CHAPTER SEVEN. In which the Newsman and Rhonda Rat encounter Muppets-rights activists and unhappy rodents; and Gonzo does not particularly impress Snookie.
Gina gazed fondly at her Newsman in the mirror as they stood side-by-side at the bathroom counter, both putting finishing touches on their looks for the day ahead. "See? Told you the conditioner would solve the dry-hair problem."
Newsie nodded, and even chuckled when she suddenly reached over to muss the clean, curving part he'd just combed into his short auburn waves. Fixing it again, he smiled at her while she put in beautiful blown-glass earrings to match the necklaces of glittery red-and-gold glass beads draped in several lengths over her long black sweater-dress. She smiled back wistfully. "I wish you could come with us today. It's going to be amazing."
"It sounds…interesting. But I have to remain impartial," he reminded her. Gina was going to stand with some of her theatre friends on Wall Street today; she'd designed and helped to paint the banner they'd be holding up denouncing corporate tax breaks. The Newsman spoke of his own political views to no one but his beloved, strongly standing on principle: journalists reporting events ought to remain separate from those events, not allowing their own opinions to color their story coverage. The "fair and balanced" misstatement another network so loudly proclaimed, while repeatedly painting the protests with a broad brush of mockery, disgusted him; he for one was determined that the ideals of journalism would not be compromised so long as he was on the air!
"You could come join us when you've finished your report," Gina suggested, but Newsie shook his head.
"Sorry…no. Every amateur with a cameraphone will be down there, and if footage of me standing with you got out…"
"People might see your heart's in the right place?" Gina smiled. Newsie blushed a little. Sighing, she agreed, "I know, I know. I get it. What if you and Rhonda joined us for lunch, at least? You could pretend to be interviewing us."
"Maybe," Newsie hedged. "I do want to talk to as many groups as possible, get a clearer picture of exactly who is involved. The unions are down there now, which gives it more legitimacy in the public eye."
"Already working on your lead-in, hmm?" she teased him, bending down to offer a kiss, which he gladly and actively participated in. "Um…did you still want me to go talk to the donation folks?"
"Uh. Yes. I…I can't…"
Gina stroked his cheek. "Newsie. I really do understand, okay? Relax." He nodded, embarrassed. Last night when they'd discussed the day's plans, he'd surprised her by tentatively suggesting she take a large sum of cash down to the charity organizers who were making sure everyone camped on the street had water and hot food and first aid available. Gina had happily shown him how proud she was of him for wanting to do something helpful even indirectly…very proud, he reflected with another blush, certain images of his evening popping pleasantly into his thoughts. He knotted his tie, judging his appearance low-key enough to make sure the focus was on the more colorful protesters; he doubted any of them would be also wearing tan-and-brown plaid coats with dark brown ties. Gina grinned at him, watching him tweak his cuffs and his shirtcollar.
"Today, I will let you wear that without comment," she said.
"Isn't that a comment?" he returned.
She caught him in a long, deep kiss. When he wavered on his feet, staring breathlessly up at her, she giggled. "That was given with the understanding it is in spite of the outfit, dear Impartially Bland Journalist."
"I'll…I'll consider that a compliment," he gulped, trying to regain his equilibrium.
She held out one hand, grinning. "Ready to show those talking heads how it's done?"
He couldn't help but smile in reply, and together they went downstairs and out onto the street.
Once downtown, Gina separated from her determined Muppet with a kiss and went to find her friends; Newsie headed for the fountain in Bowling Green park, where Rhonda and the camerasloth were just setting up and dozens of protesters had gathered as a spillover site a few blocks from Wall Street. "Oh, look, Tommy," Rhonda cracked, "it's the Spirit of '76 – 1976, to be exact!"
"Cute," Newsie grumbled. "Let's start with the group here and just interview as we go."
"Talk now, edit later, works for me," Rhonda agreed, beckoning to the sloth to hoist the camera as they walked toward one clump of people having coffee in the chilly morning air, signs propped against the fountain rim behind them. "So, did you find out when your cousin's game show went off the air?"
