RedPiggy's Comeback King Saga (a re-write)

RedPiggy

Well-Known Member
Joined
Apr 9, 2008
Messages
5,125
Reaction score
400
Act 1: The Comeback King

This is a rather large crossover fic, but I will try to make this as painless as possible this time around. If you like Muppets, Labyrinth, Fraggle Rock, Dinosaurs … then this is a great story for you! Now, I WILL warn you … some topics, such as substance use and “atypical” relationships occur. So, for the sheltered, perhaps this story is not for you. There isn’t anything obscene (in fact, nothing is mentioned that hasn’t been stated/shown/implied in these various franchises), unless the mere mention of those things upset you. Just thought I’d throw that out there.
Locations: Fraggle Rock and the Gorg’s Garden
New York City, in which The Muppets Take Manhattan occurs. (Also note, that Kermit says their wedding was only a play … BUT … when the bear family goes through the obvious fake doors, the scene switches to a more realistic church :big_grin: ).

Important Plot Points: The Legend of Sir Hubris
The Muppets Take Manhattan (see link above)
Labyrinth (link gives a 5-minute version)
Return to Labyrinth
Dark Crystal (link gives an abridged version)
Important Farscape Event
Junior Sells the Farm Pt 1 (see the whole ep!)
Mokey, Then and Now Pt 1
Junior Faces the Music Pt 1 (be sure to see the whole ep, though)
The Gorg Who Would Be King Pt 1 (see the whole ep!)

Other Characters: Sir David Tushingham
Nicky Holiday (though, Great Muppet Caper isn’t canon here, this is more like an alt-alt-universe version)
Queen of Trash I don’t have this movie, and all references to her online are pretty sparse … so I guess I just have to make stuff up.
Rachel Bitterman
Samson Knight
http://muppet.wikia.com/wiki/Foster

Whew … got all that? I thought this time around I’d be more helpful since this is a major crossover of just about every franchise I can think of (and want to work with). Yes, you have read this story before (some of you, anyway). However, I thought I could do better. So, the stories have been turned into 4 acts of one story and each act will open with something similar to the above “cheat list”.

The “Underground”, as it’s called in Labyrinth, consists of the world of Labyrinth (and Moraine, which is a neighboring kingdom found in the manga sequel). In this story, however, I’m also including the Gorg’s Garden and to a certain extent Fraggle Rock, though it’s more of a connection between the Underground and “Outer Space”, aka: our world, which consists of the Muppets and Sesame Street and such. I’m also considering Grouchland and the Trash Kingdom as part of the Underground, since apparently Oscar the Grouch’s trash can leads to another dimension or something as well. Basically, if it takes magic or plot convenience to get there (LOL), then it’s a part of the Underground. We begin the first few chapters with my version of the Legends of Sir Hubris, which is the story of the King of the Universe and the First Gorg King from Fraggle Rock.
Also, this whole story is like a Henson version of Medea, which is an ancient Greek play about a witch who married a hero, but he dumped her for a new girl, and she used all of her dark magic for revenge. I like Labyrinth's homages to classic fables, and I really enjoy Greek myths, so, there you go.
I realize that some of the links may no longer work, since Youtube cleansed a bunch of vids. So, here are two links that may help. The first is my Youtube video, which is a summary of the whole thing, which hopefully doesn't give TOO much away.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ge627CIWa4
The second is my Timeline, which might have plenty of spoilers for my various fics. All my fics are in the same fic-universe, so the timeline addresses most of them.
http://forum.muppetcentral.com/showthread.php?t=40929
However, if you feel that the dates presented under the chapter headings still leave you lost, the timeline might be a little clearer.
Also, you'll see links in the story itself. They're only there to help explain things if you need them. If not, just ignore them.

:big_grin:

Chapter 1
(Spring, 2008AD)

The loss of the crown had been devastating, or so it seemed to his royal subjects, who grumbled and groused and bewailed their fate, for they were certain that stars would fall and fire would consume and famine would wither, leaving the entire universe destitute. The King of the Universe was destined to rule all for the benefit of everyone. And yet, seemingly on a whim, he had just thrown it away … or so it seemed to those who knew him, for they remained unaware that their constant needs had nearly broken his spirit. He had been exhausted from the harsh, nagging words of his court. The thought of having to rule such a wide expanse every single day made his stomach ache and his hands twitch and his head throb. And so, the King of the Universe had relinquished his royal duty.

Now, one does not just throw away one’s responsibilities and get away with it without a scratch. Those who abdicated were doomed to seek out that very crown which weighed so heavily upon the royal head…

The former King of the Universe wandered to and fro, forever without home or purpose. At the time, it seemed to suit him. He had never felt more liberated. And yet, as he was turned away from each and every land, he began to doubt his decision. The universe was one big disappointment after another: sometimes he barely kept warm in the glacial lands of the north, sometimes he felt as though he were fully baked under the hot and searing sun of the west, sometimes he nearly fainted from infection in the cesspools of the south, and sometimes he had to fight off endless enemies in the east. He knew only the comfort of his own mind, and that was waning by the century’s end. He had been drifting and suffering such deep loneliness for a few centuries, though he had honestly lost track of time. Eventually, time ceased to have meaning at all. So, too, did other things: good food, his last remaining royal robe (worn to tatters through the centuries), companionship (of which he had none, as he had been known as selfish and strict, which endeared him to few) …

On one particular occasion, weary from a particularly bad run-in with impish fire elementals with detachable body parts who insisted on trying to eat him, the former King of the Universe slumped down next to a young tree atop a high hill, overlooking a fertile plain. He had grown tired of walking. He stared at the plain, filled with grasses of all kinds, flowers blooming in large groups, and bordered by a sparkling, winding, majestic river that shamed even the vast oceans.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he might stick around for a few days… [--The Legends of Sir Hubris.]

A black-haired Caucasian middle-aged woman, with crow’s feet in her eyes and a wide, sensitive grin, looked up from the stack of papers on her desk, which seemed to imitate the skyline of skyscrapers behind her through the large glass window that stretched across the entire wall. Her voice was gentle and cheerful. “This is great so far.” She leaned back against her black leather chair. The woman wore a black suit with a light blue blouse underneath. Her office was located in a rather posh section of Manhattan, courtesy of years of Broadway success under her belt. It was filled with numerous brightly-colored posters advertising various shows throughout the years, including one with Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy on it, where they wore the sparkling purple tuxes they tended to favor for some unknown reason. She maintained her grin as she spoke with the thirty-eight year-old brunette, who herself had been busily climbing the entertainment ladder after a stint teaching college drama students. “It’s a good thing your stories are proven cash cows … you tend to like re-using themes a lot," she noted, chuckling.

The other woman shrugged, returning the smile. The producer had given her her big break shortly after 2001, which she had needed due to her apartment complex being torn down during the reconstruction following the World Trade Center incident. They found themselves to have the same taste in genres and hobbies. “Hey, we’ve seen a huge resurgence in fairytale crap over the last decade or so," she informed the woman across the sleek desk. “RPGs are getting some respect, we’ve got the nostalgic 80s flavor … this has the potential to rival Cats," she said with a little more enthusiasm, her hands waving in circles to show how big it could become.

The older woman frowned, though she quickly tried to regain her normally cheerful composure. Broadway life could easily wear one down if one didn’t try to stay grounded and balanced. “Sarah, do you think your work is ‘crap’? I mean, if you’re starting to feel a need to move on, let’s get those feelings out in the air now, shall we?"

Sarah shrugged, looking at the floor, trying to avoid her friend and business partner’s eyes. She hesitated to answer. She really didn’t want to say the words out loud, remembering what problems that could cause. When she was in her mid-teens, she had obsessed over fairy tales and theater, to the point of collecting every souvenir and cheap merchandise she could find. One day she let loose with a wish to the Goblin King, a character from one of her play books.

That didn’t turn out too well. An owl came into her parents’ … her father’s room … and transformed into a living version of a statuette resting on the dresser in her room. He took her infant half-brother to his mystical castle in the center of an ever-changing labyrinth. Ever since, she’d had a profound respect for the power of language.

“I feel it’s personal, Jenny," she exclaimed strongly. It wasn’t that she was afraid of losing the job … Jenny wasn’t like that … but there were, more private reasons to think her statements thoroughly before stating them, reasons that even she herself sometimes didn’t want to admit. “This isn’t just about capitalizing on the retro thing … some stories need to get told. I’ve had a great time writing for you, but there are some things … I dunno, Jen," she continued, sighing, her voice becoming more and more subdued, “I just … regret …”

<><><><><><>

The leather-bound, gold-embossed book slammed shut with the help of large, brown furry hands, dust and miniscule bits of paper creating a small cloud, and was tossed over the right shoulder, making some strands of thick brown hair on the side of the even larger head sway.

“Whoa!" a female voice screamed out as the book raced past her as she sat on the big lug’s shoulder. The googly-eyed, yellow-orange creature with the red-orange frizzy pigtails tied with dark red ribbons and the bright red turtleneck sweater ducked out of the way just in time, hanging onto some body hair on the reader’s back, her knuckles paling and her feet desperately trying to take hold of something. She had wanted to get a better view of the story, but her adventurous side tended to put her in situations that, in hindsight, may not have been the wisest.

The brown furry giant looked over to the right and shrugged, nearly sending the female creature flying again. “Sowwy, Red," he told her casually, reaching back to help her up. His voice was smooth and deep, though his pronunciation still left a little to be desired. Whether it was the shape of his nose or the plants in the garden or even something mysterious and unknown, no one knew why the creature had that particular accent.

Red, a Fraggle who made her home in Fraggle Rock, a large cave system that connected at least two worlds, maybe more, glared at the humongous guy – though that was like staring down a hairy mountain. However, she shook her head and sighed, trying to hide her irritation in her voice, “No, it’s okay, Junior. I think I’ll live.”

