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RedPiggy
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Prologue
The loss of the crown had been devastating, or so it seemed to his royal subjects. The King of the Universe was destined to rule all for the benefit of everyone. And yet, seemingly on a whim, he had just thrown it away … or so it seemed to those who knew him. He had been exhausted from the harsh, nagging words of his court. The thought of having to rule such a wide expanse every single day drove his spirits deep down. And so, the King of the Universe had relinquished his royal duty.
Now, one does not just throw away one’s responsibilities and get away with it without a scratch. Those who abdicated were doomed to seek out that very crown which weighed so heavily upon the royal head…
The former King of the Universe wandered to and fro, forever without home or purpose. At the time, it seemed to suit him. And yet, as he was turned away from each and every land, he began to doubt his decision. The universe was one big disappointment after another: sometimes he barely kept warm in the glacial lands of the north, sometimes he felt as though he were fully baked under the hot and searing sun of the west, sometimes he nearly fainted from infection in the cesspools of the south, and sometimes he had to fight off endless enemies in the east. He knew only the comfort of his own spirit, and that was waning by the century’s end. He had been wandering and suffering such deep loneliness for a few centuries, although he had honestly lost track of time. Eventually, time ceased to have meaning. So, too, did other things: good food, his last remaining royal robe (worn to tatters through the centuries), companionship (of which he had none, as he had been known as selfish and strict, which endeared him to few) …
On one particular occasion, weary from a particularly bad run-in with impish fire elementals who insisted on trying to eat him, the former King of the Universe slumped down next to a young tree atop a high hill, overlooking a fertile plain. He had grown tired of walking. He stared at the plain, filled with grasses of all kinds, flowers blooming in large groups, and bordered by a sparkling, winding, majestic river that shamed even the vast oceans.
Perhaps, just perhaps, he might stick around for a few days…
A black-haired Caucasian middle-aged woman, with crow’s feet in her eyes and a wide, sensitive grin, looked up from the stack of papers on her desk. Her voice was gentle and cheerful. “This is great so far.” She leaned back against her black leather chair. The woman wore a black suit with a light blue blouse underneath. Her office was located in a rather posh section of Manhattan, courtesy of years of Broadway success under her belt. She maintained her grin as she spoke with the thirty-eight year-old brunette, who herself had been busily climbing the entertainment ladder after a stint teaching college drama students. “It’s a good thing your stories are proven cash cows … you tend to like re-using themes a lot,” she noted, chuckling.
The other woman shrugged, returning the smile. They had worked together on a couple of projects now, so she realized her business partner was just teasing. “Hey, we’ve seen a huge resurgence in fairytale crap over the last decade or so,” she informed the woman across the sleek desk. “RPGs are getting some respect, we’ve got the nostalgic 80s flavor … this has the potential to rival Cats.”
The other woman frowned, though she quickly tried to regain her normally cheerful composure. “Sarah, do you think your work is ‘crap’? I mean, if you’re starting to feel a need to move on, let’s get those feelings out in the air now, shall we?”
Sarah shrugged, looking at the floor, trying to avoid her friend and business partner’s eyes. She hesitated to answer. She really didn’t want to say the words out loud, remembering what problems that could cause. “I feel it’s personal, Jenny,” she exclaimed strongly. It wasn’t that she was afraid of losing the job … Jenny wasn’t like that … but there were, more private reasons to think her statements thoroughly before stating them. “This isn’t just about capitalizing on the retro thing … some stories need to get told. I’ve had a great time writing for you, but there are some things … I dunno, Jen,” she continued, her voice becoming more and more subdued, “I just … regret …”
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
The book slammed shut with the help of large brown furry hands and was tossed over the right shoulder, making some strands of hair on the side of the even larger head sway.
“Whoa!” a female voice screamed out as the book raced past her as she sat on the big lug’s shoulder. The googly-eyed, yellow-orange creature with the red-orange frizzy pigtails and the bright red turtleneck sweater ducked out of the way just in time, hanging onto some body hair on the reader’s back.
The brown furry giant looked over to the right and shrugged, nearly sending the female creature flying. “Sowwy, Red,” he told her casually, reaching back to help her up. His voice was smooth and deep, though his pronunciation still left a little to be desired.
