CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (part one). In which a visitor witnesses some very odd things; Gonzo brings down the house; and Clifford's attempts to bring order to Muppet chaos prove futile.
The number of names on the charity walk sign-up sheet had grown substantially when Rizzo stopped to check it. He'd tallied the "donations" from the sewer rats earlier today, and felt confident his total thus far was better than most of the Muppets who'd signed up. Pepe was already glancing at the roster, mumbling under his breath: "Jou gotta be kidding. Where's he gonna get sponsors, the head shop?"
"Looks like you got some competition," Rizzo said.
"Jou funny. Is nobody that can compete with Pepe!"
"Whatevah." Rizzo shook his head at a couple of names. "Zoot's in? Really?"
"See, that is what I said! What, like, is he gonna sleepwalk through it, okay?"
Rizzo chortled. "Eh, in all fairness, he probably didn't even know what he was signin'. Huh…looks like da whole Mayhem joined in. Dat ain't good."
"Sí, sí, Animal should go firsts, okay, so we don't get stepped on," Pepe nodded vigorously.
"No, you prawn cracker! Dey're famous, ya know? I bet hundreds of fans will pledge money for dem!"
Pepe paused. "Are jou suggesting I am not more famous?"
"Don't get me started," Rizzo growled. The two looked up as the Chef bellied up to the notice board and tried to scrawl his signature, ran out of room on the line, scratched his head a moment, then brightly wrote TOM. He ambled back to the canteen, whistling cheerfully. "Who's sponsorin' him, da board of health?" Rizzo snickered.
"Jou know, jou should just drop out now, amigo. No way can jou hopes to beat the number of sponsors I has!"
"Oh yeah? I got t'irty-two so far – and over a hundred dollars pledged!"
The prawn shoved his nose close to the rat's twitching whiskers. "So what? I gots seventy-two sponsors and a hundreds and four dollars!"
"You realize dat means my sponsors have more faith in me than yours do in you!" Smugly, Rizzo sat back on his haunches. "I wonder if dere's any prize for winnin' dis race?"
"Like, rully, it's not about racing," Janice said, having overheard the last part of the discussion.
"Yeah, little dudes; it's all about makin' the world a groovier place for us and everyone!" Floyd turned to his girl. "Y'know, that's not a bad idea, though. What say we talk to the frog about offerin' up some kinda prize for the Muppet who raises the most for charity?"
Dr Teeth, following the couple across the green room, chuckled hoarsely. "Right on! How about a little payin' back for those payin' it forward!"
"Like, you guys are missing the whole point, y'know," Janice complained.
"Hey, this charity fund is to benefit Muppets, isn't it?" Teeth asked, grinning widely. "Ain't I a Muppet?"
"Sometimes, that man is very deep, okay," Pepe observed respectfully.
"Well if dere is a prize, I'll be sure ta take a picture of it for ya, 'cause that's as close as you'll ever get to it!" Rizzo taunted the prawn.
"Oh yeah? Well if there's a prize at the end of this huge drain on my time, okay, I will be the one sending pictures to jou – oh, wait, I cannot do thats; jou doesn't have the iPhones already!" Pepe waggled his shrimp-sized high-tech smartphone at the rat.
"Too bad dere's no such t'ing as an iPrawn," Rizzo shot back haughtily. "Oh, my bad: dey haven't invented a smartshrimp yet!"
Below the ensuing racket, a dark, sinuous figure crept in from the understage tunnel, gently pulling along a taller person cloaked in a stylish wool overcoat and holding an elegant cane. "Wow. It's even noisier back here than I imagined," Countie remarked, listening to the clatter of pots in the kitchen, the hum of conversation, muted shouting from upstairs, and loud shouting from a few feet away.
"That's nothing; you should hear it on a bad night," Uncle Deadly assured his guest. "Here's the green room. Watch the piano…"
"Uh…is there a tannery or a butcher's over there?" Countie asked, wrinkling his nose as he caught an unfortunate whiff of rotting things.
