A word of caution first...
Before you read this chapter, it would probably be a good idea to read it if you aren't eating at the moment...or just getting ready to eat. There's something in this chapter that's not too pleasant to look at, (kinda gross) but it's necessary to the story. Just bear with it (wocka wocka) and penguins will be there shortly afterwards, I promise.
Chapter 2
"Mr. Frass, sir, if you'll just listen to reason." the assistant pleaded.
"Look, I don't want to hear any more from you." Frass growled. They were inside the warehouse. Frass glowered at the many abstract shapes in the near dark. All were covered with off-white canvas tarps. There were crates, too--old wooden ones. Some were stamped "FRAGILE" in faded, black ink.
"This junk has got to go. I don't see why the Smithsonian wanted this mess. It's useless!" Frass gave a nearby cardboard box a kick. It tipped over and a single, worn, blue sneaker tumbled out. A thick sleeve flopped heavily over it. "Old clothes not fit for the Salvation Army."
The assistant bumped into a covered something too big to be in a box. They jumped, startled at the sudden echoing pound from inside it. The assistant pulled back the cloth. It was an old piano.
Frass's oily face brightened. "Hey! Nice find, there! Let's see that..." Frass's beady eyes scanned the piano from end to end. "It's worn, but it looks like it might be worth something. We can haul it out and sell it before we tear this place down."
The assistant stood between Frass and the piano. "No! Do you know who this piano belonged to? We can't just--"
"Shut up!" roared Frass. "It's mine and I can do what I want with it! I don't care if it belonged to that old geezer! He's DEAD! He's WORM FOOD! We're lucky we found something of value here to sell. I mean, look at this." Frass whipped the cover off a massive grandfather clock that the assistant recognized instantly. "This clock is no good! It doesn't even have any hands!"
"It's not supposed to..." mumbled the assistant, hanging his head. "it never did..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Muppets watched as the mysterious stranger approached the Boarding House. As he came closer, he became more and more familiar to them all. Could it be...?
Knock knock knock knock...
"Come in!" Kermit answered brightly.
The door opened and there he was, just as he'd come into that other house everyone knew so well. Instinctively, Rowlf (who was sitting at the piano) plinked out a few brisk notes with one paw.
"Hey! I know you!" announced Link as he walked up to him. "You're the Maytag Repair Man! Well, the washing machine is in the basement. It's been on the fritz since the penguins did their Tony Hawk impressions--"
"Dat's not the Maytag Man, ya lug!" frowned Rizzo. "Dat's da man on dat kid's show who shows them films about how they make stuff!"
Link scratched his head, trying to think. "Uhh..."
"Mr. McFeely!" everyone chorused in unison.
"Oh, yeah!" Link nodded, finally getting it.
Right away, Kermit could tell something was wrong. Even though Mr. McFeely had never visited Hensonville before, Kermit had seen him enough times to know when something troubled him. Countless hours watching him on TV (when Robin was smaller) taught him that.
Mr. McFeely looked worried and slightly winded from his bicycle ride. His concern was concealed by his sudden realization of the home he had stumbled into. People mixed with livestock, monsters and who knew what else stared at him like they knew him. Even the huge monster looked at him with acknowledgement and respect. The slightly nervous delivery man never had seen such an odd mix of...inhabitants...before under one roof. Still, he had a delivery to make and a promise to keep to his old friend.
"It's nice to meet you," smiled Kermit, extending a hand. "Kermit the Frog."
Mr. McFeely took it and shook. Surprised as he was, he remained polite.
"It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Frog."
"So what brings you here to our home?" Kermit wanted Mr. McFeely to be at ease. He knew of people that weren't used to the Muppet Boarding House. He never forgot one time when a Girl Scout was selling cookies and Crazy Harry answered the door. True, he did buy three boxes of pecan clusters, but he didn't need to use a detonator to open the boxes.
As timid as Mr. McFeely looked, Kermit was glad that Animal wasn't around. Even with Floyd holding him in check, Animal had a thing for anyone who looked like a postal worker...mostly an urge to bite.