Red, a Fraggle who made her home in Fraggle Rock, a large cave system that connected at least two worlds, maybe more, glared at the humongous guy. However, she shook her head and sighed, trying to hide her irritation in her voice, “No, it’s okay, Junior. I think I’ll live.”
Junior smiled. “Gweat!” he exclaimed, laughing, his belly heaving up and down with each guffaw. Junior was a Gorg. Think a brown shaggy King Kong but with a light brown bulbous nose with a loose khaki jacket, no pants, and spiked brown leather boots and no pressing girl problems.
“For now,” Red griped under her breath.
“When did you start reading The Legends of Sir Hubris again, Junior?” a high-pitched male gravelly voice asked from the ground where other Fraggles had gathered to hear some Gorg tales at the edge of the radish garden near the tool shed.
Junior shrugged as he faced Wembley, a green-yellow Fraggle with a tussle of almost blond hair and a banana-tree shirt, which was never buttoned all the way up.
“Watch it,” Red cried out angrily, hanging onto Junior’s shoulder with a death-grip, “you dunderheaded…”
“RED!” a teeny male voice with an occasional Canadian accent barked from below.
“It’s okay, Gobo,” Junior wistfully told the exploring Fraggle with the orange skin, purple hair, orange and yellow-striped long-sleeved shirt and a brown vest. He looked over at Red and tried to keep his voice down, since at that proximity, Gorg voices could rival avalanches, “Sowwy, Red … you want down?”
Before she could answer, Gobo interjected. “What she really wants is to know why you started reading from those legends again!” He frowned at Red, craning his neck to see her. Fraggles were roughly two-feet tall, give or take, so having conversations with two-story Gorgs could sometimes leave them with a stiff neck.
Wembley, standing next to Gobo, shrugged and looked at the ground. “Actually, uh, I thought I was the one who wanted to know.”
Gobo glanced over at his friend. “And Red wants to hear it too … don’t you, Red?” he asked in that not-so-subtle tone he used when Red, he felt, was coming on too strong.
“Well, I …” Junior began.
“Juuuunnniiiooorrrrr,” sang a melodious female voice from within the Gorg’s castle. At the front door appeared a lavender Gorg with a sharply upturned nose and a tremendous amount of blonde hair pulled up with a few pins, which were each the size of a tall Fraggle. She beckoned for Junior. “Come inside, sweetie-kins … I need you to try on some new clothes I’m sewing for your Five-hundred party.”
“Five-hundred party?” Red, Gobo, and Wembley asked in unison.
Junior began to rise, but remembered Red and gently put her down before standing. He glanced at the female Gorg. “But Maaaaa,” he whined to his mother, “dat’s tree ye-uhs away!”
Ma Gorg shook her finger at her son. “If you want it to look good I need to start on it now, Favorite Son and Former King of the Universe,” she lectured.
“But you just made dis shirt for me a hunnahd ye-uhs ago!” Junior pleaded. He didn’t mind helping his Ma with cooking, since he enjoyed finding uses for the vegetables he grew, but fashion preparation could take a decade or more. He picked up an edge of his shirt and sniffed it deeply. He looked back at Ma. “Besides … it’s not even duhty yet!”
Ma Gorg frowned, slapping her hand on the bottom half of the door. “You know how I get when you start sounding like your Father,” she warned, almost growling.
“And what do I sound like, dear?” yelled a gravelly aged voice from deep within the castle.
Ma Gorg’s eyes widened and she turned toward the voice of her husband, who had been resting more … well, much more ever since Junior forsaked the crown. “Like a brisk summer wind, Oh Gorgeous Husband of Mine,” she laughed nervously. “All of nature rejoices when you open your mouth!” She turned back towards Junior, who had made little progress towards the castle. “Although sometimes they appreciate when it’s shut,” she mumbled quietly. She looked at Junior expectantly. He had better not need another … motherly suggestion, she thought to herself.
Junior sighed, defeated. He turned to his Fraggle friends. “I guess I can’t avoid my destiny, Fwaggles,” he noted sadly. “See you whenevah I see you.”
Author’s Note: This story takes place in 2008. There will be some parallelism here, as it’s tradition in Fraggle Rock, but I’m advancing the story. I have a small obsession with tying together multiple Hensonian franchises into a single timeline. This fanfic is based upon a chronology I wrote on another forum, which I don’t think exists anymore.