Junior smiled. “Gweat!" he exclaimed, laughing, his belly heaving up and down with each guffaw. Junior was a Gorg. Think a brown shaggy King Kong but with a light brown bulbous nose with a loose khaki jacket, no pants, and spiked brown leather boots and no pressing girl problems.

“For now," Red griped under her breath.

“When did you start reading The Legends of Sir Hubris again, Junior?" a high-pitched male gravelly voice asked devotedly from the ground where other Fraggles had gathered to hear some Gorg tales at the edge of the radish garden near the tool shed. Each radish, as well as their leafy tops, was roughly the size of a Fraggle. In fact, to a Fraggle, the Gorg garden was a veritable paradise of unending food, since one vegetable or fruit could last them a couple of days.

Junior shrugged again as he faced Wembley, a green-yellow Fraggle with a tussle of almost blond hair and a banana-tree shirt, which was never buttoned all the way up, for that would have required too much focus and concentration.

“Watch it," Red cried out angrily, hanging onto Junior’s shoulder with a death-grip, “you dunderheaded…”

“RED!" a teeny male voice with an occasional Canadian accent barked from below. Red had agreed to stop calling Junior a lummox, which was an insult regarding his intelligence (or lack thereof) … but Red’s mouth almost always worked faster than Red’s brain.

“It’s okay, Gobo," Junior wistfully told the explorer Fraggle with the orange skin, purple hair, orange and yellow-striped long-sleeved shirt and a brown vest. He looked over at Red and tried to keep his voice down, since at that proximity, Gorg voices could rival avalanches, “Sowwy, Red … you want down?" Junior had only lived with his immediate family and never really had the opportunity to make friends. There had been no nearby Gorgs, and Fraggles had, for decades, been considered alternately garden pests and random “pets” for Junior. Only after a strange incident just before he was to be crowned as King of the Universe, did Junior start seeing Fraggles as friends. Though he had partnered with them before, it never occurred to him that they could be anything more than mere playful objects until he had learned to see life in an entirely new way. Now that Junior had denied his kingship, he felt free to play and laugh all day, even though it was sometimes frustrating since they were so much smaller than him.

Before she could answer, Gobo interjected. “What she really wants is to know why you started reading from those legends again!" He frowned at Red, craning his neck to see her. Fraggles were roughly two-feet tall, give or take, so having conversations with two-story Gorgs could sometimes leave them with a stiff neck.

Wembley, standing next to Gobo, shrugged and looked at the ground. “Actually, uh, I thought I was the one who wanted to know.”

Gobo glanced over at his friend. “And Red wants to hear it too … don’t you, Red?" he asked in that not-so-subtle tone he used when Red, he felt, was coming on too strong.

“Well, I …” Junior began.

“Juuuunnniiiooorrrrr," sang a melodious female voice from within the Gorg’s castle. At the front door appeared a lavender Gorg with a sharply upturned nose and a tremendous amount of blonde hair pulled up with a few pins, which were each the size of a tall Fraggle. She wore an ivory-colored flowing gown, accented with purple and yellow layers, and white lace fingerless gloves. She beckoned for Junior. “Come inside, sweetie-kins … I need you to try on some new clothes I’m sewing for your Five-hundred party," she said happily.

“Five-hundred party?" Red, Gobo, and Wembley asked in unison.

Junior began to rise, but remembered Red and gently put her down before standing. He glanced at the female Gorg. “But Maaaaa," he whined to his mother, “dat’s tree ye-uhs away!"

Ma Gorg shook her finger at her son. “If you want it to look good I need to start on it now, Favorite Son and Former King of the Universe," she lectured.

“But you just made dis shirt for me a hunnahd ye-uhs ago!" Junior pleaded. He didn’t mind helping his Ma with cooking, since he enjoyed finding uses for the vegetables he grew, but fashion preparation could take a decade or more. Junior didn’t want to die of old age waiting for his mother to finish nitpicking his wardrobe. Gorgs had been known to live to be a couple thousand years old, but nothing sped up (or slowed down) time like his mother. He picked up an edge of his shirt and sniffed it deeply. He looked back at Ma. “Besides … it’s not even duhty yet!"

Ma Gorg frowned, slapping her hand on the bottom half of the door. “You know how I get when you start sounding like your Father," she warned, almost growling.

“And what do I sound like, dear?" yelled a gravelly aged voice from deep within the castle.

Ma Gorg’s eyes widened and she turned toward the voice of her husband, who had been resting more … well, much more ever since Junior had forsaken the crown. “Like a brisk summer wind, Oh Gorgeous Husband of Mine," she laughed nervously. “All of nature rejoices when you open your mouth!" She turned back towards Junior, who had made little progress towards the castle. “Although sometimes they appreciate when it’s shut," she mumbled quietly. She looked at Junior expectantly. He had better not need another … motherly suggestion, she thought to herself.

Ma Gorg could easily be frustrated with both her husband and her son. They both felt idleness and play were a right, not a privilege. Still…

Around what year humans would call 1474AD, a young Gorg princess, followed by a small entourage carrying her luggage, marched toward a castle that shimmered in the sunlight. Before she entered the castle, however, she stopped by a nearby well and started to drink. Her mother, Queen Esmerelda of the Western Gorg Kingdom, had sent her there to find a husband. She had been walking for days. She was glad to be finally in the Eastern Gorg Kingdom, though her entourage, tasked with transporting her ample luggage, was SLIGHTLY more relieved than her.

She heard a strange noise from behind a large thick tree that nearly was the same diameter as an average Gorg. Upon investigation, she found a slumbering sapphire-blue young male Gorg, wearing only some shorts made of heavy fabric. She flicked some water on him and jumped back, amused, when he shot up several feet in the air. He glanced at her in shock, his eyes widening a little and his mouth slack. He wiped the water droplets off his face.

When she giggled at the sight, the young male Gorg blushed. He approached her and she coyly kept backing up so he would have to give chase. By the time she bumped into a large rock pillar made of several gray boulders, he had taken her hand and kissed her.

“Whatever did you do that for?" she asked.

“You’re the female for me," he said eagerly in a slightly husky voice. “I never want to go through that again. Be my wife.”

The Gorg Princess blushed and held her hand to her face to shield her reddening cheeks from him. “Your … ROMANTIC … sensibilities notwithstanding, I’m afraid I must save myself for the handsome young Gorg Prince who lives in that castle," she told him, pointing to the castle with a smile.

The male Gorg grinned widely. “Why, have no fear, my lavender angel," he announced proudly, “for thou dost see the one and true Gorg King.” He lowered his head. “My Pa still likes to hang around, of course, but for two-hundred and twenty-nine years, I’ve ruled the roost.” He sheepishly rubbed the back of his head, chuckling. “That is, if you don’t mind marrying a King, instead.”

Junior sighed, defeated. He turned to his Fraggle friends. “I guess I can’t avoid my destiny, Fwaggles," he noted sadly. “See you whenevah I see you.”
 

RedPiggy

Well-Known Member
Joined
Apr 9, 2008
Messages
5,125
Reaction score
400
Chapter 2
(Summer, 2008AD)

The proud former King of the Universe had grown weary of wandering. His feet were blistered, his skin dry, and his robes needed washing. However, he could not admit to any desire to reclaim his supposedly rightful place. Of what use had the King been? Despite his power, only the most loyal had really listened to him. Most beings just went ahead and did whatever they wanted to do anyway. Everyone had their own lives, their own dreams, their own loves. Those were things he could never REALLY control, at least not without exhausting himself to the point of death … which was a hard thing to fathom, for such a long-lived being. Although he had had a court, he had always felt completely alone. No one had been there to share in his joys and sorrows intimately.

Unbeknownst to the former King, as he sat atop a large hill overlooking a flowering plain, a small oval rustic ship floated serenely behind the clouds. It had acquired quite a bit of debris as it traveled through the “true” universe, crossing galaxies with ease thanks to the random wormhole here and there. Inside the ship, a pale gray entity, shriveled with age, coughed and wheezed through its mouth. It didn’t appear to have a nose. It had long spindly fingers which tapped at a console above the reclined soft chair upon which the being rested. On the floor by the chair was a spiky crown reminiscent of thin branches of bleached coral, as well as a pile of silvery robes.

Millennia ago, a great crisis had nearly consumed its world. All peace and light in the universe would have been lost, but for the heroics of the supposedly last of a small species, bipedal mammals called gelflings. Hope had been restored, and all was assumed to have been made right again. However, a catastrophe on a distant planet compelled this creature to seek out survivors and, maybe, set things right again. Ever since his homeworld had been saved, he felt a pressing urge to prevent the same doom that nearly cost them all their lives from happening to others. And yet, by the time the ship arrived, it was surely too late, for no evidence of life could be found among the dominant species of the planet. All that was left were some mammalian species and some marine life. They had hidden in caves during the catastrophe. It was difficult to communicate with such primitive creatures, but apparently, some years before the freezing started, as the world began to die, a new type of creature had been born … a creature born of hope with the unrealized potential to accomplish that which this entity had longed for. The dominant species had been fighting over resources and the innocence of a child of that species revealed the existence of this new type of creature.

So the entity had left, confidently knowing that life would begin anew. However, as time passed, its mind began to tear asunder. It knew that darkness again threatened a world, and it turned out to be the very one it had hoped to save millions of years ago. Parts of that world were dying, darkness creeping in and siphoning the very essence of beings, leaving them vulnerable to complete destruction.

As two had become one on its homeworld, so too must two join forces to stop the darkness on this one. Otherwise, this planet would yet again face the threat of utter extinction. And, as usual, a primitive might have to risk his or her life to help the two powers unite… [--The Legends of Sir Hubris.]