"Well, I have a Speedy Delivery here for someone." Mr. McFeely held a mailing tube underneath his arm and a medium sized bubble mailing envelope.
"Oooh! I knew it!" crowed Robin. "My new Star Frog Flashlight!"
"No, no," Mr. McFeely gently corrected. "it's not a flashlight, it's something much different."
"Aw, rats." mumbled Robin.
"Who's the delivery for, sir?" asked Fozzie.
Mr. McFeely shrugged. "Well, that's what I need help with. I'm not sure who exactly...but I believe they live right around here."
Clifford put down his newspaper. "Hold the phone. You mean you got somethin' for someone but have no idea who it's for? Sounds like a Dead Letter Office candidate to me."
"Well, in most cases, yes it would go there...but it's much too important." Mr. McFeely held the package like a precious antique. "And like I said, it seems to be for someone either in or around Hensonville."
"What's so important about it?" Link drawled. The other Muppets murmured in curiosity as Mr. McFeely noticed the entertainment center in the living room. He held out the smaller bubble envelope.
"Well, I have a video here that explains everything, if I may use your VCR."
Kermit nodded and took the package from him. "Sure thing." He kept wondering why on earth Mr. McFeely, of all people was stopping here. Kermit was used to chatting with celebrities. He had done it for years. But this encounter left a different impression on him. This was no typical Hollywood celebrity. There was no limo, just a bicycle. There was no fancy tuxedo, just a blue collar uniform. There was no flashy bravado and an expression that mugged to a camera, just a gentle demeanor and the simple handing over of a plain bubble mailer.
Still, there was a different type of celebrity presence there. He was famous all right, but a different type of famous. You could bound and gag John Cleese. You could pelt Milton Berle in the face with a giant powder puff. If you wanted to blow up Jaye P. Morgan or let the crocodiles chew on Elton John, no problem.
But Mr. McFeely was completely different story. You just didn't do that when he was around. Without demanding it, he just somehow earned a polite respect. In a way it was like that little pause Kermit liked every morning when he read the "Peanuts" strip from the paper.
Kermit handed the tape over to Scooter, who put it in the VCR.
"Oh boy! I hope it's da 'How Dey Make Cheese' film!" Rizzo blurted out.
Pepe gave him a look. "Jou actually watch dat show?" he mumbled. "Jou are nuts, hokay?"
Rizzo shrank a little, embarrassed. "It was a cheese factory...we rats got weaknesses too, ya know."
The Muppets watched as a brief test pattern blipped on the screen, followed by a title card which simply read "The Best Neighbor" in neatly printed lettering.
There was the familiar pan across the house, but with no musical accompaniment. There was only silence as the camera panned through the kitchen with the old fashioned fridge. A shot of the fish tank, the traffic light and Picture Picture followed. The trolley tracks were next, followed by the closet door, the little framed picture of a tiny unidentified something, the little window with the 1970's style bluish-green curtains, then the front door.
Unlike the regular greeting expected, the front door opened a little slowly, as if whoever was pushing it had a hard time getting it open.
It was him, all right...but much older. His hair was grey as it had been for years, but there were many more wrinkles lining his smile. He also wore a pair of thick reading glasses. Behind them was the familiar twinkle in his kind eyes. Like he always did, he walked down the little set of stairs and sat on that same seat. This time, though, he didn't change his shoes.
"Hello there, neighbors."
"Hello!" Beauregard answered brightly.
"If you are watching this videotape, I, Fred Rogers have passed away. This is a message for someone very special. For some of you, you may have heard about something I talked about called 'The Best Neighbor'. Some time ago, I decided that I wanted to leave my television program, 'Mister Rogers Neighborhood' in the hands of someone who I could trust. This, of course, is PBS.
But, I also wanted to leave behind the sets you see behind me, the puppets I use in the Land of Make Believe and even my trolley in the hands of someone who will take good care of them while not in the Smithsonian. This key--" here Mr. Rogers held up an ordinary brass key "is for a building where all of this, including all the master tapes of 'Mister Rogers Neighborhood' are stored. As of November 24, 2009, my lease to the building will expire. I am leaving this key to someone I call 'The Best Neighbor'. They will be in charge of keeping it safe."