"No…that's the canteen. Delightful, isn't it?" the dragon murmured, smiling. "Now, through here are chairs, just go slow…"
"Hey, ol' blue and scary, who's your friend?" Floyd asked.
Deadly drew himself up to pronounce coldly, "A very dear friend of mine, so I had better not hear of anyone giving him any trouble, do you understand?"
Silenced by that chilly voice, Rizzo and Pepe paused their argument; an instant of silence swept through the room. "We can dig it," Dr Teeth said amiably, and stuck one long arm out to touch the stranger's hand. "Welcome and salutitations, my optically challenged brothah! They call me Teeth, and this is my bass axe Floyd, and the sweet siren of the six-string, Janice, and –"
"AN-I-MAL! AN-I-MAL!"
"Easy there, Animal! He's—"
"The drummer," Countie said, smiling. "And I guess Zoot is around here somewhere?"
"Huh?" the saxman asked groggily before slipping back into a trance on the nearest sofa.
"Exactly," Teeth laughed. "Hey, hey! We got us a fan!"
"The Electric Mayhem!" Countie said happily, and quickly removed his overcoat to dig into the satchel he had slung over one shoulder underneath it. "Would you mind signing some autographs for me?" The band gathered around as Countie found the tabletop and began laying small, longish slabs of damp clay in plastic wrap upon it.
"Uh, whatta we do with these?" Floyd wondered, picking up one of the thin slabs.
"I can feel your signatures in those," Countie explained. "They dry out, and then I bake them in the oven, and…"
"Oh, wow! It's like having your own tiny walk of fame," Janice exclaimed, grasping the idea immediately. She unwrapped one of the pieces and used her guitar pick to carefully carve her name into it.
"Cool," Floyd agreed, following suit. "Hey, that's pretty nifty, man! Hey, Zoot, check it out! Brother's gonna take all these little clay bits and make hisself a Muppetational mosaic!" He coughed his raspy laugh.
Zoot shook his head. "No, man, I don't like clay pipes…water-pipe's got a cleaner drag…"
"Oh, rully," Janice sighed, shaking her head.
In the back alley, the Newsman sprinted up the loading-dock steps, one hand keeping a tight grip on his attaché case which held his laptop and, tonight, about half of the stack of leads emailed to the station. He hoped to have time to read through them during the show. Clifford halted him just inside the building, armed with a clipboard and a frown. "Yo, Newsie. Good to see you back, but you're ten minutes late!"
"Sorry," Newsie panted. "I had to change clothes. There, uh, was a story about the Muppet aid convoy to Libya…bottled water…"
Clifford noticed the yellow Muppet shivering, and let it slide. "Well, don't catch another cold, man! I'll look for you in the green room when there's a News Flash, all right?" The Newsman nodded and hurried downstairs. Clifford sighed, and checked off the reporter's name on the night's roster. "Guess that's everyone aboard that's goin' aboard." He settled himself at Kermit's desk to look over the schedule of acts he'd painstakingly compiled and posted a copy of both back here and downstairs, so there would be no arguments over who did what when.
Naturally, no sooner was he seated than he was pelted with objections. "Whuh-hey, catfish dude!" Lew Zealand said, waving a terribly overripe cod at the host. "How come my boomerang fish act was left off the list?"
"'Cause it ain't never gonna be on the list, man," Clifford sighed, feeling a headache starting already. Good gravy, I can not WAIT for Scooter and the green dude to get back in town…
"But I got a new routine! Check it out! I throw the pail a-way –"
"You expect the pail to come back?"
Lew laughed. "Aw heck no, that'd be weird! No – the fish brings it back! Fetch, Percy!" Lew shouted, hurling the fish after the pail.
"Lew, not tonight, okay?" Clifford checked the clock, then his watch. "Uh, hey, Beauregard?" The janitor stopped dusting the odd collection of random props by the stairs, bright eyes attentive as he looked over at Clifford. "Listen, man, can you do a quick check of the electrics? I don't know where that stagepig's got to…and can you change that clock so it reads right?"