Jenny pitched the show’s major concepts as best she could via video conference: what had started out to be a simple tale of a Tolkien-esque quest for a king had evolved into something far grander. She forwarded some of her business partners detailed sketches she had drawn up. The identity of the King of the Universe was to be shrouded in mystery. He would not be revealed until the character had returned to his rightful role. Out of the blue, Sarah had added some sci-fi elements as well (“The more geeks we draw in, the better," she had said jokingly). The general concept would be not only to provide escapist fantasy fare, but to connect various genres together. If written well, the themes would not get all muddled up and confuse the audience (or the critics). So far, most of those partners had expressed delight in the concept, but distrust of the economic feasibility, since it seemed rather heavy on special effects, such as pyrotechnics, video projection, etc. One partner, however, a thin pale woman with short reddish-brown hair, had the most to criticize. She had been antsy throughout the entire presentation, so Jenny knew what was coming….

“Well, I, for one, will not be sinking more money than I already am into the theater racket," the woman on the screen griped sourly. “It’s bad enough I had to adopt your old Broadway has-beens, Miss Evangelos," she continued, jabbing her index finger angrily at the camera.

“Well, I, for one," Jenny shot back testily, “would hope that certain accounting processes made by certain investors could be well backed-up should the spreadsheets be checked more closely.” She paused, grimacing. “And, quite frankly, losing money on a property just shows bad leadership and business acumen. Properties are like plants: if you don’t water it, it shrivels up.”

“How dare you lecture me?" the woman on the screen scoffed. “I’ve been in the investing business for quite awhile --.”

Jenny smiled. “At least I can turn a profit with even the flimsiest of scripts, Ms. Bitterman," she replied. “And this is not a flimsy plot ... it could be epic. All you have to do is believe in it.” She paused. “Besides, I didn’t have to rely on a lucky death to get where I am today.” She pointed to herself. “My skills put me on top, not my --.”

“Okay," a male investor on another screen blurted out nervously. “We get it. You two don’t get along.”

“More of that ‘dream’ crap," Ms. Bitterman grumbled, looking away from the camera. “Why can’t anyone join the twenty-first century?" she continued to herself, though loud enough for the others to hear. “Why must some people refuse to let go of seventies hippie nonsense?" She finally stared straight ahead, glaring into the camera. “You’ll need to show me the money, baby girl. Let me know how that fairy-tale ending works out for ya.”

Jenny clicked off Ms. Bitterman’s feed. Sighing, Jenny leaned back in her chair. She glanced at the other investors. “Is there anyone else afraid to put their money where their mouths are?" she asked. “We didn’t get to where we are by investing in the ordinary. Mr. Crawford and I, you are well aware, took a veritable talking zoo and turned their play into a headliner for five years. A play filled with a random assortment of animals managed to get nominated for a Tony.” She inhaled deeply, clasping her hands together tightly. “I know what I’m doing. You have a choice: attach your names to success or to obscurity.”

<><><><><><>

A gray long-nosed rat-like creature screamed out in terror, jumping up nearly five feet off the trash-covered ground where he had been sleeping. He and his friend had barely had enough sleep all day, since Marjory had had them doing chores all day and the Gorgs had been arguing about the most becoming seams for hours.

“What is it?" asked his friend, a pinkish rat-like creature. His voice was higher-pitched than the gray one, but they both had the same type of street-smart accent. After a pause, the pink one asked again, “Huh? What is it, Gunge? Lay ovah anudder pin cushion again?"

Gunge trembled, shaking his head. “Uh-uh, Philo," he replied. “It was a nightmare … I dreamt I was swallowed whole by a monster dat made da Gorgs look like fuzzy bunnies.” He whimpered. “It had great big horns, green scaly skin, and jaws bigger dan dat well ovah dere," he continued, pointing toward the well which led to the Fraggle pond in the Great Hall, the central cave of Fraggle Rock. “It was scarier dan Wandah McMooch!"

“Boy, dat’s rough," Philo replied sympathetically. He soon smirked, however. “Bet you gave him indigestion, though, right, buddy?" He began to snicker.

Gunge nodded. “Yeah, yeah … just you keep laughin’, Philo. You ain’t exactly a deodorant spokesrat yourself, y’know…” He was going to continue berating his teasing friend when the ground underneath them began to shift, the trash piling up and forming a pointy head with a banana peel for a head decoration and two large hands that melted seamlessly into the pile of trash. Her personality was certainly more pleasant (in general) than her smell, though that depended on what had been thrown on her each day.

It spoke with a raspy female voice. “Boys, boys … are you having bad dreams again?"

Philo pointed to Gunge. “It’s all Gunge’s fault, Marjory," he exclaimed, trying to stifle a yawn. “He OD’d on some rotten carrot cake and now we all have to suffer," he continued, feigning melodramatic suffering.

“Hm," Marjory said, stroking her “chin” (what little there was) as the two rat-like creatures continued to trade insults at one another. She finally picked both up with each hand and held them apart. “Now listen, boys," she said sympathetically, “loose ends are getting tied up all over the universe. It’s perfectly normal for you to be suffering from its effects, especially since you live so close to me.”

The two looked at each other, then at her. “So, dis is all your fault?" they asked in shocked unison.

Marjory dropped them both in a huff. She leaned back as far as she could to “distance” herself from them, crossing her arms in indignation. Music started to play, with a kind of jazz feel to it, reminiscent of I’ve Seen Troubles :

Da universe … is made of so many t’ings,
Gorgs and Fraggles, boys, share friendly company…

“Uh," Philo interrupted, “Marjory? It’s eleven o’clock at night … can we pick dis up some udder time … please?"

“No!" she shouted, slapping her hand on Philo’s back. She shook a finger at him. “Don’t interrupt me again … or I’ll stop reading you bedtime stories!" She started singing again as Philo and Gunge gulped. The only way they’d get back to sleep is if they played along. Marjory was definitely in one of her “oracle-y” moods again.

But in other places hence, the pleasure’s nearly being spent …
That means troubles, that means pain, that means woe, woe, woe …
That means troubles, that means pain, that means woe, woe, woe…
The Rock is light-filled, Goombah soup spilled,
But beyond the Swamp lie crowns so lon-el-ly (Philo & Gunge: lon-el-ly)…
But in times of trial and stress, we need a king for all dis mess,
That means troubles, that means pain, that means woe, woe, woe…
That means troubles, that means pain, that means woe, woe, woe…

And on the last note, Marjory slipped back quietly into an inanimate trash heap, while her two companions shrugged and nodded off themselves…
 

RedPiggy

Well-Known Member
Joined
Apr 9, 2008
Messages
5,125
Reaction score
400
Chapter 3
(Fall, 2009)

The Former King of the Universe had made for himself a pleasant cottage in the heart of the flowering plain. The last thing he wanted was to build a castle, for kingship had never brought him joy. Months had passed and he had become more familiar with the terrain. The sparkling river stretched far to a majestic lake, guarded by a newly-crowned queen, whose silver hair matched the light bouncing off the water. He had barely set foot on the lake’s edge, his feet starting to dampen from the moisture on the shore, when an elegant female form slowly rose from the water, shining drops falling from her graceful figure, clothed only with a thin gown that left little to the imagination. Her curvaceous form reminded him of breaking waves.

The female smiled and stretched out her elegantly tapered hand. Steam rose from her upturned palm, forming a chalice made of highly polished silver, engraved with lines suggesting breaking waves. “Quench thy thirst, Traveler," she said in sultry tones. “Take off thy ravaged robes and let the sun bring life to a long-hidden visage.”

“What is your name?" the former King asked bluntly, his own voice deep and sensuous.

The queen laughed. “You’re not much for small talk, are you, Traveler?" She lowered her head while keeping her bright sharp eyes upon this new arrival. “Do not rebuff my offer so easily … I merely wish to be hospitable.”

The hooded former King kept his smirk hidden. She certainly thought much of herself, he thought. He wondered if she always seduced weary visitors. She reminded him, in fact, of the sirens of old, who sang their way to men’s hearts, only to devour them at their leisure. “Those that know me know me as Sir Hubris.”

The queen’s face quickly became tense, her eyes squinting, her brows furrowing deeply. “Don’t LIE to me," she hissed. She had made it a point to know the past of “Sir Hubris”, of course. Her kingdom excelled in surveillance and information trading. The knowledge that he had been the King of the Universe, a being powerful enough to go toe-to-toe against any creature, fascinated her … and enchanted her. Like a flooding river, she wanted to broaden her territory and she felt that it was possible (and almost fool-proof) IF he could be persuaded to share his power.

The hooded figure shrugged. “What part of my statement was untruthful?"

The two continued trading strategic barbs, but both felt as the moon rose gently as a pale peach-colored sphere in the sky that destiny had desired them joined. Coming together, they held hands, sitting on the lake shore, staring at the full moon, which cast a soft glow upon them. The queen, caressing Sir Hubris’ hand, took a sip from the chalice and offered it to her new companion. He gently took the chalice and drank from it, careful not to let his hood reveal his face. With the last sip, he felt a surge of power and intoxication … all he wanted was to unite with the queen and begin a powerful family that would outlive the heavens. He began to stroke her hair … but suddenly, he jumped up and shook his head violently, backing away from the queen, who was trying very hard to hide her shock and disappointment. He glared at her, though she could not see his face. She had INTOXICATED him. He didn’t think it possible. He had not drunk but a few sips … and he was certain centuries on the road had not made him so vulnerable. It had to be enchanted. Was it not but water? He had felt, for a brief moment, as though nothing else in the universe mattered because he was one with her on a cellular level. His thoughts had become her thoughts and vice versa. It was a level of intimacy for which he had not been prepared nor particularly desirous. He vowed to himself that, should he ever start to fall for someone , he would break it off if she ever felt overwhelmed. He wanted love and companionship … but not that way. He wanted to deserve it.

Her eyes widened slightly, but a smirk she could not hide for long. She rose gently from the ground and silently commanded the chalice to become steam once more which she then absorbed into her palm. “Commendations are in order, ‘Sir Hubris.’ Your arrogance and your willpower are matched equally by only my own.” She paused, crossing her arms. “It IS a compliment," she assured him. [--The Legends of Sir Hubris.]

