"Eight ball, corner pocket!"

"Uh, no, Fozzie. You're not supposed to go after the eight until everything else has been sunk," Rowlf explained patiently.

"Oh, okay," Fozzie said, looking sheepish. "Thank you for teaching me pool, Rowlf! Dis is really a fun game! Aaaaaaah!" With many unnecessary waves and waggles of his pool cue, Fozzie finally lined up on the thirteen and somehow managed to hit the cue ball properly. The cue cracked nicely against the ball, sending it thunking into a side pocket. "Oh! I forgot to call da shot!"

Rowlf sighed. "That's okay, Fozzie. It, uh, it was my ball anyway. You're solids. I'm stripes."

"Hey! Speaking of stripes, didja hear da one about da zebra who got a job as a crossing-guard?"

"Uh, no."

"He quit after just a week – he felt like his customers kept trying to walk all over him! Ahhhhh! Fun-ny!" Fozzie said brightly, waving his cue in the air. Fortunately the pool hall was almost empty at this bright, hot hour of the day, and he didn't hit anyone with the careless gesture. Rowlf emptied out his bottle of IBC root beer, glad for the company even if the bear's inability to play the game correctly was a little frustrating. He usually played with Zoot, and their afternoon games were pleasantly quiet, both of them glad for the comfortable silence they could share away from the rest of the Muppets once or twice a week. However, today Zoot had hesitantly told the piano player that he'd be attending a concert at the Conservatory of Jazz, where the young Dutch girl he'd met earlier this year was playing sax in a combo as part of a day of student performances at the prestigious music school. So Rowlf had needed another pool partner, and Fozzie was the only Muppet around to ask, except for Crazy Harry. Rowlf figured the owner of the pool hall would prefer a few bad jokes to things exploding.

"Glad you're having fun, Fozzie. Want another root beer?"

"Oh, I don't know. Is dat…is dat considered okay at dis hour?" Fozzie whispered, glancing around. Most of the other players, scattered widely around the hall, had beers or shots perched on the rails of the tables.

"Uh, yeah. Just don't have more than three," Rowlf said, and happily Fozzie took their empties to the bar to get two fresh bottles. Rowlf walked slowly around the table, peering high and low at the remaining balls on their table, trying to decide which shot to take. Movement at the front entry caught his eye, and then a familiar, spicy scent, cinnamon, cloves and amber, wafted his way. Newsie's girl? What's she doing here? Rowlf wondered. He watched her as she went over to the desk next to the bar to pay for a table and selected a tall stick from the cues behind the desk.

Fozzie ran into her first. Gina looked up just in time to see him approaching, and thought Oh, great. Right when I wanted to be alone. But she forced a smile, hoping he wouldn't see the effort it cost her to be polite right now.

"Gina! Aaaaaahhh! Did you come to play pool too?" There was nothing fake about Fozzie's smile; Gina reflected that the Muppet bear was even more open and innocent than her Newsman. He gestured to a table a little to the right of the bar, where the large brown dog was watching them. "Me and Rowlf are playing over there! Wanna join us?"

"Thanks, Fozzie. That's really sweet of you…but I actually came here to, um, to work out some stuff in my head. Alone. Okay?"

"Oh," Fozzie said, his smile faltering. "Oh, sure, sure! But, uh, if you change your mind…"

"I'll be sure and come over if I feel like company. Thank you, Fozzie. Tell Rowlf I said hi," Gina said, dredging the dog's name from her roiling thoughts. She hadn't seen a lot of either of them since the auction a few months back; her own schedule, up until about a month ago, had been fairly hectic. She walked to an empty table, ringed at the moment by other unoccupied ones, so as to be far enough away from everyone that hopefully no one would bother her. Setting down the tray with the rack of billiard balls, all yellowed and a little chipped in places, she thought about other times she'd come down here with some of the guys from work, and before that, from college. The cheapness of the place was the leading attraction, even if it did mean putting up with the occasional cracked slate, worn felt on the tabletops, or balls which would spin just a little off-angle. The city's nonsmoking laws made it better, although without the former curtain of haze in the room, it was easier to see the seediness of the place.

Sighing, she positioned the rack on the table and removed it carefully; none of the balls tried to roll away, so at least this one was level. It had been over a year since she'd been in here, and sometimes the owner had moved tables around in a pretense of getting rid of the worst ones, so even memorizing which ones had been problematic didn't always work. She uncapped a hard cider and took a long swig, knowing alcohol in the middle of a hot day wasn't the wisest choice, but she really just wanted to retreat from the world at the moment. One wasn't going to hurt.