"Sure!" Beau said, then frowned. "Uh, I didn't know clocks had reading levels…but don't you worry, Clifford! I will find you a clock from the advanced reading class!"
"Never mind, man," Cliff groaned. "Can you just run up the dimmers on those lights?"
Beau scratched his furry scalp. "Uhhh…wouldn't that be the brighteners? Or do you mean you want them all darker?"
Lights are on, but nobody's home, Cliff thought, wrestling his impatience under control. "Just bring 'em all up so I can see they're working, all right, please?"
"Check!" Beau replied, hurrying across the stage to the lighting board. Clifford, shades in place to shield his eyes from the thousand-watt lamps, watched as each section of lights came up over the stage and from the bays over the house.
Dang it, why is there always ONE? he wondered silently, sighing. At least this time it was a simple six-inch fresnel downlight relegated to backlighting the cyc. Nobody would miss it, so he wouldn't stress about checking it now. He yelled for Beau to take the lights back down to preset, which the janitor misheard as "take them down and reject," but fortunately the lighting pig returned from his mud break just then before Beau could manage to unscrew one of the sidelights, and chased the bewildered Muppet out of the wing with angry snorts. Sinking down at the desk once more, Clifford sipped his lukewarm coffee and grimaced. Two more nights. Just two more nights.
"Excuse me, Mr Clifford?" trilled a wavering voice. Clifford raised his head to find Wanda standing there, smiling. "I just wanted to thank you for casting me in the dramatic piece tonight! I promise you won't regret it!"
"Then that'd be the first thing tonight," Clifford muttered, but he managed a weak smile for the eager singer. "No problem, Curly. Just don't miss your entrance cue is all I ask."
"Oh, I won't! I won't! Oh, finally, a real role onstage!" Wanda gushed. Piggy, passing through on her way downstairs for a nosh, perked her soft ears, frowned, and changed course.
"Ah, ahem. Cliffie?" she asked sweetly.
"Oh, hey Piggy. Did the costume for 'Harvest Moon' get altered right?" he asked, hoping he wouldn't have to deal with wardrobe malfunctions on top of everything else.
"Oh, oh, yes, it's lovely. Ummm…did moi overhear correctly, that Wanda is getting a serious role tonight?" she edged closer, tossing a contemptuous look back at Wanda, who was gaily tripping up the stairs to the ladies' general dressing-room.
"Uh, yeah. Why, you don't think she can pull it off?"
"Oh, ha ha, well, of course I will leave the management of, ahem, talent to the Muppet my Kermie put in charge in his absence," Piggy said sweetly. "However, need I point out that moi does not yet have a specific part in tonight's show?"
"What? Piggy, you're in the closing number!" Clifford protested, shaking his head. "All us guys are gonna be singin' that golden oldie to you!"
"Yes, but moi does not actually play a major role, comprendez-vous? And…you know how much it helps me, with my frog not here, to bury my sorrow by throwing myself into my work fully?"
A few paces away, Strangepork muttered to Link, "I tink she's gonna bury someone else if he doesn't give her dat role!" Link chuckled.
Clifford tried reason. "Look, Piggy, it's really a small role, that bit with Wanda; I didn't think you'd be into it. Whereas the closing number…"
"Listen, bandito-snout," Piggy growled, grabbing the host's long mustaches in one firm hand. "Obviously you don't understand how this works around here! I am the leading lady at this theatre, and I did not reach this level of stardom by staying in the chorus! So not only will I be the star attraction in the closing number, but you will also cast moi for that dramatic piece!"
Clifford froze; oh, so that was where the diva he remembered had gone – she was only tamed when her darling frog was around! "Hey, uh, sure; if you really want to do that silly act, you sure can. I'll tell Wanda I'll put her in the chorus ensemble for 'Harvest Moon' instead. We cool?"
Piggy released him, smiling gently. "As a cucumber eye treatment, mon ami." She glided away in her pre-show robe and slippers, and Clifford stroked his mustache, relieved.
