s better! All right then, let’s go find your lady...and shut these naughty nellies down.” He swaggered across the room, then realized the Newsman wasn’t behind him, and turned, puzzled. “Well? Are you going to stand there with that positively enormous mouth agawp like some game fish, or are you going to do what you came here to do?”

“You...uh...er...” Newsie swallowed and tried again. “You’re going to help me?”

Deadly scowled. “Whatever makes you think that? I am going to uphold the sacred laws of monsterdom, which these foolish fiends have evidently forgot in all their playing at Third Reich!” He swirled his cape around him, lifting it before his nose in proper skulking position. “Come along, little Muppet! And do at least put your head back on, you look even more idiotic without it.”

The Newsman shut his jaw again, grabbed his raven mask and pulled it snug over his face, hastily resettled his glasses on the beak so he could see something, and hurried after the Phantom stalking magnificently out of the lab.


---------------
Kermit looked around at the before-show chaos, feeling calmer than he probably should. Then again, why shouldn’t I? The proofs for Piggy’s perfume ads looked great and she even liked three of the shots; Fozzie came up with some Halloween jokes that are actually less corny than usual; the Mutations are back from their cruise and seem perfectly normal...relatively, anyway, he mused, glancing again at the gangly purple monsters checking each other’s bow ties and cummerbunds, getting ready for the opening theme. He’d questioned them earlier, and all three of them said they didn’t know anything about an undercity plot, but the ladies in Majorca sure were furry... Kermit shook his head, relieved. I guess someone just gave the Newsman a bad tip. Well...it’s not as though many of his stories seem all that credible most of the time. He felt guilty for thinking thus, but shrugged it off. Probably his info came from the Muppet Newswire, and how reliable can a story be when it’s usually about feral sofas or pigs FROM space?

Scooter stopped at his desk mid-dash. “Hey Boss, did Beau get that tree onstage yet?”

Kermit peered out; behind the closed maindrape, he could see vague scenery-ish shapes. “Uh...I hope so. Wait. Why do we have a tree onstage again?”

“Oh, remember, the opening number is ‘Turn, Turn, Turn,’ and we need the leaves to fall and then grow back and then fall again. Gnarled Barkley has been rehearsing with the girls all week to get the timing right!”

“Gnarled...” Kermit decided he didn’t want to know. “Okay. Uh huh. Hey, Beauregard!” he yelled. He peered around but didn’t see the janitor anywhere. “Where’s he got to now? Beau! Beaureee—“

“Yes?”

Kermit jumped. “Eeesh! Don’t do that! Things have been unsettling enough around here lately as it is!” The baffled janitor just stared at him, so Kermit regained some composure and pointed onstage. “Did you get the tree set up for the opening number?”

The furry brow furrowed. “Uhhh...what tree?”

“The tree for the opening number! It’s big, it has a trunk and branches and leaves –“ Kermit began, feeling his earlier calm evaporating.

A lightbulb went on; Beau’s eyes widened. “Oh that tree! Oh...uh...last time I saw it, it was chasing Beaker with a chainsaw.”

Kermit shuddered involuntarily. “Why was a tree chasing Beaker with a chainsaw?”

“I’m not sure...it was roaring a lot. Something about...it didn’t want any Muppet Labs Patent Pending Miracle-Fro?”

“Eeesh,” Kermit groaned. He got on the intercom. “Scooter! Axe the tree! Just have some of the stagepigs dump some leaves from the flyrail or something!”

A very large oak suddenly bent over the frog. “What did you say, tiny squishable creature?”

“Eeek...uhh...figure of speech, heh heh?”

“Thought so.” The tree creaked its roots, shuffling slowly onstage. “And I better not see that skinny guy again either.” Grumbling, it moved center stage, waiting for its cue.

Shaking his head, Kermit slumped on his stool. “When am I going to learn it just keeps getting weirder around here?”

Scooter shrugged gamely. “Gee, I don’t know, Chief -- when will you?” At his boss’ glare, Scooter laughed, and held up a flyer. “Take a look! Got the promo sheets back from the printer’s.” He handed the orange paper with black printing to Kermit; the frog looked it over, nodding in approval.

“Looks good. Nice job,” he said. The flyer had grinning jack-o’lanterns bordering big block letters: MADL CHARITY WALK Featuring THE MUPPETS! LIVE on MMN MONDAY OCT 31st at 7 pm! SIMULTANEOUS WEBCAST at WWW.MUPPETSDIELIVE.COM! Kermit frowned lightly. “Kind of an ominous website address, though...”

Scooter shrugged. “It’s the only domain name they could get on short notice, they said. But hey, it’s Halloween! It’s supposed to be good scary fun, right?”

“True,” Kermit agreed. “Has everyone been issued their ‘Ham in a Cabin’ t-shirt?”

“Well, most of ‘em. I’ve tried to reach the Newsman twice; he’s not answering his phone.”

“He’s probably taking a bereavement day,” Kermit observed. “I imagine there’s a funeral he has to attend soon.”

“Yeah,” Scooter said, sobering. “Uh, about that other thing, Chief...” Lowering his voice and glancing around, the gofer continued, “I still can’t get hold of Big Mama or Timmy or Gene or Beautiful Day...although there was a message from Carl earlier; said he was nursing a sick friend.”

Kermit made a wry face. “Yeah, sure. In other words –“

“He’s hungover again,” Scooter agreed, sighing. “Anyway, I’m not sure what to think about that monsters-underground thing. The Mutations are here, and they seem fine. And Sweetums and Thog were playing Bataan Checkers in the green room a minute ago, and Boppity’s here, and the bats showed up for their dance rehearsal...”