Fozzie looked uncertainly at their table. "Did you take your shot, Rowlf?"

"Not yet, Fozzie, why?" Rowlf kept glancing over at Gina, realizing something was truly wrong when he saw something decidedly not a root beer in her hand.

"Could I try dat last shot over again?"

Rowlf sighed. "Sure, Fozzie." Happily the bear dug the thirteen out of the pocket and attempted to remember where it and the cueball had been placed. Rowlf watched Gina line up her cue; at the loud thwock! of the break, several other players glanced over, and Fozzie jumped. Lotta anger in that sound, Rowlf thought.

"Wow, she hit dat really hard! Am I supposed to be hitting 'em dat hard?" Fozzie wondered.

"It's probably better if you don't," Rowlf advised, imagining the balls flying all over the hall if the bear tried to put more force into his shots.

Gina moved slowly down one rail, deciding she was just going to take practice shots in no particular order. She lined up a straight sighting on the three, plunked it quickly into a corner pocket, then followed the cueball's rebound until it stopped and immediately took the next shot, a bank off the side rail for a double. Doing this usually used to calm her, but today she was too upset to enjoy it. I can't believe he even thought about having that witch stick around! Why am I even bothering? she thought, hating the whole morning so far. She'd had a long, excruciating nightmare, wherein her beloved journalist had told her all he'd done with her was wrong and sinful and he was going to the land of punishment with his mother. A lot of the dream had involved her screaming protests, unable to get near, while she saw Newsie willingly bow his head and let heavy chains be draped over his shoulders, and then the smirking old hag had led him off like a chastened dog. When she'd cried out to him, it was as though he didn't even hear her, responding only to his mother's constant stream of invective and insult with repeated, humble, "Yes, mother"s. Waking to find him there still had been a huge relief, and his fixing breakfast for her had made her think maybe he'd made up his mind about whom he belonged with…and then that. He still can't do it. No matter how nasty she is to him, he can't let go. He can't pull himself free of her.

Thwack!

The bartender threw her a scowl. Gina ignored him. It wasn't as though any further damage could be done to this place. She remembered one afternoon, years before, when she and Scott and James had burst into hysterics after one of James' shots broke a cuestick, jumped the cueball off the table, denting it slightly, and then the wildly rolling ball had knocked loose one of the table legs, nearly collapsing the whole thing. What a dump. Cheap is as cheap does, I guess. She drank more of the cider, starting to feel a little lightheaded; she'd stormed over here in a rush of adrenaline, pausing only once at a street crossing to phone the Muppet Labs guys in the failed hope that her secret weapon was ready to use. At this point, she'd happily have blasted the ghost to kingdom come – or wherever horrible old women went – and to heck with what Newsie might've felt about that. How can he even stand her? He's a grown Muppet, for crying out loud! Why can't he tell her to stuff it down her ugly old dress and get out of his life? Despairing, she missed a kiss shot, too angry to be gentle.

"Hey! Rowlf! I did it! Didja see dat?"

"Uh, yeah. Good job," Rowlf said, glancing over at the table where Fozzie had indeed managed to sink the shot he'd called. He wasn't paying much attention to his own game, his shots absentmindedly accurate but not challenging, his gaze focused on the quick, jerking movements Gina made around her own solitary table. Fozzie noticed, and bit his lip uncertainly.

"Uh…do ya think maybe the Newsman's busy today?" Fozzie asked.

Rowlf shook his head. "I guess so."

"Or…or maybe he doesn't play pool!" Fozzie guessed.

"Yeah, maybe not." Rowlf watched Gina a moment longer, then shook his head, ears flapping gently. "Something's up."

Fozzie made no reply, casting a worried look at the other table. "Does she usually come play here?"

"Not that I've seen. We're closer to the theatre than we are to her and Newsie's place, I think. She hasn't been here when Zoot and I've been playing," Rowlf mused.

Fozzie fiddled with his cuestick, silent. Rowlf turned back to their table, gesturing at Fozzie. "Come on. If you make a shot you get to take another, remember? So pick one and try for it."

The bear started to line up his stick, then paused. "Rowlf?"

"Hm?"

"Does she look…mad to you? Angry mad?"

"Yeah, Fozzie. She does," Rowlf sighed.