"I found out that the rights to it were bought by another network back in '98, but after that the records get sketchy…but the show was in syndication for a while, and KRAK was one of the stations which carried it. I'm hoping somewhere in accounting, someone can dredge up the business address of the studio where the show was filmed, or at least the address of the producers," Newsie explained.
Rhonda gave him a startled look. "Seriously? You expect answers from Accounting anytime this century?"
"I did tell them in my email it was a matter of some importance," Newsie said uncertainly.
"Oh fer cryin' out…Goldie. Sweetheart. Ya know I like ya but sometimes you are so naive!"
"I couldn't find out any current information on my cousin!" Newsie said, annoyed. "I looked all over the Internet last night! Other than a few unhelpful reviews that barely even mentioned him, there was nothing! I can't even tell if he's…" He stopped, unable to voice his worry. Seeing the look on his face, Rhonda sighed.
"Okay…well…good thought, tracking down the production company for the show, but expecting the bean-counters to supply you with anything helpful is like waiting for Godot! You gotta take this into your own fuzzy hands, do some real investigating!" Rhonda paused. "Uh, you know that's a play, right? These two guys spend the whole thing waiting around…"
"Gina has a copy of the script," Newsie snapped, affronted.
"She's good for you. You needed some culture."
"Can we just focus on this right now?" he asked, gesturing toward the little group of protesters beginning to gather up their signs and Thermoses.
Rhonda shrugged, and Tommy began filming as Newsie approached the people to ask them what they hoped would happen as a result of their demonstrations.
The morning passed swiftly. Newsie roamed the entire financial district, interviewing anyone who would stop to speak with him for a moment, from irritated bankers, to kids wearing "anarchy" T-shirts, to costumed protesters playacting the tarring and feathering of a corporate CEO (at least, Newsie hoped they were all actors), to cops watching the proceedings dryly from the sidelines. Everyone had an angle, everyone had something to vent, and as noon arrived, the Newsman felt he'd at least begun to put together a fairly comprehensive look at the phenomenon.
A familiar face approached as Newsie stopped in front of the NYSE building. "Hey, Newsman! Good to see you out here! You need a sign? We brought extras," Scooter said, indicating a small group of Muppets hanging out at the foot of the stairs. Newsie recognized Rizzo, Pepe, and that monkey that always seemed to follow Johnny Fiama everywhere, as well as the theatre gofer.
The Newsman gestured at his news crew. "Uh, I'm here to report on the protests, Scooter. I can't really favor one side or another, sorry."
Scooter grinned. "Hey, no problem! Ya know, it's really a shame you never hooked up with those MacNeil-Lehrer guys. They'd like you." Feeling complimented, Newsie cleared his throat and adjusted his tie to draw attention away from the blush he felt touching his cheeks. "Well, we're supposed to be meeting this activist group here, and—"
"Oh, good! The media! About time!" exclaimed a blue-skinned Whatnot girl in a denim jacket covered with patches and political pins. She solemnly shook Scooter's hand and extended her fingers to Newsie as well, but he politely declined. Frowning at him, she tossed back her long purple hair and started barking orders: "So what are you guys waiting for? Lift those signs! Show some energy! Let's tell these fat cats we're not gonna take it any more!"
"Excuse me, but whom do you represent?" Newsie wondered. Rhonda nudged the sloth to roll tape.
The girl pointed her tiny round nose in the air. "Well, obviously, we're with MADL! We want the corporate heads to wake up and start hiring more—"
"Mabel? She's here?" Rizzo asked excitedly, trying to peer around the crowds thronging the sidewalk.
"Sí, sí, we could really use her cooking!" Pepe chimed in. The two of them jumped onto a safety railing next to the stairs and scanned eagerly in all directions.
"Meddle?" Newsie repeated uncertainly. "I don't believe I've heard of—"
"No! MADL! The Muppet Anti-Discrimination League!" the girl snapped. She gave Scooter an incredulous look. "I thought you said you were bringing some real activists? These guys don't even know what they're here for!"