Jenny Evangelos had decided, with the help of her business partners, to take things slowly, to let the rich plot of Sarah William’s latest show pitch grow. It had been a year and a half since Sarah first came up with the idea and the projected opening of the show was to be April of 2011. Already they had started some minor projects, which would serve to set up the characters and the background story. They were still waiting on some copyright and royalty issues from one of Sarah’s favorite childhood playwrights, from whose tale of royal love and betrayal this “elaboration” would spring.

As the fall season wore on, Jenny found herself reminiscing about her father , who had lived his entire life always just out of reach of material wealth, even after he had come to America from Greece. When the time had come for him to tell her goodbye, he took her by the hand in his sparse but warmly decorated bedroom and smiled that warm fatherly smile. “Jenny," he said in a gruff voice, “is good for dreams, yes? Is magic, is hope, is … is not money.” He sighed, his hand starting to slip. “Peoples is peoples. Some work, some play.” He paused for a couple of moments. “Take frog. Has good dream. Bring together many peoples. Is loyalty. Is friendship. Is love. No regret dream, Jenny. Your papa … he … no … reg…”

Struggling to keep back the tears as she flipped through some catalogs as she reclined on a small sofa in a modest apartment, her phone rang. Noting the area code on her cell display, she sniffed and wiped her eyes and flipped open the cell. “Jenny," she began, trying to hide the wavering in her voice.

On the other end was a voice that reminded one of Kermit the Frog’s, but much deeper and more even in tone. “Hi, sweetie … look, are you still coming to Thanksgiving?"

Jenny shrugged. “It’s … still on my calendar, Samson.” Awhile back, in the mid-nineties, a rather tall pig, suffering a mid-life crisis, had come to Jenny all the way from Hollywood. His partner had suggested trying Broadway, but the pig was more interested in flirting and avoiding employment. At some point, the subject of children came up. No one knew, of course, but Jenny had not been able to take care of her newborn son at that time, not with the death of her father still hanging over her head like an anvil ready to crush her. Rather than emotionally neglect him, she gave him up for adoption.

A long pause. “You know, sweetie," the male voice noted softly, “you know you can always talk to us … well, me, anyway, right? Bobby is still a smidge self-absorbed at … the moment.”

“How’s Foster?"

Another long pause. “Uh-huh. If you wanted to change the subject, all you had to do was ask. He’s … no, stop it!" he barked to someone else in the room. “Sorry ‘bout that, hon … you know those costumes you mailed us will get a lot of … uh … exercise this Halloween.”

“Foster?"

“Right! Right! Foster … he, uh, he’s doing well in high school. We got that whole ‘algebra’ thing worked out, so he doesn’t have that problem anymore. For God’s sake, I’m on the phone … with Jenny … from Manhattan …” His voice began to strain with irritation. “Broadway producer? Costume … yes, those costumes …” Jenny heard a loud thump. “Sorry, sweetie, I’ll let you go, okay? Everyone’s just fine here … come out to California when you can, okay? Bye.” Click.

Jenny sighed. Another ring made her roll her eyes, though this time the area code was local.

“Jenny? Hi, this is Kermit the Frog," announced the speaker on the other end of the line.

Jenny smiled. She and Kermit had maintained a friendship well after Manhattan Melodies, their first big hit on Broadway back in the eighties. “Hey, Kermit! How are ya?"

“Oh, I’m fine, I guess. Your shows goin’ okay?"

It was like magic. Whenever Kermit talked to her, her worries just lifted up and floated away. “Yeah, me and Ms. Williams are fleshing out a really big one that should go up in 2011. Is Ms. Bitterman still causing problems?"

“Uh…” he stalled, clearing his throat.

“Kermit, I deal with her on nearly a daily basis. If you want, I can still put the squeeze on her…”

“Jenny, I told you I’ll take care of it," Kermit replied sharply. “I’m not going to let you treat me like I’m two hops away from a soup kitchen.”

Jenny paused, gulping. “I … I didn’t mean to offend you, Kermit," she answered in a more submissive tone. “I just want to help.”

Kermit sighed. “I know, Jenny, I know. It’s just … it’s our dream, y’know? Sink or swim.” He paused. “I’m a frog, Jenny … swimming has always been a natural talent of mine, if I do say so myself," he continued, trying to sound more cheerful.

Jenny smiled. “Never forget, Kermit, that the rest of the world is part of that dream, too. You helped bring us together. We’re all one big family now.”

Kermit chuckled. “I don’t think I’ll convince the IRS that I’m Head of Household with six billion dependents…”

Jenny laughed, leaning back against the sofa. “Yeah … can you imagine the deductions they’d have to dish out?"

Kermit joined the laughter. “Haha, yeah …” He laughed a little while longer. Kermit never liked feeling like someone’s Inspiration … but he was happy to cheer her up, since this time of year was particularly hard on her. “Listen, I know you’re going to California for Thanksgiving and that you’re really busy with Broadway and everything … but is there still a chance I can persuade you and Ms. Williams to show up at our annual Christmas party? It would really mean a lot for you to come this year.”

“Who’s the guest celebrity?"

“Bowie, actually," Kermit replied readily. He was rather proud of himself. They hadn’t had a star like that in a few years.

Jenny groaned teasingly. “Oh, Kermit, I don’t know if Sarah’s going to agree to come. For some strange reason, he creeps her out.”

Kermit paused in shock. “We have monsters and stuff walking around and she’s afraid of a rock star?"

Jenny shrugged, smiling. “Beats me, why, Kermit.” Her voice slipped into greater seriousness. “But Sarah’s got some private issues with her family right now. For whatever reason, maybe bringing her into a chaotic party isn’t the right decision.”

Kermit responded, “Maybe … but Sweetums is really good about winning over inhibited minds. He’ll probably have her dancing in a mosh pit by night’s end.”

Jenny gasped, her eyes nearly bursting out of her head. “You have a mosh pit now?" Wow … where had she been? She had never thought that little theater could hold something like that. That kind of thing would probably keep the fire department busy, she laughed to herself.

Kermit chuckled. “Well, by the time the party gets done with the theater, I’m sure we’ll end up with one.” He paused. “Look, I have to go … Homeland Security wants to talk to Crazy Harry again. Please say you’ll come.”

“I’ll do my best, Kermit.”

<><><><><><>

The leaves had turned red and gold in the Gorg’s garden, while stiff cold breezes became more frequent. Deep inside the castle lay Pa Gorg, a dusty blue Gorg with a balding head, a beard and squinty eyes. Despite his wife’s protests, he could not bring himself to get out of bed. He barely turned over when there was a knock on the door.

“Daddy?" It was Junior. Pa groaned. Junior bounded in like a human child might to announce Christmas morning and shook his resting father. “Daddy, get up, alweady! Ma wants you to pwepa-yuh for my Five-hundred party!"

“I’m not going!" Pa shouted, stubbornly clenching onto the blankets. “Now leave me alone, Junior … go sing songs with some Fraggles or something and leave your old man to die peacefully, okay?"

There was a long pause. “Daddy," Junior chastised him, “you’re not dying. You’re bittuh, dat’s what you are.”

Pa sat up and shoved Junior away from the bed. “You’re darn tootin’ right I’m bitter!" he shouted angrily. “I used to have a purpose! I used to have goals!" He started to sob. “I used to have a shiny crown and sacred Gorg tradition behind me!"

Junior cocked an eyebrow. “Pa … now we can make our own twaditions. We nevah wuled anything but our own gahden … now we have fwiends.”

Pa grunted. “You have friends, Junior. A King was supposed to rule his subjects … and I know we didn’t have real subjects … but that’s not the point! Having that crown meant I could do whatever I wanted to do without anyone naggin’ me all the time!"

Junior crossed his arms. His voice still betrayed smug disbelief. “You do dat now, Pa … and Ma …” he continued, hushing his voice so his mother wouldn’t hear “… still nags.”

“I heard that!" Ma yelled from the kitchen. Both Pa and Junior shuddered instinctively.

Pa stared at the covers. He couldn’t understand why everyone thought he was wrong. Why would Junior take the care-free advice of Fraggles over centuries of sacred Gorg tradition? Sure, that was around a quarter-century ago, but Pa had never felt completely satisfied with Junior’s decision. After all, that “shadow” had helped Junior learn to play the Royal Kazoo … something only a great Gorg King could do. What was the point of the “shadow” singing the praises of a great Gorg King when Junior was just going to sabotage the whole affair? And for what? So he could be friends with Fraggles? He could have done that with the royal crown upon his head! He looked up at Junior. “You go do whatever your mother tells you, Junior … I’ll be up shortly," he said, defeated.

“You pwomise?"

“Yes, I promise," Pa answered in an irritated tone. When Junior left Pa’s bedroom, Pa leaned back against the headboard and sighed. There was only one Fraggle in all of Fraggle-dom Pa ever felt any kind of connection with … that little light blue one with the red hair and the brown cap. This particular Fraggle tended to think about impending doom, even when his Fraggle cohorts believed whole-heartedly in peace and love and all that care-free nonsense. Nine years ago, after a particularly horrible storm that nearly blew all the neighboring swamp waters into the Gorg’s garden, that Fraggle had professed a belief that something terrible was still going to happen. Pa believed it. The last time the water supply was in danger, it was the fault of those creatures from Outer Space, as the Fraggles called it. Pa seemed to see what none of his family had seen … that a terrible magic caused the storm.

He got up, grunting as he stood, and stretched. He shuffled over to a dresser Junior had made for his parents, and began to sift through the drawers, looking for a small black orb … a royal jewel entrusted to a Gorg King by Sir Hubris himself…
 

The Count

Moderator
Staff member
Joined
Jul 12, 2002
Messages
31,234
Reaction score
2,919
... Plugging myself into this one as it'll have all your stories in one neat place. Wonderful as always, please post more when you can.
 