He glanced again at his watch, ignoring the incorrect clock above the desk: five minutes until the house opened. Cranking up the intercom and settling a headset over one ear, he called out, hoping every speaker was working tonight: "Five minutes 'til people start pouring in, y'all! I repeat, that's five minutes to house open! I don't wanna see any of you lookin' through the seats for malted milk balls tonight, got it?" He sighed, seeing two of the rats scurrying over the lip of the stage and dashing into the shadows, carrying boxes of popcorn and discarded half-candy-bars. "Oh, and Wanda, sweetheart, come see me." He switched off the talk button and took another sip of the coffee before he remembered how bad it was. Grimacing again, he muttered, "Man, I have got to start bringin' my own Thermos…" He didn't want to guess why the Chef's coffee tasted like salmon.
***
Newsie was washing his hands in the men's restroom downstairs when he heard a gurgling noise. Oh, great, not a plumbing backup again! Worried, he turned to stare at the center floor drain; the last time the drain had backed up, Gonzo had fearlessly extended what he called the "plunger of doom" into the main sewer line beneath the theatre to unclog it, although several unexpected things had happened before the problem was actually fixed, not the least of which had been one of the sinks collapsing into a weird snake-themed drainpipe… Startled suddenly, Newsie felt a chill of danger. The sewer! That drain led directly there…and those noises sounded completely unfriendly!
Rushing out of the bathroom, he looked wildly around for help: the Chef had both hands and his hat full at the grill, the Mayhem were doing a tune-up jam so loudly they'd never hear him, Link and Strangepork were engaged in a discussion with a total stranger off in a corner. Spotting a group of rats standing around divvying up the spoils from the theatre's audience seats, Newsie tromped over to them. "You rats! Quick! We need to block off all the openings to the sewer and to any other underground access!"
The fattest rat glared up at him. "Why'd we wanna do dat, big mout'? Dem holes are handy!"
"Yeah, I found a pipeline running all da way to dat bakery on Ninth!" another rat claimed.
"Monsters are down there!" Newsie yelled over the band. "Aren't you the ones who ran out of the sewer to get away from things?"
The rats shifted uneasily. "Yeah, well, dat was den, dis is now," the fat one argued. "Ain't nuttin' happened since we moved in here! Trust me, mac, dose holes are poifectly safe!"
"Really?" Newsie scowled. "Go into the mens' room!"
"I'm good, thanks."
"There are sounds coming from the drain!"
The rats looked at each other, no one making a move, tails and noses twitching. "Come on, give me a hand –" Inspiration struck, and Newsie added, "or would you rather I tell Scooter when he returns how you guys have been raiding the concession stand after hours?"
"Dat's blackmail!" one of the rats squeaked angrily.
Another rat padded behind Newsie; he whirled. "What are you doing?"
"Checkin' for a tail. You t'ink like a rat."
"Move it! Find something to close off that drain!" Newsie yelled, and the rats trotted off, grumbling. Newsie ventured back into the restroom. The drain lay silent, and he quickly peeked under the stall doors to make sure nothing ugly was slithering out of the toilets. A handful of rats came in, lugging a large, flat circle of black iron. "I hope that's heavy enough," Newsie muttered as the rats, grunting, shoved it into place atop the drain.
"So do we, believe me," a rat grumped.
Ducking out of the restroom, Newsie saw the janitor ambling through the downstairs area, looking puzzled. "Beauregard! Can you bring a hammer? A really big one!" Newsie called to him.
Beau brightened, happy to have something useful to occupy himself with. "Check! Hammer time!"
One of the rats glared at another who was wobbling around, pretending to stretch his pants legs to the sides. "C'mon. Just don't."
Shortly Beau returned with a very large mallet. Newsie pointed at the iron thing over the drain. "Can you tap that down so it's secure?"
"Sure! Uh…why are we blocking the drain?" Beau asked.