"They were the only ones hanging around looking for a free lunch," Scooter explained sheepishly.
"Uh, I support da cause," Sal spoke up. The Whatnot girl's smile at him soured when he continued, "Dis is about making IRA portfolios payable in bananas, right?"
"What exactly are you hoping to change today?" Newsie asked, offering her his microphone.
She grabbed it, speaking directly to the camera, ignoring him. "We are outraged that major corporations refuse to hire more Muppets! There is today not one single example of a Muppet working within a Fortune 500 company anywhere past the ground level! This is blatant Antimuppetism and we will camp right here at the stock exchange until something is done to correct this unacceptable situation!"
Rhonda hooked a thumb at her journalist. "Hey, sister. Aren't you forgetting the one whose microphone you're hogging? We work for KRAK News!"
"Really? I've never seen him," the Whatnot sniffed.
Irritated, the Newsman grabbed his mike back, but just then an orange Whatnot with a fringe of blue hair and heavy-lidded eyes even more weary-seeming than Newsie's smoothly intervened. "Now, Constanza, let's not antagonize the media! They can be useful tools—er, that is, they may sympathize with our cause!" He smiled thinly at Newsie. "I see by your felt, sir, you clearly must favor the Muppet side in this action!"
"I told you to call me 'Stinkbomb,'" the girl complained under her breath.
Newsie studied the Whatnot warily. "I'm only an impartial observer, sir. The Newsman, for KRAK. So your organization is protesting a lack of Muppets in corporate offices?"
"Precisely. We at Bland and Blander founded our law firm expressly to combat the rampant discrimination we discovered among other firms! But unfair hiring practices don't end at the courtroom! No, we have done our homework, and you may be fascinated to know that less than one per cent of the nation's most successful companies employ Muppets!"
"Er…have there been many reported cases of Muppets being turned down for jobs due to their felt or fur?" Newsie wondered.
"Don't forget the feathery ones," Rizzo pointed out.
"Sí sí, and the scales and fins too, amigo!"
"There is ample implied evidence of discrimination!" the laywer proclaimed, shaking a fuzzy finger at the camera. He held onto his coat lapels precisely as Newsie imagined a nineteenth-century politician would do, stumping on the steps of city hall. Wouldn't surprise me if he runs for office soon, the Newsman thought.
"Can you give us concrete examples of this discrimination?" Newsie asked.
"What's your problem anyway? Oh, I get it, you have a cushy job with the non-felted, so why should you care what happens to the rest of us, huh?" the girl known as Stinkbomb sneered at him.
Taken aback, Newsie stared at her, but once again the lawyer passed a hand between them as if calming the waters. "Now, now, Constanza…"
"Stinkbomb!"
"Surely you recognize this Muppet. Earlier this year he was in the Daily Scandal for dating a young lady with, ahem, no felt," the lawyer continued, ignoring the girl's outburst. "He's quite the groundbreaker! We should be welcoming him into the fold of our cause, not making snide comments!"
"Er…my wife isn't…" Scooter began, exchanging a puzzled glance with Newsie, but the blue girl shouted him down, shoving her tiny nose directly in front of Newsie's long pointed one.
"You're dating one of them? What, was a Muppet girl not good enough for you? Hah! Well I'll have you know, you traitor, that none of us would want you anyway!"
Newsie started back a step, then scowled deeply. Rhonda tugged at his jacket sleeve. "Hey, uh, c'mon. I think we have all we need from this bunch."
Scooter was glaring coldly at the girl as well. "Hey, guys? Anyone else feel like a triple cream soda on the rocks?"
"Ain't it a little early for dat?" Sal wondered, looking at his watchless hairy wrist, but Rizzo smacked him disgustedly.
"Yeah, Scooter. I t'ink a drink sounds good right about now," the rat growled.
"Can we go to 'Rise'? They has amazing tapas…and even more amazing ladies in the short skirts and looong jackets, if you are catching my drift, heh heh," Pepe suggested suggestively.