The camera zoomed in ever so slowly on Mr. Rogers' face like it had so many times on his program while he explained something important.
"The person I chose as 'The Best Neighbor' will not own what's in the building...they will just keep it safe. The Mister Roger's Neighborhood we all know and love belongs to all my television neighbors, past, present and future. 'The Best Neighbor' will have a big responsibility. They will make sure that my television neighborhood is around for as long as possible." He tilted his head slightly. I think it's good for children just starting to grow to visit this television neighborhood even after I am gone."
Mr. Rogers paused to clear his throat, the only audible sound in the room.
"'The Best Neighbor' will be announced by my good friend, Mr. McFeely, shortly before the lease for the warehouse is up. In 2002, I told my decision on the air and asked people to send in their response if they were interested in being 'The Best Neighbor'. If their response convinced me they had the same amount of love and respect I have for the television program, they would become 'The Best Neighbor'. I received many responses, and it was very, very difficult to choose just one for the job.
But I received one entry that truly surprised me. It was an entry from a child, mailed in with the help of a grown-up friend. This entry truly touched my heart, even more than the lengthy, sophisticated letters I received from grown ups.
I have decided that this child, with the help of their grown-up friend, will be in charge of keeping 'Mister Rogers Neighborhood' on the air and keeping the tapes, props, puppets and sets safe. This child is the one whom I have chosen to be 'The Best Neighbor'."
Mister Rogers tilted his head slightly to the other side. The corner of his mouth twitched for a split second as his gentle eyes gave the viewers a calm, yet serious look.
"This is my wish. I want my neighborhood to always be there. I want it to be there for everyone to enjoy, to learn from and to grow with. To 'The Best Neighbor', I wish you the best of luck, my thanks and my love."
Mister Rogers gave a little nod, then the camera slowly faded to black. A moment later, the colorful test pattern appeared. Its low hum broke the silence in the room.
Mr. McFeely wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and put his glasses back on. "He was..." his voice trailed off.
"He was a good American." finished Sam respectfully.
"But...who is this 'Best Neighbor' he was talking about, sir?" asked Fozzie.
"Who gets that key?" added Gonzo.
"Who wrote to him?" asked Scooter.
"Oongesh yer de ber de be?"
"Bawk?"
The silence in the room broke into chatter again. Kermit waved his arms. "QUIII-ET!" he yelled.
Kermit glanced at the large mailing tube under Mr. McFeely's arm. He had hung onto every word from the video. Though he never actually met Mr. Rogers in person, he had a good idea that he was a man who made very wise decisions. The first of these was to have one of his best friends seek out the 'Best Neighbor' as he put it. The second was selecting 'The Best Neighbor'. Who was it? The answer, Kermit knew, was underneath the delivery man's arm.
"Well..." said Mr. McFeely. "This is where things get complicated," he showed everyone the mailing tube. "inside here is the entry Fred talked about. It's more of a drawing than a letter. Whoever drew it is going to be the safeguard of the sets, props, tapes, everything relating to 'Mister Rogers Neighborhood' while not on exhibit. Whoever drew it is 'The Best Neighbor'." There was a pause. "May I show it to you?"
There was a sudden ripple of interest and cries of "yes!" and "please!" Chickens and penguins clucked in agreement as Kermit led Mr. McFeely over to the kitchen table, followed by the curious group of Muppets. Rowlf plucked the salt and pepper shakers out of the way and swept the table clean with his paw.
Gently and carefully, Mr. McFeely reached inside the tube and pulled out a curled up manila mailing envelope. Immediately, Kermit noticed two things. One was that the return address was smeared as if by rain. The second was Fred Roger's clear printing on the back of the envelope, which read 'The Best Neighbor'.
With the care of a rare book conservation specialist, Mr. McFeely lifted the flap and pulled out a rolled up paper 18 by 24 inches. He unrolled it and Rowlf used his paws and the salt and pepper shakers to hold down the slightly dinged and ripped corners. Everyone (except Sweetums) craned their necks to see.