RedPiggy

Well-Known Member
Joined
Apr 9, 2008
Messages
5,125
Reaction score
400
Chapter 4
(Spring, 2010AD)

All across the lands the goblins ran amok. The short ones tunneled under people’s houses, the large ones stomped flat much needed crops, the nice ones short-sheeted bed linens and put buckets full of tar on top of doors, the mean ones randomly fired upon the poor unsuspecting peasantry, the dumb ones messed up blueprints, and the REALLY dumb ones just sat in the middle of roads whether or not they ran the risk of getting run over by carts. All was chaos.

At the bottom of a lonely hill, near the cottage of the former King of the Universe, Sir Hubris, an aged gray being lay dying. He had tried to hide the internal schisms of his mind, but he found himself failing. Rather than let the universe once more know the greed and selfishness of a Skeksis, which had been an avian/reptilian-like creature with a gnarled beak and craggly teeth and dark skin, the dying UrSkek decided it was time to give life by using his. Upon his last breath, the body disappeared into thin air. Moments later, some yards away, a young man with a large nose and a thin black mustache rose in the field, squinting in the early daylight. He saw the grasses, he saw the flowers, he … he saw the hole to his right. He cautiously crawled over to the entrance and peered inside. A shadow alerted him. He looked up to find a bright red bird flapping haphazardly towards him.

“Look out below!" it cried in a trilling high-pitched voice. It landed square upon the young man’s head, instinctively wrapping abdominal flaps of skin around the young man’s face. Its bill was sharp and the back of its head sported a wild plume of almost purple feathers. “Well, well then! What a great landing spot!"

The young man stood up, albeit in a wobbly fashion. The bird cried out in protest, as its skin had not completed its attachment. “Am I to be of two minds forever?" the young man pondered curiously.

The bird tilted its head in confusion. “Don’t be rude!" it retorted angrily. “Two heads are better than one!"

“Hm," the young man replied solemnly.

The bird flapped its small wings. “Humph! Is that all you say? Put a little emotion into it! Like this," he said, imitating the young man’s reply but raising and lowering its pitch melodiously. “There! Isn’t that better?"

The young man sighed. He recalled something like a fractured memory, distant and impersonal … of doing that very thing in the past. However, this was truly the first day he could really remember. Perhaps they weren’t memories at all…

Suddenly, those same notes were echoed deep within the hole. The sounds seemed to come from a kazoo-like instrument. After a few moments, a dusty red creature with googly eyes and half-closed eyelids and a sleek tail with a poofy orange end crawled out and smiled. “You sing, too?" it said in a tinny, hopeful voice. “I wish I could. I cannot go home until I find my own song.” It stroked its “kazoo” wistfully.

Before the young man could say anything, a cloaked figure ran towards them from the cottage, waving its arms frantically. “Run!" it yelled. When it caught up to them, it pointed in a circle. “Goblins are invading the area," a suave male voice noted. He nodded towards the young furry creature. “Take your pet and hide it – these goblin creatures will eat anything!" A subtle note of compassion was embedded in his urgent voice.

“I’m not a pet!" the creature protested. “My name is…”

“… Minstrel," the young man interjected forcefully. He glanced down at the small being, smiling warmly, without a hint of the newcomer’s panic. “Only the silent can sing.” He knelt down, reached inside a back pocket, and dug out a small twin flute, with one green tube wrapping around another. He handed it to the creature. “With one note or with none, the goblins stop when the song is done.”

Shouts and cries rose around them as throngs of goblins appeared, heading straight for the cottage. The cloaked figure removed his hood, revealing a narrow face, feathered blonde hair that fell to his shoulders, and eyelids emphasized with strong black lines that stretched an inch from the eyes’ edges. He stared at the young man and the tiny creature. “My name is Jareth, former King of the Universe. You MUST reach shelter!"

The young man smiled. The creature stared lovingly at his new flute and looked up at the robed figure. The creature, nicknamed Minstrel just a moment ago, widened his eyes and spoke, nodding, “We HAVE reached shelter.” He brought the twin flute up to his lips and began to play an upbeat tune of short notes, which would later be used to soothe crying infants. After several bars, Minstrel lowered the flute and began to sing as the goblins started to reach them:

Now the goblins have arrived!
They thrived? They haven’t found a home…
Goblins roam? They need a leader …
Feed her? Treat her!
Listen! The Song has not been tried!

As Minstrel sang, the flute magically continued the tune, making the goblins screech to a halt. They had never heard such a melody before, especially when they were on a rampage. Most beings just fled in terror. It was so peculiar to them that they burst out laughing. As they did so, Minstrel and the young man sang more melodiously as the flute continued to play itself:

We see them coming, fighting hard and having fun,
What can we do-oo-oo?
They’re happy with their lot,
But why are they so blue-ue?
This is for you!

Jareth, taken aback, felt a wave of intense magic fill him, far stronger than what he had felt at the lake’s edge with Mizumi. In fact, he hadn’t felt this way since being King of the Universe, when he could shape reality to his whim. To think that a mere song could rejuvenate him in such a way was … well … unthinkable. He turned towards his cottage and raised his arms, feeling a swelling power rise up from the ground as though a volcano or a geyser was erupting. He tilted his head back, his spine arched with the ecstasy of it all, and watched as stone followed the musical magic from the ground and started forming structures. As they assembled themselves, Jareth could feel that the rocks in this area were particularly responsive to certain musical tones. He managed to open his eyes and saw faint glittering on the rocks and dirt beneath him. He had never noticed it before. He couldn’t really form a coherent thought, either … all he could do was respond viscerally to the power flowing through him.

What kind of city do you need?
Tiny towns
Might give you all frowns,
Make it kinda big,
Then you can sing,

Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Goblin magic you can see…
Jump magic, jump (jump magic, jump)
Jump magic, jump (jump magic, jump)
Put that kingly spell on thee…
Lay down your arms, now you’re free!

At the end of the song, a large castle rose majestically above a small hamlet that circled the royal structure of beige stone. The goblins cheered, for they finally had a place of their own. All their lives, the goblins had wandered the Underground, their brand of business and pleasure quite unpopular with other types of beings. They had never known anyone to be nice to them. Though they found it terribly amusing, the constant fear beings showed when goblins appeared DID bother them … a little. Jareth stood in shock, staring at the newly created Goblin City. The young man approached silently and placed one hand upon Jareth’s shoulder. “The path away from destiny leads back to it," he noted. He glanced down proudly at the small creature. “And you," he continued softly, “heard their song. All beings have their own song. Pass on your knowledge. Teach future generations to listen to the songs of the universe, and listen for the different verses coming together.” [--The Legends of Sir Hubris.]

<><><><><><>

Sarah, moping, sat in front her computer, staring into the webcam. Her twenty-six-year-old brotherhttp://www.worldoffroud.com/www/about/bios/toby.cfm , who had curly blonde-brown hair, frowned in a small window on the computer desktop. “Sarah," he said grumpily, “how old are you, again?"

“Beg your pardon?"

Her brother sighed, rolling his eyes. “Sarah, stop whining. So you don’t have kids. Your plays are your kids, right? You’ve got a year left til your Labyrinth fetish goes up.”

Sarah looked away. “This isn’t about that. And stop calling it my ‘Labyrinth fetish’, Toby …”

Toby groaned. “Then what is it, Sis?" He pointed at his sister, though she still avoided eye contact. “You’re a worse puppeteer than Jareth could ever hope to be!"

Sarah slapped the desk hard, her voice venomous: “How dare you?" she screamed.

Toby shrugged. “You’re such a freakin’ tease, Sarah! You’re not happy unless you’re pining away for anything that isn’t yours! You didn’t like your life – so you went to college. You didn’t like Mom or Dad – so you moved away. You felt powerless – so you summoned Jareth. Then, when you finally have him crawling on his knees – you just tell him he sucks and stomp back home. Make up your stupid mind, Sis.”

<><><><><><>

Red Fraggle ran through tunnels, screaming out for Mokey, her best friend and roommate. Various creatures got all bug-eyed and scattered as she tore through each tunnel like a shrieking ball of fire. Mokey, taller than Red by half a foot, sporting bluish-white hair that cascaded down to her shoulders like a rushing waterfall, purple skin and fur, and a dark blue sweater, had taken off several days ago. At first, everyone thought she had been getting radishes from the Gorg’s garden … but Junior … and Madame Trash Heap … hadn’t seen her at all. The Fraggles had decided to split up to look for her, and Red headed toward the Cave of Forgetfulness, hoping Mokey hadn’t become trapped there. It was populated by carnivorous plants that first sprayed fine pollen into the air, making Fraggles forget who they were. Once they forgot how to stand up, the plants would eat them.

If Mokey forgot Red, Red didn’t know if she could handle it. Red was always flying off the handle and Mokey had this wonderful calming affect on her. Mokey wasn’t like Boober … Boober hardly ever agreed to play games. Mokey, though, would drop her paints and poems and pick up a rock hockey stick … even if she wasn’t good at it. The important thing was that she was willing to try.

Just as she rounded a corner, she ran smack into Cantus, a Minstrel, who was regarded as wise (but altogether strange and rather obtuse), for his magic twin pipe could breathe life and unity into the Rock. Everywhere he sang, the tunnels would light up in different colors and flowers would bloom and a fresh breeze would take the staleness away. Cantus was orange-yellow, with tufts of red hair on either side of his head and a small red goatee. He braced himself against a cave wall to keep from falling.

Red pushed away and stopped to look at whom she had run into. “Cantus!" she exclaimed. “Have you seen Mokey?" Her voice sounded like she was hyped up on Whoopie Water, a babble of over-bubbling broth that could keep a Fraggle awake for days.

Cantus righted himself and patted Red on her shoulder. He kinda sounded like a very mellow Rowlf the Dog: gruff but kind and gentle. “Mokey is searching. You are searching. Perhaps you both look for the same thing.”