As the Muppets left the MADL representatives behind, Rizzo grumped at the king prawn, "Haven't you learned your lesson about banker ladies by now?"
"Hey, they cannot all be evil power-brokers out to rob us blind and leave us in the dumpsters where Ricky Martin will never ever invite us to his parties again already, okay?"
The lawyer firmly pushed the angry Whatnot out of the way, chuckling. "Now, now, we're all Muppets here, right? Newsman, wasn't it? I don't recall seeing your name in the lists for the charity walk. Would you care to sign up today?"
Trying to regain his composure, Newsie still frowned at him. "What charity walk?"
"Why, the walk on the thirty-first to benefit the Muppet Anti-Discrimination League. I'm sure a journalist of your caliber would have no trouble finding sponsors, and, as I'm sure you realize, your public support would be a tremendous asset to our cause…"
Newsie edged away, holding his mike defensively. "Er, no, I have to decline, sir. As a journalist I have to maintain an absolutely unbiased perspective. All I can promise you is the chance to air your grievances on tonight's newscast, since we've filmed you here today."
"But you're clearly a Muppet," the lawyer wheedled. "Surely you must wish to see more success for us all in their world as well as ours? At least spend that evening giving us full coverage! We'll be at the condemned hotel in Doyers Street that night from—"
"Isn't that the rep from Manhattan over there?" Rhonda pointed out loudly. Shooting her a grateful look, Newsie broke away from the lawyer.
"Excuse me... Congresswoman Minelli! May I have a word?" Newsie called, running for the street where a handful of protesters were talking with the representative.
"Ah, well," the lawyer sighed.
The blue girl tossed her hair defiantly. "What a sellout! Come on, Blandie, let's make some noise!"
"Good grief, no, I can't be seen rabble-rousing! What do you think I hired you for?"
The interview with the Congresswoman, though short, made for some decent soundbites, and Rhonda was pleased at how Newsie tried his best to pin her down as to whether she agreed with the Occupy Wall Street movement or not, even though the politician's comments could be viewed either way. Well, she didn't keep her post this long without being all things to all New Yorkers, Rhonda thought in grudging admiration. They continued along the street, but when she noticed the camerasloth starting to eye some of the saplings planted along the walkway, Rhonda tapped her reporter's elbow.
"Hey, Jennings. You gonna stand out here all day getting every single viewpoint, or can we break for lunch already?" When the Newsman glared at her, she continued before he could come up with a retort: "Look, we have hours of footage. Why don't we grab a bite and then check out the soapbox in front of the stock exchange one more time before running this stuff in for edits?"
Newsie glanced at his watch. "All right," he agreed gruffly, then noticed a group of rats carrying signs. "Wait…that's new. Do rats invest in the market? Why would they be out here?"
Rhonda sighed. "Well this rat is here because her supposedly star reporter insists on asking every single schmoe what he thinks of the whole thing! Newsie! We're hungry already! We can come back after, okay?"
Newsie watched the rats as they marched in a small circle, each carrying a tiny picket sign, though he couldn't read what they said from here. "Rhonda…it's lunchtime, right?"
"Oh my frog! Do you need a hearing aid?"
Giving her a brief scowl, he pointed out what she'd missed: "Rats love to eat. It's lunchtime. Why are those rats more intent on protesting than stealing from the street vendors?"
Rhonda opened her jaw, stopped, thought, shut it. She snapped at the camerasloth, "Come on, Tommy. We'll go eat in just a sec, okay?" The trio headed over to the marching rats.
"Heck, no! We won't go! Heck, no! We won't go!" the rats chanted as they tromped in a circle, largely ignored by the other protesters and passersby.
"Uh, excuse me, what are you demonstrating against?" Newsie asked.
A nervous-seeming rat stepped forward to answer him; the sloth had some difficulty keeping him in focus as he shifted from paw to paw. "Our home's been taken away from us!"
"Oh…you were caught up in the real estate foreclosures by the banks?"
"What? No!" The rat pointed a shaking finger at a nearby storm drain. "Dere's t'ings in da sewers! We can't go back down dere until da aut'orities roust 'em out!"