Mr. McFeely was right. It was a drawing. The whole thing was done in crayon. Colorful shapes decorated the paper in no certain pattern...but there was an odd order to them. Nothing was scribbled. Each shape had been carefully colored as if the child concentrated on not going outside the lines. It was obviously done with a lot of time and care (as much as a preschooler could muster). At the same time, it also looked like an ornate cave painting. Someone, obviously was trying to tell something with these shapes.
At the left of the page was a large, light blue apartment building with an unfinished, jagged roof. Next to it was a pink box with a little circle drawn on it. Next to it was a very obvious tree with something vague and blue in its branches next to a yellow square. Next to the tree was what looked like a squat, gray jar. The artist had carefully drawn colorful vertical lines on its lid. Next to the "jar" was a brown lump in midair, then an orange rectangle stood on end with a yellow circle overlapping its upper half.
Beneath the shapes were four stick figures. The first one looked a little like a pictograph of the Swedish Chef. Its arms were stretched out to its sides. The next one was of a woman in a skirt. Her arms were raised up as if she were in the arches during the "Muppet Show" theme song. The third one was male. It had a vague, blue flat something on its head and its arms and legs were overlapped in the same shade of blue. One arm pointed straight up. The other arm pointed straight out to the side. In one hand was a gray blob.
The last stick figure was done with more detail than the others. It was drawn in black crayon with orange overlapping its torso. Blue ovals covered its feet. Next to the figure was a small red rectangle with yellow lines drawn through it and around its edges. Two black lines underlined the object and snaked to the blue "apartment building". This last stick figure had one arm pointing up, one arm pointing down.
All four figures together looked like they were either dancing, reaching for something or exercising. It was hard to tell.
There were words, too. They were misspelled, sporadic, and some letters were missing or misshapen, but they were there.
Next to the square in the tree, someone wrote "mowmomewmemow". The blue "building" had a word on it, too. The wrapper from a "Payday" candy bar was stuck to it with chocolate.
Another word was repeated at least a dozen times in the picture: FRED. It was written in the sky, in the corner of the picture and between the floating objects. Sometimes the middle line from the "E" would be missing or the "R" would be a "P", but each word was unmistakably intended to be read as "FRED".
Other words appeared between the "FRED"s. "LOVE" was written in the sky. "GOOD NEYBR" was scrawled next to the pink box. "U C F R I E N D SPECCEL YOU R MY FREND" crawled up beside the upright rectangle.
Beneath the four stick figures was the only full sentence on the paper. The child must have practiced writing the sentence previously several times before writing it here. The letters wobbled, but were not nearly as lopsided as the others on the page. It said "I WANT TO HELP FRED".
Everyone exchanged curious glances, trying to make sense out of the picture.
"Who drew this?" asked Kermit.
Mr. McFeely shook his head sadly. "I don't know. I wish I did know. The return address from the envelope is too smeared to read."
Rizzo made a face. "Wait a minnit. If you couldn't read da retoin address, then how da ya know dis picture came from heah?"
Mr. McFeely took the manila envelope and turned it over. "It's a good thing there's the Speedy Delivery tracking number on these packages." On the envelope was a stamped number. "When I looked up the number, two addresses came up. One them was a Hensonville address and the other one was for someplace different. But they both have the same name associated with them: Kermit the Frog."
Everyone looked at Kermit, whose eyes bulged a little in confusion.
"But I didn't draw this." he answered.
"Well, maybe not, Mr. Frog," Mr. McFeely agreed. "But someone very near one of those addresses of yours did send in this picture. That's where I need your help."
"But what happens if we don't find out who made this?" asked Gonzo. "Is there a runner up or something that gets to be 'The Best Neighbor'?"
"No no, Gonso," corrected Pepe. "De runner up halways gets de Rice A Ronis from de womens on TV. You need to see more of de womens on de Game Show Network, hokay."
Rowlf noticed Mr. McFeely's expression just then. He, like a lot of dogs, knew when a human was distressed even if they tried not to show it. He knew what Mr. McFeely had to say next wasn't good.
"If...if we don't find 'The Best Neighbor', the Smithsonian will not be able to keep what Fred put in storage. In that case, the building and everything in it will be the permanent property of whoever buys it by next week. After that, everything in that building will be owned by a man named Mr. Frass. He plans to build something where the building is."