"Because there are horrible things down there and I don't want them coming in here! Please, Beau, just tamp it down!" Newsie barked, and watched anxiously while the janitor, with a shrug, whacked the thing securely over the drain. Newsie gave it an experimental kick, and it didn't budge. "Good," he sighed, relieved. "Thanks, Beau. Can you find something to do the same thing in the ladies' room? And – and any other drains!"
Beau stared at him. "You want me to stop up all the drains?"
Frustrated, Newsie threw his hands over his head. "I wish we could! No…just…just anything bigger than a mousehole, okay? I don't want us overrun with monsters," he tried to explain.
Doglion stomped past, forcing everyone to dodge, involved in a heated discussion with Sweetums: "But I hate the way lotion sticks between my toes! I'm telling you, Gold Bond Powder is way better!"
Sweetums shook his shaggy head, wide lips flopping. "Nope, nope, nope. Powder won't soften your toepads like lotion does!"
Everyone stared after them. Rizzo shook his head in amazement. "First time I evah
heard dat guy talk, and it's about foot powder!"
Newsie shivered, wishing his felt would dry out faster; he hadn't had time to warm up, simply pulling on a dry change of clothes and bolting from the KRAK studios to the Muppet Theatre. "Just block up as much as you can, okay, Beau?" he asked tiredly, and trudged toward the canteen to see if the Chef had anything warm to drink. Seems counterintuitive to worry about the small holes when there are giants stomping through here unfettered, he realized, but he didn't have the authority to banish them. Sensing something different in here tonight, he peered around, ignoring the dull pain trying to reassert itself right behind his weary eyes, and spotted a stranger sitting at one of the canteen tables, moving small pieces of gray material around on the tabletop while chatting with Sweetums and Robin. His natural curiosity roused, but then Sweetums let loose a belly laugh, and Newsie unconsciously backed away, all too aware of those huge hands and even bigger mouth…
The Chef's loud complaint startled the Newsman: "Nooo kin doo flopen-jacken! Foon de hur der griddle!"
Gladys gave an exasperated grunt. "Whaddaya mean ya don't have a griddle? It was right there! Well…use a pan or somethin'!"
"'Scuse me," Beau sang out, hurrying into the grill area and back out again carrying a shallow, flat iron skillet.
"No habben der pans!" Chef protested, waving his hands around at the larger pots and implements. "Nooo kin doo der flippen-floppen!"
"Well, what can ya make, then?" Gladys demanded.
The Chef scratched his head, then seized a large two-sided press. "Der wuffles!"
"Great, whatevah," Gladys sighed. To the pigs and chickens at table two, she yelled, "Change a'plans! You're now gettin' candied corn waffles instead of pancakes!"
The chickens clucked, shrugging. One of the pigs grumbled, "At least that's better than last week when he couldn't find the panini press…boiled cheese sandwich is really hard to pick up!"
Newsie heard hammering sounds on metal coming from the ladies' room, and relaxed a degree. Good. That's part of the theatre protected, at least. He reached the counter, ordered a coffee, and choked at his first sip. "Gahhh! What the hey! This coffee tastes like fish!"
"Der kaffe?" Chef asked, and Newsie shoved the cup back at him.
"Taste it! It's fishy!"
The Chef sipped the coffee, spluttered, and quickly checked the large tureen it had been poured from, coming up with a long, thin, pinkish fish. "Ooh! Ja, ja, ees der feltritten!"
"You filter your coffee through fish now?" Gladys wondered.
"Forget it!" Newsie coughed, angrily striding away from the counter to find a vacant spot to peruse the possible disappearing-people leads, wishing fervently his cell phone hadn't become soaked when all those water bottles bounced and splashed on him. He couldn't even call for takeout java at this rate, and the aspirin he'd swallowed earlier seemed to be wearing off. Grumpily he settled in a large armchair near the stairs and began reading the stack of printed emails.
"Fish in the coffee?" Rizzo wondered. "Dat's a little weird, even for da Chef."
"Sí okay, like what is with all the weird things back here tonights?" Pepe asked. "It's like we're in the middle of a telenovela or something!"
Rowlf shrugged. "I wouldn't worry about it." He watched as the waitress glumly tossed the dripping fish into the trash. "After all, that's just a red herring."