"City Hall hates rats!" another rat yelled.
"Heard that before," Rhonda muttered.
"Er…I see. What sort of things exactly?" Newsie asked, intrigued.
"I…uh…I can't say," the rat mumbled, suddenly rejoining the tiny picket line. Newsie persisted, falling in step with the rodent.
"Were you evicted from the sewers? Is this a gang thing? Or…or have you seen unspeakable slimy things crawling through the ooze down there?" Newsie asked, growing anxious.
The rat stared straight ahead, chanting along with his fellows. "What exactly drove you out of your home, and what do you want the authorities to do about it?" Newsie continued, easily keeping up with the rat though the rodent tried to sidestep him.
"Look, pal, it ain't any of your business, so why doncha stick yer big nose someplace else?" another rat complained.
Newsie stopped, perplexed. "But…you're out here protesting publicly! Don't you want people to know why?"
"Honestly, mac, we just wanted ta blend in and get some chow," the second rat said.
"Plus, dose t'ings would chow on us if we told ya," another muttered.
Newsie quickly put the mike in front of that one. "Things? What things?"
"I didn't say nuttin'!" the rat squeaked, frightened. "Murray! The press is harassin' me!"
A burly rat with shaggy fur who stood as tall as Newsie's chest got in his way. "You messin' wit' my girl, CNN?"
"Er…KRAK," the Newsman corrected.
"Whatevuh. We don't wanna talk to youse. So scram!"
Deciding the long yellow teeth were a good enough reason to back away, the Newsman retreated to a bench where a couple in suits sat chatting over their bagged lunches. The grey-suited woman gave him a quizzical glance.
"Um, Parker? Isn't this the designated capitalist side of the street today?"
"What?" The blue-suited man turned to look at Newsie; he blinked up at them, baffled. The man turned to his companion dismissively. "Oh, it's all right, Chandra. He's wearing a tie. He's on our side."
"Oh, good. I wasn't sure, with that…er…fuzz."
"Press," Newsie muttered, digging out his laminated NYC press badge. "Uh…how do you two feel about the protests going on?"
The woman looked at her friend. "Parker? Do we want to talk to the press?"
"Are you with Fox News?" the man asked eagerly.
"Er…no. The Muppet Newsman, KRAK. How do you view the—"
"Muppets!" the woman laughed derisively.
"Come on, our lunch-ten is almost up anyway," the man sighed, and the two of them abruptly left. Newsie stood there, feeling confused and insulted, but Rhonda poked him in the ribs.
"Forget them, Captain Impartiality. Let's go take an expenses-paid leisurely lunch the likes a'which those corporate slaves can only dream about! Now call your beautifully non-felted chickie and let's go hobnob at Delmonico's. If you call it an exclusive interview the station'll pay!"
"Rhonda…that's cheating," he grumbled. He rummaged through his pockets, then grew embarrassed. "Uh…besides…I forgot my phone…"
"Of course you did. Allow me." Rhonda whipped out her cell and punched a number from the speed-dial list. "Françoise, sweetie! Do you have a table for four? Something by the window? Wonderful! See you in ten minutes!" She shut the phone, and grinned at her scowling reporter. "I keep telling you, Goldie: it's who ya know, not what ya do. Now come on. I am dying for a porterhouse bone to gnaw on!"
***
Slicking his still-damp hair into place, Snookie walked into the largest of the underground complex's many studios. He wrinkled his nose; the cleaning crew still hadn't quite removed the smell after the last of the auditions. Good grief, what IS that, burnt fur? I don't WANT to know… After surviving his own unfortunate adventure in creative cuisine, he really had no curiosity for exploring the source of other smells around here. The only upside to having to clean up and do a late sit-down with some new reality-show schmuck whom the monsters wanted to make into their new star was that he'd been relieved of further cooking-contest obligations. Carl hadn't been at all pleased when told that the head honcho had decreed this new daredevil show would supersede any monster-only shows.