Kermit shook his head. “I’m not sure what to think. I guess we go on as usual...just let me know if any of the monsters show up acting suspiciously, okay?”

“Okay!” Scooter paused. “Uh...how would that be different from how they usually act?”

Kermit scrunched his mouth up. “I don’t know – just – suspicious! Weirder than normal!” He sighed, trying to untense his shoulders. “Is there any coffee left?”

“Uh, yeah, but I don’t think you’re gonna want any...”

“Why not?”

A large herring came flopping across the backstage floor, panting desperately; hot on its fins ran the Chef, waving a cleaver in one hand and carrying an old-fashioned metal kettle in the other. “Hoo! Geddendere, yuu pishy-wishy coopasheeno!” The chase swerved upstairs and through a starred door; a moment later, frog and gofer cringed at the shriek and crash which followed.

“Gotcha,” Kermit sighed. He checked the clock. “I think I have just enough time to slip around front for a real cup. Cover for me?”

“You bet,” Scooter agreed. His froggy boss hopped out the back door, heading for the local coffee cart. “Hey Chief, it’s cold, don’t forget to take your...” Realizing Kermit was gone, a worried Scooter hurried down the steps after him. He threw open the back door to find a frogsicle on the loading dock. Hastily dragging him back in and rubbing his shoulders briskly, Scooter muttered, “...coat. Hey Boss, why don’t you sit here under the vent and I’ll go grab you a coffee, okay? You want a little cup of Frosted Flies on the side today?”

“Brrrrrr,” Kermit groaned, shuddering. He huddled beneath the warm air coming from the heating vent, and nodded. He couldn’t even get the word thanks out before his trusty assistant was bounding out the door, snapping up his own letter jacket as he went. That kid’s too nice to be in show biz, Kermit thought, then smiled at his own condescension. Except he’s hardly a kid anymore! Married, with a place of his own, and a college degree... He shook his head, slowly returning to room temperature. Still has the energy of a child, though. Speaking of... He smiled at the small frog climbing onto his desk and waving a paper half-mask on a stick.

“Booooo! Boooooooo! Hey Uncle Kermit, guess who I am?”

“A very excited frog?” Kermit guessed.

“Awww...no, I’m the Phantom! Wooooooo!” Robin moaned, trying to undulate his flippers in a menacing way.

“Excited about tomorrow night?” Kermit felt something uneasy poking at the back of his mind, something Robin’s mask had triggered, but his chilled brain was too out of whack yet to nail down what it was. Robin hopped up and down in place, and the nagging something vanished from Kermit’s mind.

“Oh you bet! Uncle Kermit...Rizzo and Pepe said this place we’re gonna go is a real haunted house! Is that true?” Robin asked nervously.

“Robin, there’s no such thing...and even if there is, all of us are going too! The Mayhem will all be there, and Miss Piggy and I will walk with you, and Bunsen and Beaker will be filming it all for us...”

“Are you sure they know how?”

Kermit chuckled, making a wry face. “I certainly hope so! Remember to wear your special t-shirt, okay?”

“I will! Hey, does this mean I can have a part in the movie too?”

Kermit hesitated. “Well, I don’t know, Robin. Your parents still aren’t sure that a horror movie is appropriate for a young frog to take part in...”

Robin made an unhappy tadpole face, bulging out his mouth in a pout so that his eyes seemed to pop up. Kermit tried his best to hold in a chortle at that. “Awwww...but you said it won’t be scary, it’ll be funny!”

“There will be just enough scare for the audience to sympathize with moi, the lady in distress,” Piggy assured the young frog as she came down the stairs. “At least, in distress until moi turns her considerable skill at kicking tuchis on, and then it’s pig versus zombies! Oh, and Kermie?” She sashayed sweetly up to him; Kermit pursed his lips, expecting a kiss; instead, she dusted her gloves off in his face. A shimmer of red scales fluttered onto his nose, and Kermit sputtered and spat. “Keep the danged aquatic life out of moi’s dressing room or it will be Fish Fry Sunday!”

“Hey, that wasn’t very nice!” Lew Zealand protested, and chased after the limping fish while the Chef came slowly downstairs, looking dejected, with his cleaver embedded in his toque. Robin giggled. Kermit shook off the remaining scales and pulled Piggy in close for a smooch.

She allowed it, and even returned the pressing of lips a moment, then broke away and headed for the green room stairs. “Ta, mon cher – moi must get a honey tea for her throat! This place is so cold today...brrrr!”

“Yeah,” Robin agreed. “It’s like the whole theatre is a cold spot, like on that spook hunter show! Gotta go put my costume on for the trick-or-treat song, Uncle Kermit. See ya!”

Kermit frowned, looking up into the flyloft, but could barely see any of the ropes suspending the scenery and electrical battens, much less into the dark recesses of the grid. Spooks...I wonder why Uncle Deadly hasn’t insisted we feature him this weekend? Halloween is tomorrow, and I would’ve thought he’d jump at the chance to do some corny recital of Poe or Bierce or something...come to think of it, where is that non-pig ham, anyway? He would have given this more thought, but just then Scooter returned with a large paper cup of absolutely amazing-smelling caramel apple coffee paired with Frosted Flies heated in a little cup with mealworm milk, and Kermit’s stomach growled, and he set about making sure he devoured every bit of the late breakfast before the matinee began.
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