"Oh…I was hoping it was just me," Fozzie said sadly.

Gina had sunk about half the balls, out of order, barely paying attention to her shots, feeling more upset than she had when she'd come in. This wasn't helping at all; if anything, her mind was more turbulent. Newsie…don't you love me? Don't you know all we've done so far is just the tip of things? I thought you were happy with me! She'd been his first lover, she knew, and had done her best to be gentle with him until he was used to the unfamiliar joys of completely losing all track of time, or outside obligations, or sense of self beyond the delight of every inch of his felt. His modesty, shyness, and lack of experience had been wonderful for her, and she loved it that even after he'd accepted that aspect of their relationship, she could still easily make him blush. If all it took for him to doubt the rightness of being with her was to have a judgmental, accusatory old shrike tell him he was being bad…then how deep did his love really run? Oh, Newsie…if you really feel that way…why did you stay with me this long? I thought you WANTED to be with me! Gina felt tears beginning, and wiped them away with her fingers. Her eyes were already raw.

Maybe he'd simply been under that hag's thumb for too long. Maybe he could never be his own Muppet now. A dog used to being beaten thinks it's love. Women stay with abusive husbands because they don't know any other life. Breaking free of that is scary, they say. Oh, Newsie…my Aloysius. I can't even ever call you that again, after how many times the witch has snarled it at you! She makes it sound like a curse! Gina shook her head, disgusted. Grandmama Angie, I wish you were here. I wish I could talk to you. You'd know what to do to make him wake up. Or is that just never going to happen, no matter what? Has his mother really won? She couldn't bear the thought of going back to the apartment. She'd have to at some point, to get ready for the show tonight. As mood-suiting as her current outfit was, it was unacceptable for running the tech booth for a charity show which hoped to draw in upper-class donors. What if she went back and Newsie was there? What would she say to him? What, if anything, would he say to her? He'd been apparently unable to choke out anything this morning. And what if I go back and he's NOT there? What if he DOES go with Mommy Dearest? She felt ill. She swigged down the rest of her cider in a long gulp anyway.

"You gonna order again? It's a two-drunk minimum here," a deep voice growled.

Gina looked up, about to snap back something unoriginal but heartfelt, then saw Scott standing there. She relaxed only slightly. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Was kinda hoping to practice a little since the Hat has sworn to wipe the table with my skinny, hipless butt, as he put it yesterday, but I can't find an empty table," Scott rumbled. Gina looked up at him, then around at the multitude of empty tables. She shook her head at him. Scott grinned. "Mind if I play through?" He placed a cuestick against the plain ivory ball on the table like a golf pro. "So, what we have here, see, is de pro linin' up his shot; checkin' da wind, checkin' da green…Fore!"

A couple of heads turned, but the lanky techie didn't follow through. "This isn't a country club. And I'd rather be alone, okay?" Gina snapped.

"Whatever you say," Scott agreed, not leaving. Gina stood there, waiting, fuming, but her friend simply folded his arms around his stick, rocking back and forth heel-to-toe in enormous sneakers. Although skinny enough to play a beanpole, he was over six feet, and his deadpan face and walking canvas of tattoos tended to intimidate people; even Gina, who knew better, edged away from him a little, and finally decided to ignore him. She bent over the table to reach the cueball for her next shot. The seven hit the side pocket so hard it almost bounced out again. "Doesn't count; you didn't call it," Scott said.

Gina straightened up, glaring at him. "What part of 'alone' are you not getting? You really are blond!"

"And white, and skinny," he agreed easily. "Hey, aren't those guys over there with the Muppets? I remember the dog plays a mean piano."

Gina glanced at the other table; Rowlf nodded at them. Fozzie gave a half-wave, looking concerned. Scott waved back. "Don't invite them over," Gina hissed. "Alone, remember? Alone!"

"Okay, whatever," Scott said. He watched her circle the table, trying to focus, clearly upset. "You wanna tell me what's up?"

"Nothing's up." Thwock!

"This have anything to do with Paul?"

"Paul? No." Ka-thwack!

"Shoulda used the bridge," Scott observed. "You're too short."

"Funny. Real funny. Don't you have something to do somewhere else?"

"So if it's not the show, and it's not the moron producing the show, then it must be about Newsman," Scott said. Gina stopped, glared at him, and immediately resumed her pursuit of the eight-ball.

"You still have three balls left out."