The loss of the crown had been devastating, or so it seemed to his royal subjects. The King of the Universe was destined to rule all for the benefit of everyone. And yet, seemingly on a whim, he had just thrown it away … or so it seemed to those who knew him. He had been exhausted from the harsh, nagging words of his court. The thought of having to rule such a wide expanse every single day drove his spirits deep down. And so, the King of the Universe had relinquished his royal duty.
Now, one does not just throw away one’s responsibilities and get away with it without a scratch. Those who abdicated were doomed to seek out that very crown which weighed so heavily upon the royal head…
The former King of the Universe wandered to and fro, forever without home or purpose. At the time, it seemed to suit him. And yet, as he was turned away from each and every land, he began to doubt his decision. The universe was one big disappointment after another: sometimes he barely kept warm in the glacial lands of the north, sometimes he felt as though he were fully baked under the hot and searing sun of the west, sometimes he nearly fainted from infection in the cesspools of the south, and sometimes he had to fight off endless enemies in the east. He knew only the comfort of his own spirit, and that was waning by the century’s end. He had been wandering and suffering such deep loneliness for a few centuries, although he had honestly lost track of time. Eventually, time ceased to have meaning. So, too, did other things: good food, his last remaining royal robe (worn to tatters through the centuries), companionship (of which he had none, as he had been known as selfish and strict, which endeared him to few) …
On one particular occasion, weary from a particularly bad run-in with impish fire elementals who insisted on trying to eat him, the former King of the Universe slumped down next to a young tree atop a high hill, overlooking a fertile plain. He had grown tired of walking. He stared at the plain, filled with grasses of all kinds, flowers blooming in large groups, and bordered by a sparkling, winding, majestic river that shamed even the vast oceans.
Perhaps, just perhaps, he might stick around for a few days…
A black-haired Caucasian middle-aged woman, with crow’s feet in her eyes and a wide, sensitive grin, looked up from the stack of papers on her desk. Her voice was gentle and cheerful. “This is great so far.” She leaned back against her black leather chair. The woman wore a black suit with a light blue blouse underneath. Her office was located in a rather posh section of Manhattan, courtesy of years of Broadway success under her belt. She maintained her grin as she spoke with the thirty-eight year-old brunette, who herself had been busily climbing the entertainment ladder after a stint teaching college drama students. “It’s a good thing your stories are proven cash cows … you tend to like re-using themes a lot,” she noted, chuckling.
The other woman shrugged, returning the smile. They had worked together on a couple of projects now, so she realized her business partner was just teasing. “Hey, we’ve seen a huge resurgence in fairytale crap over the last decade or so,” she informed the woman across the sleek desk. “RPGs are getting some respect, we’ve got the nostalgic 80s flavor … this has the potential to rival Cats.”
The other woman frowned, though she quickly tried to regain her normally cheerful composure. “Sarah, do you think your work is ‘crap’? I mean, if you’re starting to feel a need to move on, let’s get those feelings out in the air now, shall we?”
Sarah shrugged, looking at the floor, trying to avoid her friend and business partner’s eyes. She hesitated to answer. She really didn’t want to say the words out loud, remembering what problems that could cause. “I feel it’s personal, Jenny,” she exclaimed strongly. It wasn’t that she was afraid of losing the job … Jenny wasn’t like that … but there were, more private reasons to think her statements thoroughly before stating them. “This isn’t just about capitalizing on the retro thing … some stories need to get told. I’ve had a great time writing for you, but there are some things … I dunno, Jen,” she continued, her voice becoming more and more subdued, “I just … regret …”
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
The book slammed shut with the help of large brown furry hands and was tossed over the right shoulder, making some strands of hair on the side of the even larger head sway.
“Whoa!” a female voice screamed out as the book raced past her as she sat on the big lug’s shoulder. The googly-eyed, yellow-orange creature with the red-orange frizzy pigtails and the bright red turtleneck sweater ducked out of the way just in time, hanging onto some body hair on the reader’s back.
The brown furry giant looked over to the right and shrugged, nearly sending the female creature flying. “Sowwy, Red,” he told her casually, reaching back to help her up. His voice was smooth and deep, though his pronunciation still left a little to be desired.