***
Camilla sat alone in her dressing-coop, crowded next to the small TV that Beau had been kind enough to rig up for her. It had been clear to her that she was keeping the other chickens from performing, and like everyone else here, they loved being onstage, so tonight she'd insisted they go on without her. She huddled under a woven blanket as the game show about solvents finished (with only two contestants visibly scarred for life) and the MMN station logo came onscreen. Waiting anxiously while the logo animation ran (the letters becoming monsters which then ate the globe behind them), she hoped tonight's results show wouldn't involve any new feats of death-defying by her estranged weirdo. Below her, she could feel the floor rumbling with the pounding of dancing feet as the Muppet Show opening began, the music filtering faintly up through the back of the building. It was just as well that she was up here instead: since Gonzo had left, even going onstage didn't feel right to her.
"All right, maiming mavens and crippling connoisseurs! Tonight we tally your votes and compare them to the judges' scores, and determine who lives and who – er – goes home, heh heh – tonight, on Break a Leg!" the host shouted, grinning for the camera. The view swooped out to show seats full of cheering monsters. "Our panel tonight, as always: the implacable Beautiful Day, the bubbly Behemoth, and the apparently invisible Shakey Sanchez! I'm your host although I deeply wish I weren't, Snookie Blyer!" The cheers finally hushed as the lights dimmed. "Last night, we all saw some amazing and cranial-cracking acts on this stage – well, not this one, since they had to rebuild it – but Hem! Whom did you most favor last night out of all the stupendously stupid stalwarts we saw?"
Hem rolled his eyes toward the back of his head, thinking hard. "Hmmm…y'know, Snookie, I'd have to say I liked Ms Fatwah the best."
"But Jasmine Fatwah disqualified her—er, him-self by leaving the studio! That violated our strict imprisonm—I mean curfew, heh heh, for all the contestants!" Snookie pointed out, the smile never leaving his face. Camilla frowned. Why did show hosts always seem so fake?
"I-I kind of l-liked that Gonzo guy," a voice warbled from under Hem's fur.
"What!" Hem jerked upright, glaring at the small, red-feathered head poking up from a hole in his shoulder. "Well who cares what you think! Get back in there!"
"Shakey does have a vote," Snookie said mildly.
"Well you're both nuts!" B.D. snorted. "Obviously, that quick-draw snail is gonna go all the way!"
"Well, let's take a look at the acts again!" Snookie continued a voiceover as footage from the previous show played: "First, that mistress of mayhem Jasmine Fatwah danced with death and one truly provocative scimitar, but left the stage without completing her performance when she received a little unexpected assistance from one of the crew!" The fluffy pink three-eyed monster planted one heck of a smacker on the exotic dancer's furry lips, and she (or he) ran screaming offstage, leaving the monster wobbling confusedly under the weight of the sword through his skull. Camilla shook her head. Amateurs.
"Next, the fabulous fungus Mungus Mumfrey barely escaped disqualification by repeating its earlier routine with flamethrowers; the judges decided there was just enough variation in this performance to allow it, but tonight we'll find out what our audience thinks! Should the world's only mobile fungus go big or go home?" A few seconds of the surging goop flailing around in a mesmerizing dance whilst continually flaming itself and then glopping over the damage had Camilla wishing she'd skipped dinner. "And just when we thought we'd seen enough crashes and burns, along came the Great Gonzo to prove us wrong!"
"Bawwk!" Camilla gulped, wincing all over again at the film of Gonzo shrieking and crashing into the pile of exploding props.