"I don't care. I'm sinking this and then I'm leaving."

"Did he piss you off?"

"He…he…dammit Scott! It's none of your business!"

"Hey. How long we been friends?"

Gina didn't answer. Scott mimicked her softer voice: "Oh, why, about twelve years now, Scott." He switched to his own baritone rumble: "And how long have we told each other pretty much everything? Best friends, right?" Back to fake-Gina: "Oh, Scott, you gadjo devil! I am not telling you about what trouble I'm having getting that shy boyfriend of mine to try the Vegas-ninety-three position!"

"You know, I am not even going to ask what that is," Gina said curtly, unamused.

"Good, 'cause then I'd have to ask the bartender, 'cause I don't know either, and I'm pretty sure he hates me for only ever ordering plain club sodas with lime."

Gina gave up, standing still, head bowed, holding onto her stick with both hands, leaning on it like a staff. Scott waited.

"He can't let go of his mother," Gina said finally in a quiet voice. "She's…she's abusive. I mean really, really nasty to him. And he's terrified of her."

"Ah." Scott considered this. "I could go get her chucked in jail. Would he freak?"

"Scott…she's dead."

He looked at her, amused for a second, then saw how serious she was. "Uh…what exactly are we talking about here? She's…a ghost?"

"Yes."

"And…she's terrorizing him? Still?"

"More like 'again.' She hates me. Thinks I've corrupted her son."

Scott considered the changes he'd noticed in behavior, subtle but significant, the times he'd been around the couple. From being embarrassed to anyone seeing them kiss, the Newsman had progressed to blushing but staying pressed close to Gina. He'd put his arm around Gina several times now in Scott's presence, and leaned into her when she pulled him close to kiss his nose or tousle his often-frazzled hair; clearly, the Muppet had gone from innocent to happily intimate. "Maybe you have. So what?"

"Now he thinks it's a bad thing! She's making him feel guilty, and he won't just tell her off, and he spent half the night in tears because he'd slapped her once – and I found out she'd hit him! Maybe all his life until she died!" Gina smacked the butt of the stick against the floor repeatedly. Gently, Scott reached over and made her stop before the bartender complained.

"Okay, all right, but you gotta know, most abused kids aren't the Menendezes. Most of 'em think they deserve it. I knew a kid in third grade whose dad used to come home drunk and pummel him 'bout every night. He'd come in with broken arms, bruises, the whole nine yards. And I asked him why he didn't tell the teacher, and you know what he said? He said 'I deserved it, I was stupid.' Gina…it's like brainwashing. People that bull happens to most often just take it 'cause they don't know anything else. They don't know they're worth anything. You gotta have patience with your guy. I'm really sorry that's happened to him, for what it's worth."

"I know he's worth a lot! I tell him so!" Gina argued sharply.

"Did he live with his mom 'til she died?" Scott guessed.

"Yes. And don't you dare say you thought so!"

"I wasn't gonna. And how long has he been living with you?"

"Five months. Three days."

"Uh-huh," Scott grinned at how fast she'd come up with that. "You're counting down to the six-month anniversary, aren't you?"

"If there even is one," Gina muttered.

"Point is: his time under the abuse is a heck of a lot longer than his time feeling at all good about himself with you. So let it go. Just be there for him," Scott advised.

Frustrated, Gina gestured with her empty cider bottle, wanting to fling it hard and listen to the crash. "I can't! There's…there's more to it! It's just complicated, okay? I don't want to talk about it any more!"

Scott tried to take the bottle from her; she held onto it, glaring, and he backed off.

"Rowlf? Are dey gonna fight? Should…should we go over dere and help Gina?" Fozzie asked.

Rowlf watched the body language of the two people arguing. "No…not yet, anyway, Fozzie. I think she's okay. That's her friend from the Sosilly. Looks to me like he's just trying to get her to talk."

"Not like an interrogative thing!" Aghast, Fozzie's paw flew to his mouth.

"Uh, that's 'interrogation.' And no, doesn't look that way. It's okay, Fozzie. Come on, one more game, all right?" As the bear gathered the balls one by one into the rack, setting the triangle the wrong way on the little dot half-peeling off the table felt, Rowlf perked his ears toward the other table a few yards away, able to attune to the conversation taking place there only in the brief silences between the smacking together of chipped epoxy billiards around the room. At least the place wasn't so crowded he couldn't catch any of it.