Red sighed, exasperated. Didn’t he know this wasn’t the time for riddles? “I’m look-ing for MO-KEY!" she told him, as if he were deaf.

Cantus nodded. “And so is she. I’ve noticed it the last few times I’ve come to the Great Hall: a strong verse has taken hold of Mokey. It threatens to overtake her own voice.” He lowered his head. “Of course, it might also make her sing louder. Who knows?"

Music could affect Fraggles in a multitude of ways. You could tell the quality of a Fraggle’s heart and mind by their song, their inner “ping” that summarized their entire personality. Cantus had seen the beginnings of a great Minstrel in Mokey … but she still seemed too attached to her life in the Rock.

However, as the years had passed, even Cantus could learn a thing or two, he mused to himself. Perhaps Mokey could be the Minstrel That Stayed. After all, Cantus lived to unite the Rock with music. Once united, perhaps it was appropriate to let the next Minstrel play the song as he … or she … saw fit. On the one hand, no one would presumably keep the Rock united. On the other, he had no right to demand how the song continued.

It was just important that it did.

Red wanted to shake him, force him to tell her where she went. Then, a thought popped into her mind. “It started nine years ago, Cantus," she mournfully informed him. “She dreamt Lanford, that Deathwort plant of hers, sacrificed his life to save his friends deep in the starry sky.” She stared far into the tunnel, shaking her head. “She hasn’t been right since.”

Cantus stroked his chin. “Hm," he said, “perhaps we’ve discovered the singer … now we just have to listen to the song.”
 

RedPiggy

Well-Known Member
Joined
Apr 9, 2008
Messages
5,125
Reaction score
400
Chapter 5
(A Silly Little Break)

Wembley Fraggle stood on the office chair, staring at the computer monitor, biting his lower lip. He had helped Gobo explore all of Fraggle Rock, and he had been bored for quite awhile. So, he had taken to making trips into Outer Space and learning about computers, since nearly all of the Silly Creatures (Humans) they met were now almost attached to them. Here, on the Net, Wembley’s indecision wasn’t a problem … he could literally be anything he wanted. If he couldn’t decide how to respond, he just came up with as many answers as he could. The strange thing was that, on a computer, being inconsistent didn’t really strike anyone as odd, unlike in real life.

A pop-up appeared on screen.

123RockIsMe: OMG! Your fic is DA COOLEST!1! I just WUV how you put all that together!1!

Wembley flashed a grin and chuckled. That’s what he liked best about the “Internet” … he could talk to Silly Creatures and other types of beings from all over the universe, though the dialect they used was sometimes difficult to master. He began to type.

BANANAFAN: Gee, thanks! I’m kinda close to the source. You know what they say … “Write what you know”…

123RockIsMe: The thing is, tho, that EMO doesn’t really belong in Fraggle Rock. Can’t you lighten up?

Wembley leaned back and tilted his head in confusion.

BANANAFAN: EMO? Is that like “sad”?

123RockIsMe: Don’t be such a noob, man! Yeah, it’s like that, ‘cept more hardcore. I mean, how many times is Fraggle Rock gonna risk complete obliteration in fanfics? God – get a grip!

BANANAFAN: Well…

Wembley was at a loss. A good story, he knew from listening to Gobo’s Uncle Matt and the Storyteller, should have a mix of emotions and have twists and turns to make the audience guessing.

BANANAFAN: I guess there could be more jokes and songs and stuff….

123RockIsMe: Exactly. It’s a kid’s show, man … not Medea

BANANAFAN: But there ARE sad parts… and what’s “Medea”?

123RockIsMe: Google. It’s your friend.

BANANAFAN: Is he a Fraggle, too?

A little yellow round face that rolled its eyes popped up and the user signed out. Wembley shrugged. He took that to mean the conversation was over. He liked “chatting”, but there was still a charm to having face-to-face communication.

Wembley held his face with his hands, his elbows digging into the computer desk he was “borrowing”. The blank screen stared at him in stark white … challenging him to complete a new chapter of his tale.

He’d have to hurry. The Silly Creature that used this room would come back soon from “lunch break”. He didn’t want to disappoint his fans … how could he not come up with a single idea for a new chapter?

Maybe the story was getting too dark. Maybe Wembley had been hanging around Boober too long. On the other hand, the more he thought about it, Fraggles were always getting into life-threatening situations: be they cave-ins, predatory plants, environmental pollution, war … Why couldn’t his story do the same thing? It was realistic, after all. It wasn’t normal to be happy all the time. On the other hand, happy stories make beings feel better … maybe forget their own problems. Surely there were enough problems in the universe without making up new ones. Though, sometimes stories help beings learn how to solve problems. So, even a dark story could be educational…

Wembley sat down, his eyes rolling around. He was starting to feel the swirlies again. He groaned in exasperation.

No wonder the Storyteller always felt so frustrated. Making audiences happy was hard
 

RedPiggy

Well-Known Member
Joined
Apr 9, 2008
Messages
5,125
Reaction score
400
Chapter 6
(Fall, 2010AD)

In a distant kingdom, the Kingdom of Moraine, a tall castle with multiple spires rested precariously on an inverted triangle of rock, which floated above a massive lake. Water flowed in silver ribbons from the lowest floors of the castle into the lake below. The gentle moonlight emphasized the pale ivory façade, but it brought no beauty to the land’s graceful Queen, Mizumi . She stared at the lake below from atop the highest spire, her long silver hair wafting in the cool night breeze, matching the rhythm of the waves below.

She had forbidden anyone from seeing her, even her two daughters, the scarred yet graceful Moulin and the morbidly obese Drumlin. She clenched her gown until her knuckles blanched. How could she lose to that overbearing, pig-headed, weakened hide of an undead turtle? She had nearly succeeded in flooding Jareth’s Goblin Kingdom and that frustrating Labyrinth, to the extent that waters nearly claimed surrounding territories. She had nearly succeeded in drowning the human child as well. The Pathmaker should have been hers to control! Had she not accessed it?

Why wouldn’t he love her as he did those many centuries ago? Had she not more power than that human amateur? Could they not have run the entire universe by themselves? How could he continue to choose her – that despicable (though admittedly strong-willed) woman? Sarah chaffed at every suggestion of living the rest of her life with Jareth, no matter how many times he wooed her. Mizumi’s teeth began to ache, she was clenching them so tightly. What was he, some sort of masochist? Why couldn’t he accept his rejection like an adult? If she wanted to remain a peasant for the entirety of her amazingly short lifespan – who was he to deny her? He would have helped her become anything her little heart desired … and she chose to return to the world of humans.

She inhaled deeply and shrieked at the lapping waves below, “WHAT DOES THAT TINY WENCH HAVE THAT I DON’T?”

She summoned a fine mist from her hand, forming a bony head with scars on the scalp and its lips stitched shut, though the one this image represented could still speak somehow. “Esker,” she said resignedly, “dispatch spies to every kingdom, to the human world if necessary. Apparently we left a stone unturned somewhere. I want to know how Jareth won, once and for all.”

“Milady,” he noted in a bored, almost dismissive tone, “there has been no communication from the Goblin Kingdom in years, though his human wench is absorbed in the telling of how Jareth became Goblin King.” He hoped she would not detect his feelings on the matter. He despised his queen’s obsession with taking Jareth down. He had gone to eliminate him once … and his current status resulted from that encounter. Her two daughters, of course, teased him relentlessly about his failure. Before Jareth, he could have had those two boiled alive and Mizumi would only have mildly chastised him … for he was the most powerful in the kingdom beside the queen. After all, he had managed to survive an encounter with “the most powerful sorcerer” in the Underground, had he not? Why should Mizumi continue to focus solely on some coward who hides amongst the goblin hordes?

Mizumi frowned even more than she had before. “Follow her. Do not fail me,” she replied icily.

Esker shook his head. She had picked up on his displeasure. “Milady, we have been following her. Jareth is not contacting her through mortal or immortal means,” he protested.

Massive whirlpools began to churn and thrash against the castle as lightning shattered the night sky. Mizumi roared, “THEN DO NOT LOOK TO JARETH!” She gulped, trying to regain her composure. The lake began to calm once more. She inhaled deeply. “The waters of the river are too high … there is a tributary somewhere for which we have, as yet, not accounted. I want it found.”

Esker sighed, nodding. “Yes, milady.”

<><><><><><>

Sarah opened the door to the small office where the show’s director was chatting with Jenny. As fall progressed, the theater chosen for their play had become a hive of activity, swarming with props and set designs. Normally, a play would open up a lot sooner, but Jenny and Sarah had wanted the opening performance to be perfect … and it didn’t hurt that they had the pull to do things as they pleased. Sarah knocked on the open door when she realized they hadn’t noticed her. She was practically jumping up and down, her heart racing, her breathing almost labored. She could not hide the excitement in her voice. “Come quick, Jen! You got to come see this! I found something absolutely phenomenal!” she squeaked.

Sarah and Jenny rushed down to the theater basement, which at the moment was housing sets and props as they were being built. In the middle of the floor was what appeared to be a dull metal crown about two feet high, made of ribbons of metal arcing up and back toward a dome helmet thing. Sarah noticed Jenny gawking at the find. “You didn’t order this?” Jenny vacantly shook her head, her mouth gaping.

Just then they heard a cough behind them and a quick gasp. They turned to find an old man, slightly hunched over, carrying a broom. He was Caucasian with strong jowl lines and white hair with thick sideburns. A stagehand, by the looks of him, Sarah thought. She noticed he had a small flower pinned to a jacket pocket. His eyes were wide, staring at the two women. “I … I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, his voice almost gruff with age.

“Do you work here?” Sarah asked.

“I’m part of the staff. Here,” he replied, handing her his badge. Rick Hollandaise. “I hope you don’t … uh … mind the crown. I thought,” he paused, trying to hide a look of frustration but hoping they’d pass it off as senility, “that the thing might be used in the … play,” he grunted.