"Who's Mr. Frass?" asked Scooter.
"I can tell you who he is," growled Piggy. "he's that dirty skunk who put up one of those smelly dog food factories two towns over...and RIGHT NEXT TO THE MALL! Moi tried to shop, but that stink was everywhere! All that darling chiffon was on sale, too! Not even the most expensive perfume could cover up that rotten horse meat stench!"
"Hold on now," said Rowlf. "there's nothing wrong with a man who's into the kibble business. I'm sure he's got a plan for Mister Rogers' stuff once he realizes how important it is."
Mr. McFeely didn't say anything. How could he tell them? The videotape, which had been left running, now stopped and automatically rewound. As it did, the test pattern was replaced by a commercial. A slightly portly man in his late fifties appeared on the screen. He had a round face, short, gray hair and deep-set, beady eyes. A well-rehearsed, greasy smile stretched across his face. The man knelt next to a tan mongrel that looked skeptically at a bowl of dog food in front of it.
"Hi there, friends. I'm Edd Frass, president and CEO of Bugaboo Dog Chow. If you're a dog lover like me, I'm sure you'll agree that your pooch needs the absolute best in nutrition. This is where Bugaboo Dog Chow becomes a part of your dog's life."
There was a close up, slow motion shot of kibble tumbling into a dog food bowl. Mr. Frass continued in a voiceover.
"Yes, friends, Bugaboo Dog Chow is loaded full of vitamins and nutrients your dog needs to live a healthy and active life...and now Bugaboo Dog Chow contains even more of an all natural ingredient to give your dog extra protein!"
The camera shot returned to Frass and the dog. "Dogs just love the new taste of Bugaboo Dog Chow," Frass gave the dog's head an affectionate ruffle. "Don'tcha, boy?" Frass held the bowl under the dog's nose. The dog looked at the bowl the same way Beaker did when faced with testing one of Bunsen's inventions.
The final shot was of a bag of Bugaboo Dog Chow with a filled dog food bowl next to it. A woman's voiceover sang a cheesy jingle:
"Bug-a-boo! Bug-a-boo!
Great for mutts and purebreds, too!
That's Bug-a-boo! Bug-a-boo!
It's the perfect food for (an offscreen dog barked once) to chew!"
Rowlf drummed his fingers a little and sang the jingle under his breath. "Not bad. I mean that Frass guy looks a little nutty, but that dog chow of his ain't half bad." He picked up a small bag of Bugaboo Dog Chow from behind his piano. "I like to have a little snack in between practices."
"Yuccha." remarked Piggy, wrinkling her snout.
Mr. McFeely nodded. "I have to agree with you there, Miss. The commercial left something out." he reached into his tote bag and pulled out another videotape. "if I may, I'd like to show you all something else." He handed the second video to Scooter. As Scooter put in the second video, Mr. McFeely glanced around the room.
"I will tell you now that some of what you see won't be very pleasant. If anyone wants to leave the room, you should do it now."
Many eyes glanced in Robin's direction. Robin immediately puffed out his little chest.
"I'm a Frog Scout! We're always brave!" he declared. "In fact, I got my merit badge in bravery last week. I even watched on YouTube where Ernie and Bert went to Egypt and I didn't flinch once!"
Link shuddered and fought the urge to suck his thumb in front of everyone. That statue gave him nightmares for weeks. It was even worse than that red hot "I" in the steel mill.
"I went to see the Bugaboo Dog Chow factory two towns over and got some behind the scenes footage with my video camera. This is how people make Bugaboo Dog Chow." Mr. McFeely explained.
The screen immediately displayed a wobbling picture of a huge mixing vat, hidden partially in shadow. Except for the photography, it reminded Kermit of the regular "How People Make Things" films he showed Mr. Rogers.
Rowlf watched the film with interest, snacking from the bag of dog chow in his paw.
"When people make Bugaboo Dog Chow, they first start out with putting some ground up soybeans in this vat." Mr. McFeely narrated. A fine, off-white powder sifted into the vat as more different colored powders poured in.