"Come on, rack 'em. I need the practice," Scott said. Grudgingly, Gina did so, setting them in the correct order inside the rack with a practiced hand. When she lifted the triangle away, Scott almost instantly hit the cueball dead center but with a wicked clockwise spin. Thunk. Thunk. "Solids."

"Showoff."

"Hey, like I said, the Hat thinks he's gonna mess me up. I need every trick I can get." Scott deliberately missed his next shot. "Whoops. Think you can make the eleven?"

"In my sleep." She did so, though her eyes stayed open. "If you're going to play, play. No more missing shots."

He waited silently for her to line up the next shot, a difficult one along the rail which made her have to attempt the shot behind her back. At the last possible second, he said loudly, "Noonan!"

Gina cursed. She pushed back her bangs, giving Scott a viciously vindictive look as he grinned and shrugged. "What? You told me to play."

"You're an ass."

"No, I never grew one'a those. So tell me something."

Gina sighed, wishing she could go get another cider, knowing her friend would guilt-trip her about it if she did. She was torn between resenting his interference and understanding all he'd said about Newsie was probably true. Maybe she was being too hurt, too selfish. Newsie was clearly in agony this morning. She felt pain in her chest suddenly. Glancing worriedly at her watch, she realized it might be too late to go back and talk to him; if he was going to work today as he'd planned, he'd have left the apartment. Should she call him? Would he even have remembered to take his phone? He was terrible about taking it with him, always embarrassed when she pointed that out, saying he wasn't used to having anything so nice to be concerned with. Gina sighed, raking her fingers through her hair, dislodging and then refastening the hairband. She noticed Scott looking expectantly at her. "What?" she demanded.

"What do you see in him, anyway?"

"What?" She couldn't believe she'd just heard that. Her grip on the cuestick tightened.

"Well, you know, you wouldn't ever go back home with me…or Alex, or Buddy…and Alex at least was a good-lookin' guy…so what made you pick the Muppet over any of the rest of us?" Scott's expression was so guileless she knew he was leading up to something annoying. Forcing herself to calm down enough to speak, Gina waited until Scott took his shot, and jostled his elbow.

"Not that it's any of your damned business, but he's perfect," she snapped.

"How so? I mean, first there's the height thing…he's, what, three feet?"

"Three-foot-six. You're a horse's ass."

She smacked another striped ball into a corner, the rebound going too far to properly set up the next shot as it should've. She knew she was striking too hard, but couldn't make herself be any gentler.

"Okay, so you being two feet taller doesn't cause any…uh…problems?"

"Scott," she warned, and he held up both hands, grinning.

"Hey Rowlf…if Gina's mad at dat guy, why is he smiling?"

"I think he's trying to get her to see something, Fozzie." When the bear looked confusedly around the room, Rowlf shook his head. "Uh, not like that. I mean see something inside…inside her heart."

"Ohhh," Fozzie said, brightening. "About Newsie?"

The bear's instinct for personal relations always impressed Rowlf. How did a Muppet who'd never even gone steady know these things about other people? "Yeah. About Newsie."

"Good things?"

"I hope so." Rowlf continued to listen; Fozzie gently rolled the cueball back and forth on the table with his paws, understanding the dog was eavesdropping…but maybe that wasn't a bad thing this time.

"Okay, so his being short doesn't bother you, that's great. What about his skin?"

"Since when are you a bigot? You should talk, you walking sketchbook!"

"I mean, what is that? He always looks…kinda fuzzy. Yellow and fuzzy."

"That's golden, and…and…I like the way he feels. Um."

Scott raised his eyebrows. "So that's really his skin? The first time we shook hands I thought he was wearing gloves! Is he like that all over?"

Gina could feel her cheeks reddening. "Yes," she muttered. Angrily she shook off the feeling. "He's a Muppet. That's just how he is. Knock it off, Scott. I'm not titillating you with the details of our love life!"

"Huh, huh. She said ti—"

"Scott!"

"Fine," he replied easily, changing topic. "So what do you like most about him?"

"Most?"

"Yup. It's the nose, right?"

"You're an –"

"Yeah, yeah. Or is it the glasses? Or the retro-geek coats? He looks kinda college-rock."

Rowlf snickered. Fozzie leaned in, though of course he couldn't hear any of the prying discussion. "What? Is he telling her jokes?"

"Sort of…"

"Oh! Rowlf, can you remember 'em for me if they're good? I can always use new jokes!"