Jenny clasped her hands together. Her face practically lit the whole room. “It’s wonderful! Where did you get it?”

Rick shrugged, clearing his voice. “I … uh … managed to pick it up along the way.” He kept his head lowered, struggling to keep eye contact so he didn’t look completely guilty. “You know those old men who like to pick up trash along the streets for hobbies and such? I’m that kinda guy,” he continued, nodding, more confident in his answers now. “I’m all about being productive in my old age.” He pointed at the beat-up crown. “You want me to polish that thing up for ya?”

“No, it’s perfect the way it is,” Sarah blurted out. “It could symbolize a dead kingship … the life is gone from it … it represents the futility of cosmic rule.”

Jenny and Rick stared at Sarah for several moments. Jenny hadn’t seen Sarah this animated in months. Rick sniffed and wiped his nose. “Whatever you say, Boss,” he noted. “As long as I get it back when the show’s over.”

Jenny turned towards Rick, who had been trying to inch away. She smiled warmly. “Not a problem, Rick. We can’t thank you enough.”

Rick smiled politely and turned. “You don’t have any divas here in this production, do ya?” He paused. Finally, he grumbled largely to himself, “I hate divas.”

Jenny glanced at Sarah and smiled. “We don’t particularly care for divas either, Rick. They’re not good team players.”

Rick chuckled as he walked out. “That’s the truth…”

<><><><><><>

Pa Gorg rested in the natural-wood gazebo Junior had built on the opposite side of the property from the castle. He pulled his ratty purple cloak tighter, as the cold weather was beginning in the land. Red and yellow leaves once more littered the area. It had taken him months to find it … but there it was in his dusty blue hand … a small black orb … a sacred Gorg royal jewel handed down from the first Gorg King, Gorgous the Great, who had in turn received it from Sir Hubris himself. He was absolutely convinced that the royal jewel might be more than an ornament … maybe it could fix the whole mess with Junior and him not wanting to be King of the Universe.

Now, all he had to do was figure out how to activate it. There was nothing in the Great Book of the Gorgs, or in Junior’s Legends of Sir Hubris book, to tell a Gorg anything about its special powers. But Pa knew it had special powers. After all, a legend was a legend….

Too bad he couldn’t find one for this particular situation, though …

First, he had tried rubbing it vigorously like the magic lamps of old. All he managed to accomplish was tangling the fur on his hand.

Second, he had tried sucking on it like a piece of hard candy. All he managed to accomplish was chipping a tooth.

Third, he had “requested” some Fraggles go find him some other large round objects. They brought him six and he put them all together in a small heap in the middle of the kitchen floor, hoping maybe some magical creature would come flying out and he could have some wishes granted or something. All he managed to accomplish was causing Ma to step on the heap and fall flat on her rump. He thanked the heavens she had enough padding back there to break her fall – and he ended up sleeping in the tool shed for a week.

Now, he was starting to run out of ideas. This was all Junior’s fault, he thought to himself.

A son, a son!
A dummy for a son!
The boy could live a million years,
And leave no job undone!

Land’s sakes! His traits
Begin to aggravate!
That witless, wonder, dunder, blunder,
Dummy of a son!

Pa could take it no longer. “I wish,” he began testily, “I just wish …”

Suddenly, Pa clammed up, his eyes widening (as much as they could). What if the Legend of Sir Hubris was correct after all? What if he were summoned to what was the Gorg Kingdom and he wanted his crown back? Pa gulped, sweat beading on his brow. Junior threw the sacred Gorg crown away to who knows where …

Pa fumbled a bit as he put the jewel in a small pocket in his cloak. Maybe that wasn’t such a bright idea after all. The Legend stated that the Gorgs must wander the universe if Sir Hubris returned. Perhaps even that would be a better fate than what may happen if he found out the crown was … gulp … gone
 

RedPiggy

Well-Known Member
Joined
Apr 9, 2008
Messages
5,125
Reaction score
400
Chapter 7
(Spring, 2011AD)

“Milady,” Esker said submissively as he stood before Queen Mizumi in her ornate bedroom. “Someone is attempting to contact the King of the Goblins.”

Mizumi mindlessly swirled some water in a golden chalice with her index finger, not looking at him. “The wench or the brat?” she asked in a subduded monotone. She tried, as hard as she could, to see why Jareth was so obsessed over mere humans. It was like the rest of the universe didn’t exist. His fixation depressed her greatly. It also confused her: he claimed that he wanted love. Mizumi had offered her partnership and her power. Together, they could rule the entire universe. Sarah, meanwhile, rebuffed him every chance she got. And yet, he preferred her.

Esker maintained a respectful distance, his arms crossed behind his back. He bowed slightly. “Neither, Your Majesty,” he replied, with a certain amount of satisfaction in his voice, though how he spoke through stitched-shut lips was still something of a mystery. “Spies indicate a member of the Gorg species, a race known since ancient times, before humans became ‘civilized’. Few still exist here and there, Milady … humans apparently…”

“Do I look like I’m interested in paleontology?” Mizumi queried, glancing at her servant with a dagger-like gaze. She tossed the chalice aside, maintaining a fierce expression on her face. “The history of these creatures does not fascinate me, Esker. Get on with your point!”

“The point, Milady, is that Gorgs live in symbiosis with Fraggles.”

Mizumi felt like slapping his face off. Esker had this irritating quality of thinking he was more important than he was. While he had been incredibly loyal for centuries, lately he had started to “advise” or “teach” her … as if she needed an education! Perhaps she had erred in … tightening her leash on him. After all, a shorter leash enabled the dog to reach your leg with its teeth more quickly. She stormed toward him, coming within inches of a face that would send chills down any normal spine. “Fraggles are just care-free rodents,” she noted chillingly. She paused, a light coming on in her eyes as a disturbing thought flashed before her. Esker smirked. “Are you suggesting Fraggles are mediating Jareth’s wishes?”

Esker maintained his smirk. He wanted to back away from his mistress, but to do so would make him her prey. He was unsure how to respond, as the queen did not like the type of report he was about to make. “Milady, we do not think so. Fraggles spend a lot of time in the water. Their cave system is filled with pools. Spying on them is relatively easy. They do have some contact with humans – but not the ones of use to us.”

Mizumi broke eye contact first and sighed. She turned toward her bed, sat down, and dismissed her servant with her a wave of her hand. “Fraggles are only marginally more intelligent than goblins, Esker. Manipulating them is quite easily done. There are indeed pawns in Fraggle Rock. I want them identified … and eliminated.”

“There is the matter of an Oracle within the Eastern Gorg Province, Your Majesty…”

Mizumi smiled, leaning back. “I think the little toad has lived in exile long enough, Esker. Restore his position, grant anything he desires … it is high time McMooch earned a living again, don’t you agree?”

<><><><><><>

Opening night, April 2011. The lights had dimmed, the curtain raised … the show began with a moody instrumental piece. A spotlight cast a blue hue on a cloaked figure circling a beat-up two-foot-tall crown. The cloaked figure, known as male only by the deep nature of its voice, sang a dirge about losing his sense of self after giving up his crown. The melody grew stronger, the figure more animated in sharp, exaggerated gestures of distress.

Sarah frowned as she looked on from backstage. She rubbed her eyes. Jenny was attending in the audience with Kermit the Frog, as was their habit when there was a new show. She wore her customary peach-colored sleeveless gown, while he wore a dark purple tuxedo, reminiscent of the one he wore in his Broadway show, though without the sparkles. She shrugged. Maybe it was a nostalgic thing. Sarah stared at the cloaked figure. Perhaps it was the lighting. Perhaps she was just tired. Maybe her retinas were starting to detach or something. Something was happening. Little specks of light were blinking on and off all throughout the area.

“Sis,” a young male voice whispered from behind, “are you okay?”

Sarah turned to find her younger half-brother Toby, who, in a fit of maturity, was wearing a suit. A deep red tie complemented his curly hair quite nicely. She nodded, rubbing her eyes.

“Can you hear what they’re saying?”

Sarah flashed her brother a puzzled look. She glanced at the audience. “Jenny and Kermit? Uh … no …”

Toby sighed. “Not them, Sarah … those sparkles … or whatever they are.”

Sarah’s face went whiter than notebook paper. Her jaw nearly dropped to the floor. She gawked at Toby. “You see them too?” she whispered (quite loudly).

The noise level of backstage increased as large fiberglass hills were rolled out onto stage left. The cloaked figure limped to one of them as grasses appeared in spots around the stage floor, the lighting increasing and warming to suggest a sunrise. The song was now brightening, with the tones of hopefulness and peace at long last. The audience had already started to applaud.

“I think they’re magic or something,” Toby replied casually. Having survived being King of the Labyrinth, having survived Mizumi … seeing spots was not nearly enough to register on his Creepout-o-meter.

Sarah turned away. “I don’t care about magic, Toby,” she said sadly. She crossed her arms and inched away from him, trying to concentrate on the play. “I don’t care what Jareth wants.”

Toby rolled his eyes. “Christ, Sarah, you have a one-track mind. I never said anything about Jareth or Mizumi or the Labyrinth. I only said they’re magic, obviously.” He closed his eyes and strained to listen. “Something about … ‘coming’ ….” He tapped on Sarah’s shoulder. “Can you hear the rest of it?”

Sarah jerked her shoulder away. “I don’t hear sparkles, Toby. Not everything is magic, you know. Try to invest in reality, please.” She tried to bury herself in one of the curtains. How could he ever understand? When you got older, the magic just … disappeared. The sun no longer had a smiley face, the clouds no longer formed shapes, a flock of beautiful birds became a horrendous mess on the sidewalk that had to be cleaned up.