Red, a Fraggle who made her home in Fraggle Rock, a large cave system that connected at least two worlds, maybe more, glared at the humongous guy. However, she shook her head and sighed, trying to hide her irritation in her voice, “No, it’s okay, Junior. I think I’ll live.”
Junior smiled. “Gweat!” he exclaimed, laughing, his belly heaving up and down with each guffaw. Junior was a Gorg. Think a brown shaggy King Kong but with a light brown bulbous nose with a loose khaki jacket, no pants, and spiked brown leather boots and no pressing girl problems.
“For now,” Red griped under her breath.
“When did you start reading The Legends of Sir Hubris again, Junior?” a high-pitched male gravelly voice asked from the ground where other Fraggles had gathered to hear some Gorg tales at the edge of the radish garden near the tool shed.
Junior shrugged as he faced Wembley, a green-yellow Fraggle with a tussle of almost blond hair and a banana-tree shirt, which was never buttoned all the way up.
“Watch it,” Red cried out angrily, hanging onto Junior’s shoulder with a death-grip, “you dunderheaded…”
“RED!” a teeny male voice with an occasional Canadian accent barked from below.
“It’s okay, Gobo,” Junior wistfully told the exploring Fraggle with the orange skin, purple hair, orange and yellow-striped long-sleeved shirt and a brown vest. He looked over at Red and tried to keep his voice down, since at that proximity, Gorg voices could rival avalanches, “Sowwy, Red … you want down?”
Before she could answer, Gobo interjected. “What she really wants is to know why you started reading from those legends again!” He frowned at Red, craning his neck to see her. Fraggles were roughly two-feet tall, give or take, so having conversations with two-story Gorgs could sometimes leave them with a stiff neck.
Wembley, standing next to Gobo, shrugged and looked at the ground. “Actually, uh, I thought I was the one who wanted to know.”
Gobo glanced over at his friend. “And Red wants to hear it too … don’t you, Red?” he asked in that not-so-subtle tone he used when Red, he felt, was coming on too strong.
“Well, I …” Junior began.
“Juuuunnniiiooorrrrr,” sang a melodious female voice from within the Gorg’s castle. At the front door appeared a lavender Gorg with a sharply upturned nose and a tremendous amount of blonde hair pulled up with a few pins, which were each the size of a tall Fraggle. She beckoned for Junior. “Come inside, sweetie-kins … I need you to try on some new clothes I’m sewing for your Five-hundred party.”
“Five-hundred party?” Red, Gobo, and Wembley asked in unison.
Junior began to rise, but remembered Red and gently put her down before standing. He glanced at the female Gorg. “But Maaaaa,” he whined to his mother, “dat’s tree ye-uhs away!”
Ma Gorg shook her finger at her son. “If you want it to look good I need to start on it now, Favorite Son and Former King of the Universe,” she lectured.
“But you just made dis shirt for me a hunnahd ye-uhs ago!” Junior pleaded. He didn’t mind helping his Ma with cooking, since he enjoyed finding uses for the vegetables he grew, but fashion preparation could take a decade or more. He picked up an edge of his shirt and sniffed it deeply. He looked back at Ma. “Besides … it’s not even duhty yet!”
Ma Gorg frowned, slapping her hand on the bottom half of the door. “You know how I get when you start sounding like your Father,” she warned, almost growling.
“And what do I sound like, dear?” yelled a gravelly aged voice from deep within the castle.
Ma Gorg’s eyes widened and she turned toward the voice of her husband, who had been resting more … well, much more ever since Junior forsaked the crown. “Like a brisk summer wind, Oh Gorgeous Husband of Mine,” she laughed nervously. “All of nature rejoices when you open your mouth!” She turned back towards Junior, who had made little progress towards the castle. “Although sometimes they appreciate when it’s shut,” she mumbled quietly. She looked at Junior expectantly. He had better not need another … motherly suggestion, she thought to herself.
Junior sighed, defeated. He turned to his Fraggle friends. “I guess I can’t avoid my destiny, Fwaggles,” he noted sadly. “See you whenevah I see you.”
Author’s Note: This story takes place in 2008. There will be some parallelism here, as it’s tradition in Fraggle Rock, but I’m advancing the story. I have a small obsession with tying together multiple Hensonian franchises into a single timeline. This fanfic is based upon a chronology I wrote on another forum, which I don’t think exists anymore.