"They're all about the Newsman, Fozzie."

"Oh…" Fozzie frowned. "Dat doesn't seem very nice!"

"I think there's a point to it. Shhh…"

Gina stood her ground, glaring up at her fellow techie. "Since you won't leave me alone until this ridiculous discussion is over, fine: I love his mind. I love his dedication to his work, and to his friends, and to his ideals. I love his generosity and his thoughtfulness and his gentleness and even his modesty! That enough for you?"

"And his short, nearsighted, golden-fuzzy-skinnedness?"

"Yes!" Gina tossed her cue onto the table, getting on tiptoe, where even though she wasn't quite in Scott's face, she could get her point physically across better. "And I don't give a rat's butt what you or his mother or anyone else thinks about that! And it took me a long time to gain his trust and I won't let his horrible parent take him away from me, not after all we've already been through!"

"Oh, yeah?" Scott growled.

"Yeah!" Realizing she was being played, Gina stopped. Scott broke into a wide grin. Relaxing, shaking a little with residual ferocity, Gina sank down again, putting one hand on the table rail. "I feel awful," she confessed.

"Did you tell him where you were going?"

"No…no, I didn't."

"Call him."

Gina sighed. "He never remembers to take his phone. And…and if he's working right now, it would embarrass the heck out of him for me to interrupt. I don't want to do that to him."

Rowlf felt a tap on his shoulder. "Fozzie, I'll tell you everything they said in a minute," Rowlf promised.

"Uh, no…I think we might have trouble!"

"Trouble? What kind of trouble?" Rowlf looked around, and then saw what Fozzie was gulping at. Circling around the tables at the edge of the room was a gray, grim, oddly gliding Muppet in a shapeless dress with a scowling face. Even worse, trailing nervously in her wake came a skinny, mop-headed Muppet with large round shades. "Oh man. Is that Scribbler?" Rowlf asked, surprised to see the tabloid hack out in the daytime. He'd assumed the scandal-loving reporter only crawled out at night with the other insects.

"I think so! And is that…is that…Newsie's mom?" Fozzie shivered. "Rowlf, she looks…um…scary!" he whispered.

"I think that's because she died a few years ago, Fozzie."

"Oh!" Fozzie pulled off his hat, hiding his face behind its ineffective shield.

"There she is! The brazen hussy – out in public, in full view of everyone, with that tattooed heathen!" Mrs Crimp hissed; Scribbler dodged before she could elbow him again. She'd done that once already, and he hadn't liked the dread cold feel of it. Uneasily he studied the redhead having some sort of a heart-to-heart with the tall skinny guy; that was the chick who'd swung him like a politician heaving mud, all right. He wouldn't forget that face…or that arm. He kept well below the level of an adjoining table and out of her line of sight. "That's the shameless floozy who's made my boy into a digusting pervert! Now do your duty, Mr Scumbler, and show my Aloysius I was right all along!"

Scribbler experienced a quick succession of conflicting thoughts. Humiliating the Newsman with shots of his girlfriend, out with another schmoe… Why can't this biddy remember my name? Old cow, ordering ME around! I only came out here with her because she said it involved Newsie…wait. Did she just call him Aloysius? ALOYSIUS? Hee, hee, hee! Well, maybe this is a good thing after all. He wasn't sure what to make of the weird grayish-skinned woman who'd cornered him on a stakeout outside an exclusive uptown gym, hoping to get a shot of Trump's new girlfriend…with her girlfriend. All of a sudden, here was this harping old biddy going on about public morals and the obligations of the press to correct misbehavior and how her son was involved with an unfaithful, unsuitable, immoral girl half his age. Scribbler had tried to brush her off, and that was when she'd given him an elbow the first time, and he'd been so startled by the extreme cold radiating from her that he'd shut up and listened a little closer. When she'd said the Newsman was her son, and that his girlfriend was being scandalous… "Lady, I'm still in, but they're not kissing," Scribbler complained now. He made several quick notes on a small, scroungy pad: Seedy place for a tryst…guy's too skinny, maybe rich?...maybe the chick likes tall men better? 'Standing close together, eyes full of secret understanding' – yeah, that's good. But I'd love a photo op.

"Wait," the gray lady promised, her wide jaw set and her thin lips primly clamped as they watched the two people talking quietly.

"You're really smitten this time," Scott observed.