"A month? I have to wait a month before I can dish you up to the 'Sewer's Kitchen' judge?" Carl had snarled at Snookie a few minutes ago. "I wanted to go outside! This is all your fault, and don't think I'm gonna forget it!"
"I didn't do anything!" Snookie argued. "You heard them – this is an order from the boss! Nothing either of us can do about it!"
"Oh, there's something I can do," Carl the Big Mean Perfectionist growled low, leaning over the nervous host. "I got a lot of taste-testing to do still!"
"Heh, heh, can you not drool on my jacket? I just got it back from drycleaning," Snookie said, easing out of bite range. "Gotta run!"
"I know where you sleep, Snookums!" the monster had shouted after him.
Trying to compose himself now, Snookie peered around the nearly-deserted stage area, unsure whom he was supposed to be interviewing. A rounded grey beak of a nose jutted into his face, startling him. "Hey! Where haff you been? I asked far more café au lait over one hour ago! Zees is intolerableness!"
"Heh, heh, I think you've got me confused with someone else, buddy! I'm Snookie Blyer, and I'll be hosting this—"
"I do not confuse anyzing!" the creature shouted, waving his twisted cane wildly overhead; Snookie ducked out of the way quickly. "Do you zink I became zee deerector because I was confused? No! Now go get me mah coffee!"
Snookie tiptoed around the director as he continued to rant at the air. One of the camerafrackles saw him and wearily powered up his equipment; another trudged over to clip a mic to his coat lapel. "Where's the guy I'm supposed to be talking to?" Snookie asked, and they pointed out a short blue Muppet with a strangely crooked nose in pink spangled Spandex, chained to a table by one wrist. The Muppet's eyes brightened as Snookie walked over.
"Hey, finally! Oh, cool, you're Snookie Blyer! I remember you from 'Name That Fruit: Extreme Muppet Edition'!" the odd-looking creature spoke up, his voice scratchy but enthusiastic.
Snookie gamely put on his best oh-how-nice-a-fan smile. "That's right, I am! So, look…I know your stunt thing was earlier, but we'd like to film this as though you just came offstage after it, okay? It'll be more exciting that way when it airs tomorrow."
"Uh…but I'm still on the stage."
"Don't worry. They're going to put some explosions behind you in post, or something. So!" Snookie grinned for the camera as the techies moved in to start filming. He glanced at the cue card the producers had grudgingly given him. "Well, Mr the Great! That was an astounding spectacle! You've earned yourself a spot in the competition! Tell us how you feel right now!"
"You can call me Gonzo, Snookie," the creature replied. "And right now I just feel kinda hungry…"
"Hungry for stardom, I'll bet! Ha ha! So Gonzo. That was an amazing audition piece – what do you plan to do to follow it up for the first actual competition show?"
"Well," Gonzo said, warming to the discussion, "I have a lot of things planned, Snookie! I've thought about juggling chainsaws with live grenades, you know, alternating them before the trigger goes off; or I might –"
"That's absolutely wonderful!" Snookie cried, nodding to the absent audience which he knew would be sound-tracked in as though this were all live before an actual crowd of cheering fans. "I know you have some tough competition, though! What do you think your chances really are?"
"Uh, well…I'm not sure who's still competing. I mean, that last guy did okay up until he tripped over his clown boots and fell into the boiling—"
"Well, I know you're bound to surprise us, Gonzo! Good luck moving forward, and hey everyone, be sure to tune in tomorrow night to see our very first daredevil competition live here on MMN! 'Til then, this is Snookie Blyer saying – we hope they all break a leg! Good night!" When the bright studio lights shut down again and the camera turned off, Snookie's shoulders dropped and he abandoned his wide smile. "Well, nice knowing you. Enjoy the first-class accomodations." He unclipped his mic and tossed it to the soundfrackle, looking around for his escort back to his cell. "Hey, is there any swill left? I missed dinner! Can I get a crumb or a bone or something at least?"