"Then, this machine adds more powders which are beef, turkey and chicken flavored."
"BAWK?"
"Chicken flavored, honey. It's artificial. Don't worry, honey."
"Bawwwwk."
"Now, water is poured in and the whole mixture is taken to another machine to be mixed." The camera bumped along, trying to keep the moving vat in shot. The camera ducked as two men in hardhats appeared in the distance. Even in silhouette, the Muppets recognized one immediately as Mr. Frass. The other made Kermit sit up. Was that who he thought that was? The video moved too quick to tell for sure.
"And now the vat goes to this..." Mr. McFeely paused. "...part of the factory. This is where the extra protein is added in."
Rowlf crunched away contentedly. It was kind of fun to see a food you liked being made.
Mr. Frass's assistant came into view, most of his face in shadow and oblivious to the hidden camera. He looked down into the vat of mixed soybeans, water and artificial flavors. With great disgust and obvious guilt, he lifted a huge plastic box in front of him with a capped spout at the front. The word PROTEIN with obvious quotation marks was printed on the side.
Kermit's mouth popped open in surprise. There was no mistaking who that was.
It was him.
The assistant's gloved hand popped open the spout's cover. A stream of something dark poured out at high speed and immediately settled into the mixture.
It wasn't a liquid. It was pieces of something. Each piece was dark brown, bullet-shaped and about the size of a swollen thumb.
The videotape's audio squeaked a little. For a moment, the Muppets thought it was just the tape itself squeaking. But the squeaking became louder as the camera got closer. The squeaking quickly turned into a slippery, squishy sound, like an avalanche of boiled eggs. High-pitched, rapid clicking mixed in sounding like a thousand miniature maracas.
The camera zoomed in further. The dark brown bullet shapes slid over each other, obviously lubricated with something. There was a bump in the film, the camera shook and the screen went black for a moment. The television lit up again to a fuzzy, amber-hued, squirming image. The squishing and clicking grew louder. The camera slowly focused from a fuzzy picture to a horribly clear sight:
Roaches.
They filled the screen; writhing, squirming, climbing over each other, wriggling their wavy antennae. There were hundreds of them, perhaps a thousand. More of them poured from above, bouncing on their comrades' slick, oily, filthy backs as their jagged, pointy legs wriggled helplessly. Thousands of opaque, glassy, unblinking eyes searched everywhere at once for an exit that didn't exist.
The camera slowly pulled back. The roaches were sinking into something gloppy and light tan...the vat of soybeans and artificial flavoring. Countless, thin legs reached for something to grab as they were sucked into the mixture like quicksand. More roaches piled on top, only to sink into the goop.
Below the vat, the camera filmed a type of tube and a cone-shaped grinder almost completely obscured by shadow. The grinder came to life with a sound of walnut shells being crushed within an orange. The grinder gagged and ground up a particularly tough, half-alive thorax before swallowing it down another translucent tube. With a grunt like a massive case of indigestion, it pumped the pasty, chunky mess through a pulsing, twitching hose. Finally, the end product poured from a dirty spout. It then stopped...poured, then stopped...poured, then stopped. Below it, metallic trays slid by as the hose spit up into each one. The end product spilled a little over the edge, revealing dark, chopped up pieces oozing within the tan mixture. A leg (or possibly an antenna) slid down the side of one tray and fell off. Tray after tray went by, accepting each pile without pausing. Each passing tray made the production line look like a cafeteria run by David Lynch.
The trays were fitted with molds. Some were round, some square, but many were in the shape of dog biscuits. The metal trays slid down a type of conveyor belt into an oven, where they were cooked. After a brief shuffling in the dark, the camera wobbled and a new, partially focused image appeared.
Blurry, off-white, vertical shapes jerked across the screen. A background clacking, as if from an off kilter teleprinter, accompanied the shifting shapes.
The shapes turned into white bags. Gravel (or what looked and sounded like gravel) rumbled from above, filling each bag. As the video camera shifted for a better view, a gray-haired man sat at the end of the production line. Ignoring the "teleprinter" sounds, the man selected an open bag. He picked out a piece of kibble and examined it under a large magnifying glass. Mr. Frass waddled up to him, drumming his fat fingers idly on his hips.