Gina nodded, rubbing the felt of the table. It felt enough like her Newsie's skin to make her feel even worse about having run out this morning. She should be stroking him, holding him, apologizing right now. "I love him, Scott."

"Well, I've seen the way he just gazes up all adoring at you. Trust me. You're the best thing he's ever experienced and he won't let you go." Gina threw an uncertain look at her friend. Scott smiled. "He loves you. He's just kinda thrown for a loop, if this stuff with his mother is still going on. Just…go slow with him."

"I always do," Gina sighed. "I just…I just wish he'd…I don't know."

"You wish he'd grow a—"

Gina took a threatening step closer, and Scott grinned, breaking off mid-sentence. "So, keep telling him how good he is for you. How good he is, period. He'll man up."

"I hope so. I…I do have a plan B. But I think it would be better for his sake if he could tell her to take a hike," Gina sighed. Scott opened his arms and gave her a smile. Gratefully, Gina allowed him to hug her, long arms clasped respectfully around her shoulders, no lower. She smacked his bony back. "You're still an a-."

"How can I be one when I don't hardly even have one?" he protested. Gina smiled, but then heard the sound of a camera snapping frames. She let go of Scott, turning around, her gaze sweeping the mostly-empty hall. That sound reminded her of…

"Oh I don't believe this," Gina breathed, spotting Scribbler…and right beside him, the smirking face of the spectre she least wanted to see.

Before Gina could even take a step in that direction, before Scott realized what was going on, and before Rowlf and Fozzie could reach them, Mrs Crimp vanished, reappearing instantly behind another player at another table, a large and somewhat inebriated man, the very second he thrust his arm forward for a strong shot. The ghost shoved the man's arm, and his stick hit the cueball at an uppercut angle; the ball sailed over three tables, coming down right at Gina. Scott saw it, and shoved her aside, but Gina, startled and unbalanced, smacked into the pool table, her lower back painfully striking the old wood rail. Dammit! she thought, enraged: the witch does want me dead! She tried to grab the edge of the table, missing, hipbones shooting fire along the previously-injured cracks. Before her head could hit the floor, Scott caught her around the shoulders, one hand cupping the back of her head, dropping to his knees.

And the camera whirred, with Gina and Scott staring into one another's eyes an inch from each other, lips parted in surprise.

Gina fought to get up. Rowlf gave her a hand, and she launched herself at the hack. Mrs Crimp had disappeared again. The burly pool player was hurrying over, looking chagrined at his wild shot. Fozzie hung back a step, dismayed. Scott got his gangly legs under him with difficulty and turned in time to see Gina halfway across the room, in pursuit of a guy even skinnier than he was.

"You son of a –" Gina yelled.

"Hah hah hah! Whadda headline! 'Secondhand Newsman!' Whadda scoop!" Scribbler cackled, dodging under tables where Gina had to go around. He raced out the door well ahead of her. Gina burst onto the hot street, casting furious looks all around, but in every direction saw only overheated people trudging along and vendors drinking their own water supplies. No Scribbler. What the-! Is he a ghost now too? She thought, and cursed long and loud. No one even glanced at her; it was too hot to care.

She stomped back inside the pool hall. Rowlf, Fozzie, and Scott gathered anxiously around her. "Are you okay?" Fozzie asked.

"I'm going to kill him," Gina vowed. "This time I really am going to kill him. Rowlf, can you track him, do you think?"

"Uh, sorry," Rowlf apologized, looking abashed. "There's so much hot-garbage-smell out there right now I'm lucky to know where the fire hydrants are!"

"What the heck was that about?" Scott asked.

"Nothing good," Gina said, catching her breath, wondering how the heck Mrs Crimp had known about Scribbler's rivalry with Newsie. She met Scott's concerned gaze, picturing just how that pose must have appeared…how it would appear, no doubt, as soon as the little hack got it into print. Fozzie clutched his hat, looking frightened. Rowlf softly shook his head, and patted her arm in an attempt to reassure her; at least these two knew nothing improper had been going on, she hoped. She tried to calm her heart, which felt as though it was going to burst through her chest. Woozily, she leaned on a table; her back hurt and her hipbone was screaming. The three friends, human and Muppet alike, stood by her, casting worried looks at the door, as if expecting bad news to come whistling in any second. Gina drew deep breaths. "Nothing good," she repeated softly, and tried not to show her pain.

Her fear of losing her Muppet journalist hurt worse than the fall, anyway.