Unhappily, he strode from the room, yanking out his hankie to try and clear his nose of the lingering stink of Carl. Cooking shows, stunt shows, reality TV…frog, all I want is a good night's sleep and some real food! Can't I at least have that? Is that really too much to ask if I'm in such demand around here? Dark thoughts swarming around him like a cloud of choking gnats, Snookie stalked along the corridors with a monster pacing behind him all the way to his dank cell; he was disgruntled enough to whirl on it once, snapping, "Could you at least not breathe on me? You smell like toasted rat!"
"It was Creole-blackened," the monster protested meekly, trailing the show host, worrying its claws together and reminding itself it wasn't permitted to bite him.
In the studio, another monster with pink eyeballs and a mane of feathers gestured to Gonzo. "Rabba frabba. Bagga boo!"
Gonzo looked at the manacle chaining his left wrist to the table. "Uh…did you bring the key?"
"Bagga!" the monster groaned, slapping a paw to its forehead. At least, Gonzo was pretty sure that bumpy surface was what served it as a forehead. It turned to another monster, a giant birdlike thing with a toothy beak. "Ma gabba frabba zabba!" It complained to the bird-thing.
"Fraw!" the bird-thing replied, patting its sides with clawed wings as if searching pockets. It shook its head. "Caw! Baw naw!"
Gonzo slid his hand out of the cuff easily. "Eh, it's okay. So, do I get my own room, or do I have to share with the other contestants? 'Cause I'd really prefer they not have the chance to steal my ideas…" The monsters looked at one another, startled, but Gonzo, oblivious, picked up his trunk and headed for the door. "Can I get one of those little mints on my pillow? But not regular mint. I like the marshmallow-chocolate-haggis ones. Can you put that in my contract? Haggis mints only, okay?" He beamed at the feather-maned thing as it tried to keep up with him along the corridor. "This is so great! Boy, I can't wait to see the actual competition! Hey, when does this air? I gotta call my girlfriend…" he sighed. "Well, okay, so she's not really my girlfriend anymore, but I'm hoping she'll see what she's been missing, you know? Hey, do you have a girlfriend?"
The monster shook its head sheepishly. "Bagabba boo frabba." It sighed deeply, exhaling fiery breath which singed the back of Gonzo's trunk as they walked, and shrugged. "Gamabba frob, magga?"
"…And can't live without 'em," Gonzo finished, smiling. The monster coughed out a raspy laugh, and clapped the shorter Whatever on the shoulder as they headed for the cell block.
***
The dim light drew her to the living room. "Newsie?" Gina called softly. As she came through the squared archways into the comfortable front room, she found his laptop still on, the glow from the screen just enough illumination for her to see the compact form curled on the sofa. "Newsie?"
He didn't answer; coming closer, Gina realized her exhausted Muppet had fallen asleep still trying to do research. She smiled at his nose half-buried in the soft throw pillow, then turned the laptop around on the coffee table to view the screen. An open document he'd created was titled "Disappearances and Unexplained Events in Sewers;" the multitude of open browser windows piled on the desktop of the little PowerBook all seemed to be reports or allegations or tabloid articles concerning people hearing things belowground in the city over the past year. Two articles simply stated that a ConEd worker and a homeless person had been reported as missing by various associates who claimed the people had gone into the sewers and not returned. Shaking her head, Gina carefully saved every one of the open programs and shut down the laptop. Gently, she stroked Newsie's soft hair.
"Hey, cutie?"
"Mmm?" he mumbled, eyes remaining closed.
"You coming back to bed?"
"Mmm hmmm," Newsie sighed. Gina waited. He shifted around, turning his head so that his nose was plunged even deeper into the squishy pillow, and relaxed once more. In a few seconds he was snoring. Gina gazed at him a long while, considering the notion of snapping a photo of him like that.
In the end, she took his glasses off, snuggled herself in behind and around his shorter frame, and pulled a plush throw blanket over them both. When her arms went around him, he sighed happily again, and his snoring ceased…fortunately for Gina.
Much as she loved him, she'd discovered there was nothing quite as sleep-disturbing as snoring from a guy with eight-inch sinuses.