The gray haired man nodded once and looked up at Frass.
"It's OK." he said matter-of-factly.
The camera's last shot was of the finished bags being sealed. Each label read: "Bugaboo Dog Chow--NOW WITH EXTRA ALL NATURAL PROTEIN!" The gray haired man placed the bag back on the jerking belt. His hand swept some kibble crumbs away into the blackness as the factory whistle howled like a wounded animal.
The tape suddenly ended and the television blipped to a blue screen.
"And that's...that's how people...make Bugaboo Dog Chow." Mr. McFeely finished quietly, looking pale.
The room was silent as the Muppets continued to stare at the (now blank) television in disbelief and disgust. Kermit, Robin and Dr. Teeth weren't the only ones who looked green. Rizzo actually lost his appetite. Clifford shook his head as he and Sam shared the same disgusted frown. Gonzo was fanning a faint Camilla with a few of her loose feathers.
A small hiccup came from an easy chair. Miss Piggy's wide, terrified eyes had not blinked for a full minute. Her grimacing mouth was hidden partially by her bent knees. When the roaches came onscreen, her feet had left the floor so fast, her heels fell off in the process. Piggy's painted toenails gripping the front of the chair seat mimicked her gloved fingers squeezing the arm rests. Meanwhile, behind the chair, Link had fainted.
Rowlf just stood there. His mouth was...full. He hadn't chewed since he saw...
Rowlf's eyes slowly widened in delayed shock as he felt the once delicious dog chow turn into something beyond nauseating. He looked at his open paw, which still had some kibble in it. One of the round pieces had something sticking out. It was pointy...
long...
amber...
...and feebly bending on its own.
Rowlf's jaw quivered as a few half-chewed crumbs tumbled from his mouth...
A lot of things happened at once: the sound of loose kibble falling on the hardwood floor, the spinning then crashing piano stool, a dark brown blur flying upstairs to the bathroom, then finally something black and white flying out of the bathroom as the door slammed shut.
The thing bounced clumsily down the stairs and bumped to a stop at Mr. McFeely's feet, squawking irritably. It was a penguin in a shower cap with a toothbrush in one wing. Smeared Aquafresh traced the rim of its beak. The penguin stood up, glanced around, then waddled off haughtily with its beak in the air, muttering angrily.
There was a whimper from the other side of the room. "Is it over?" Fozzie had his hands over his eyes and had just now chanced a peek between his fingers.
Mr. McFeely nodded. "And that's what will be in place of the warehouse soon."
Miss Piggy regained her composure and slipped back into her heels. "A big, smelly factory filled with bugs? Moi will NOT stand for THAT!"
"I agree, Miss," said Mr. McFeely sadly. "but unless we find 'The Best Neighbor', Mr. Frass will put up another Bugaboo Dog Chow factory right down the street...and there's nothing we can do about it."
Visions of squirming, crawling roaches in mixers appeared in everyone's heads.
"B-but what happens to Mr. Rogers' things?" Fozzie asked timidly.
"Unless we find 'The Best Neighbor', Mr. Frass will tear down the warehouse...and everything in it. There's--there's a wrecking crew scheduled to go for next week."
Some of the group glanced at the large drawing on the table. Most of them were still trying to forget those squishing, clicking, grinding, slurping sounds.
"Y-you mean..." Fozzie began.
Mr. McFeely nodded sadly. "It'll all be destroyed."
beebeebeebeep! beebeebeebeeep!
"Oh, my goodness!" Mr. McFeely looked at his digital watch. "I'll be late! Listen--I'll leave the tapes and drawing here and I'll be back tomorrow morning to pick them up. Let me know if you can help us, Mr. Frog."
The watch beeped again as Mr. McFeely hurried out the door to his bicycle.
"If my Uncle Kermit can help me with that rotten ol' long division for school, he can help you with this!" said Robin brightly, trying to reassure him.
Mr. McFeely tried to smile back, but it barely came. Instead, he just hopped on his bike and was gone.
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