"Yes, he certainly brought the house down – or tried to, anyway!" Snookie chuckled while the studio audience howled with laughter at the sight of the giant screen crashing down atop Shakey Sanchez and Gonzo. "But his astounding survival places him close to the top of most people's list, or at least the Darwin Awards list. Next up we heard an earsplitting performance by Jimmy Joe Bob…" Snookie visibly cringed at the recorded sound of the stunt-karaoke singer groaning "Peelings, nuthin' more than peeeelings…" Snookie ducked as several audience members hurled shoes and beer bottles at the stage. "Hey! Guys, guys, that was a recording from last night!" Shaken, he emerged from behind B.D.'s chair as the scruffy blue monster scowled and hurled a couple of shoes back into the audience; thumps and cries of ow! could plainly be heard. "So…after the medics carted the whomped warbler offstage, the trick-shooter Wyatt Slurp showed us his skills with a six-shooter and a whole host of expendable crew members!"
The snail, even in extreme slo-mo, hardly seemed to move, but his guns fired off numerous shots in rapid succession, bringing a row of heavy lights down one by one directly onto a line of stunned Frackles; then as they wavered, the second round of shots knocked them all into one another. They fell into a pile of artfully arranged furry bodies which, when viewed by the overhead camera, spelled out the initial 'W'. Camilla shook her head; how did that even qualify as daring? Nice shooting, perhaps, but hardly dangerous!
"Then we had some mixing it up, old school, as John Lamb took on a horde of sucke—er, volunteers from our audience!" Onscreen, the baaaad sheep was a flurry of kicking hooves and cracking skulls, and with every solid whack of his horned head against one of the monsters rushing him, fur and scales and felt went down, never wool. "Heh, heh, looks like someone brought a claw to a horn fight! Lamb showed everyone that some things do get better with age, even if there is a little gray under that black wool!"
"I know you ain't calling me old, greasehead," a deep voice growled from somewhere behind Snookie.
"Erk! Ah, heh, um…then finally, the world's most dangerous mouse, Montrose, showed us…er…" Snookie paused, frowning at his cue card, then at the camera. "Does anyone remember what exactly Montrose did?"
"He was amazing!" Hem exclaimed, looking a little dazed. "He spun and weaved! He did car chases while hanging out the back window with an Uzi!"
Snookie gave the judge a startled look. "He did?"
Camilla cocked her head to one side, thinking. No, she definitely did not recall any car chases! In fact, all she'd seen the mouse do on-camera was…sort of stand there…and wave his paws while he swayed back and forth and chanted. She'd thought it was some kind of Far Eastern entertainment bit, not an actual entry in the show. B.D. corrected Hem, "Nuh-uh! He fought off a whole army of vicious Sandinista cats using only the tip of his tail while biting himself free of rubber ropes!"
"Y-you guys are blind!" Shakey insisted, popping out of Hem's throat, shaking his head a little more than the rest of him. "He threw a whole bucketful of poison-tipped d-darts into the air and then dodged every single o-one of them!"
"O-kay," Snookie said, puzzled. "Well, it seems the judges can't agree on what exactly the mouse did last night, but I guess he's still in!" He suddenly noticed the little white mouse sitting at his feet, swinging a pocketwatch back and forth. "What are you doing, trying to time my intro?"
The mouse frowned. "Dang it. You're not a monster! This only works on monsters…" He sighed. "Fine. Just don't say nothin', okay pal?" Snookie stared at him, speechless, as the little rodent scampered backstage.
"Uh. Stay tuned! We'll get this contest underway again in just under two minutes after this word from our sponsor, ZikZak snack cakes - assuming your brain hasn't exploded by then. It's extermination time, on Break a Leg! Be right back." The feed cut from the host's somewhat strained smile to a flurry of ads; Camilla looked away, sighing, and tilted her neck from side to side to unkink it. She always tensed up when stressed.
Would the contestants reprise their acts, or would they just stand around and wait for the results of the show? Would there be a musical number? She wasn't even sure how long tonight's episode was supposed to be. She took a drink of Blueberry Grasshopper Mega Energy Boost, knowing the stress must be depleting her badly. Why, oh why, wouldn't Gonzo answer his phone? She'd left two more messages on his voicemail, but no return call had come to reassure her. Was he even thinking of her anymore? She sighed, the memory of the enormous flatscreen smashing down on Gonzo flashing through her head. At this point, she couldn't even be sure he was thinking.
***