Toby turned from his sister, shrugging. His tone was hurt. “Magic is everywhere, Sarah, if you see it that way. It’s even in you. Investing in adulthood does not mean ignoring the strange and unusual.” He paused. “You wouldn’t have seen those things or even written this play if there still wasn’t something there.”

<><><><><><>

Cantus, the Minstrel of Fraggle Rock, had finally located Mokey in an ancient cave known to be the home of Blundig, a legendary Fraggle who taught Fraggles how to dance their cares away long, long ago. He walked in on her as she sat cross-legged … nude, her robes lay crumpled on the floor of the cave. Her eyes were shut. He could hear her mumbling, chanting. Despite the quiet song, the lighting of the cave remained dim, which was strange, since music made the light come.

Suddenly, Mokey stopped. Without turning, she noted in a voice much silkier and deeper (yet still soft and feminine), “Be still.”

Cantus kept his distance. His fears had been confirmed … Mokey’s own Song was lost inside that of another. He waited a few moments and decided to ask, “To whom am I speaking?”

Mokey did not reply right away. Soon, though, he heard her sobbing. “Al … always … together,” she replied, wiping away tears.

“Yes,” Cantus acknowledged softly. “However, you put Mokey at risk. If she cannot express herself, she may not live much longer.”

“Mokey” chuckled in a sad creepy way. “Death is but a transition … from one limited form to another.” She barely turned her head, though she did not make eye contact. “Does it scare you, musician?”

Cantus swallowed, frowning, straining to hide the tenseness of his voice. “Life here is not about the individual. It is about the whole. Letting even one leaf brown may destroy whole trees.”

“Mokey” smiled. She reached for her cloak and put it on and stood up. She looked at Cantus, her pale bluish-white hair falling gently to her shoulders. “I see: she is important to you, then? She has remarkable gifts … much like my own. This place, these caves,” she continued, nodding toward different tunnels, “they speak to me.”

Cantus nodded. “Yes, the caves are alive. Only those who listen can hear it.” He continued, glancing all around him, “The caves are anxious … they sense danger.”

“Mokey” nodded. “Then you also understand what must be done.” She picked up a small stone which glistened with tiny specks of light. “They must carry the light with them.”

“An evacuation?” Cantus questioned solemnly. To his knowledge, nothing of the sort had ever been attempted before … not without putting the Rock at risk. However, he was starting to see the being’s strategy. If Fraggles left the Rock, there would be no more song. Without song, the Ditzies, tiny crystalline creatures that shined when resonated by music, would die, taking the life of the Rock with them. However, if the Ditzies could be brought along….

“Mokey” shook her head. “It is not a separation. We will still be joined as one. It is …,” she trailed off, trying to come up with the right words, “flowing … with the melody presented before us.”

Cantus cleared his throat. “May I speak to Mokey?” he asked gently, looking at the ground.

“Mokey” stared at him with a certain warmth and sadness in her eyes. “As your flute plays only songs that exist, only the right tune will Mokey hear.”
 

RedPiggy

Well-Known Member
Joined
Apr 9, 2008
Messages
5,125
Reaction score
400
Chapter 8
(Another Strange Interlude)

[Video footage of a blazing wildfire, the flames leaping high above blackening trees, plays on the television screen as dramatic music matches the licking of the flames. The camera pans down and toward the edge of the burning forest, zooming in on a small spot of ash. A lone seedling emerges via time-lapse, gently spreading its two leaves, as the music takes a far more upbeat and hopeful tone. The footage then cuts to the title screen.]

TITLE: THE FASCINATING WORLD OF WORLD HISTORY

[A balding Caucasian male with bits of gray in his brown hair appears, smiling, with a khaki shirt/shorts/vest combo in a museum lobby.]

Man: (with British accent) Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to tonight’s special documentary, The Fascinating World of World History. I’m Sir David Tushingham. Perhaps you’ve been wondering: “Where have I seen that strapping British scientist before?” (chuckles) Well, never one to toot my own horn, as it were … but I do have my previous specials out on DVD. Buy them at your local video retailer. [“Buy Now” and “$19.95” flash on the screen.] (begins to walk toward the back of the lobby) Now, for the longest time, the ancient world has been a mystery, a positively enigmatic conundrum of profound proportions. History can be like a wildfire: bold, dazzling, (pauses) ready to consume the unwary at a moment’s notice. And yet, just as seedlings use that fire to stretch out into the warm glow of the sunlight of discovery, so, too, can the average person awaken into the knowledge that is best related to those of us who do nothing but play around in the dirt of ignorance all day long. (motions to the camera) So, since I pre-empted your silly little meaningless miniseries, I invite you to follow me as we trace the global timeline of our dear planet in this nine-hour documentary.

[A young dark-skinned woman with a headset comes up behind Mr. Tushingham, tapping him on his right shoulder. He turns and she smiles.]

Woman: You have about five minutes, sir. [leaves abruptly]

Sir David Tushingham: (scoffs) Five minutes? Surely the writers could come up with a bit more to say than that! We’re talking millions of years of history! (catches himself, smiles to the camera) Well, I assure you this, indeed, will not sacrifice the kind of quality you’ve come to expect from me! Surely I can explain the finer points of the past tens of millennia in five minutes. After all, I’m an expert in the field! Some of your more profitable educational shows take nearly forty years to address something as simple as counting to twenty or singing the alphabet! (indignantly) And psychologists claim shows like that teach our young to have short attention spans! I tuned out my teachers in under ten minutes … imagine dwelling on a lesson for half a century!

[Sir Tushingham ambles over to a small television set, picks up a remote, and presses scores of buttons, growing increasingly frustrated, until a picture of a molten ball of rock successfully appears on screen.]

Sir David Tushingham: (proudly) Ah, here we are, then …. Billions of years ago, our planet was a molten ball of rock, churning in its own discomfort at being forced to speed up the creation process. (sighs, hits “fast-forward”) Let’s just skip to the good parts, shall we? You’ll notice, if you’re taping this at home, that the earth cools down, gets a few oceans, and has a large single land mass that we experts like to call “Pangaea.” On this super-continent, bugs and trees and gigantic lizards sprung up and proliferated. (hits “pause”) Now, you may wonder, if this happened over millennia, why is everything appearing so quickly? Does it not detract from the evolutionary premise, you ask? (shakes head, smiling as he sighs) Ah, to be a member of the simple public once more… Perhaps the use of the “fast-forward” button on my little remote control flew past you? (nods) Go on, then … rewind this tape you’re making and see for yourself …. (inhales deeply) Are you quite through, then? Do you mind if we continue? Thank you.

[Sir David Tushingham continues narrating as the fast-forwarded images lead to a grayed earth, swirling with clouds, landmasses no longer viewable.]

Tushingham VO: Around sixty-million years ago before the common era, which did not exist at that time, the planet was engulfed in massive clouds that kept out the sun. [video pauses] Who knows why it happened … perhaps there was a massive Rain Dance, and dinosaurs danced until their claws fell off, leading to worldwide ruin. Perhaps the moon originally had all those clouds, got tired of them, and gave them to its parent planet. At any rate, everyone died. (long pause, with melodramatic music) Or did they? Recent paleontological evidence, discovered by a graduate of the “Sir David Tushingham’s Famous Paleontolgists’ Home Study Course”, a Mr. Jerome Christian of sunny Arizona, [a picture of “Doc” Jerome Christian, a very elderly Caucasian male appears on screen amidst rocks and sand in a desert archaeological dig site] seems to support the notion that something giant and equally obtuse survived the catastrophic global catastrophe. As you might recall, Mr. Christian discovered a giant ship called La Gorgola [pictures of artifacts from this find appear on screen], as well as a giant metal crown sometime later. While it pales in comparison to my own discoveries … for an amateur it’s a remarkable discovery. Pity some of the artifacts went missing over the decades since their discovery.

[The camera returns to Mr. Tushingham, who is trying to salvage tape from the VCR. He looks up and smiles, throwing the whole set up to the ground.]

Tushingham: As you may recall, a new Broadway production has opened up, promising to give even more insight into the history of …

Announcer: We thank you for your patience. We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming…
 

RedPiggy

Well-Known Member
Joined
Apr 9, 2008
Messages
5,125
Reaction score
400
Chapter 9
(Spring, 2011AD)

Deep in a mucky swamp early in the morning, with large winged insects buzzing by and dank smells wafting up from the muddy water, a three-foot-tall toad with a thin black wiry mustache and two tufts of hair under his broad chin ambled around in his “apartment”, which consisted of a shallow muddy cave hidden among the browned reeds of the swamp. He lived a few miles from the Gorg Province, which was not to his liking at all. Though he enjoyed the creepiness and the desolate nature of the swamp, he was still far too near Fraggle Rock, in his opinion.

Why couldn’t Fraggles enjoy lying, cheating, and stealing … like he did? That was the real way the world worked, after all. Back in Moraine, before his untimely banishment, one-upping and self-indulgence were as natural as breathing. Even that fool Goblin King had been expert in linguistic manipulations. He nearly retched, thinking of the Fraggles again. It was like they lived in their own little world, apart from every other region in the universe. He certainly couldn’t wrap his spindly green fingers around their actions: they were just too bizarre, too cute, too friendly…

He heard a faint tapping just outside his apartment. He looked high and low, finally spotting a tiny yellow worm with thick orange bands, bobbing its head, lying on a wrinkled sheet of paper. Wander McMooch smiled, which typically made anyone squirm. He recognized the little worm from a vacation he took once in a place called Grouchland. The rather tame green grouch that cared for him called him Slimey. “Well," he said, in a very greasy sleazeball voice, “haven’t seen you around my pad lately. Your master must keep you very busy.” He rubbed his hands together greedily. “I heard you went to the moon – that must have been breathtaking!" He zoomed over to the worm, gently pushed it off the piece of paper, and picked up what looked to be a badly-written letter. He stood up, his wide eyes going back and forth as he read the contents to himself. He couldn’t believe who had written him: why, the threats contained therein dwarfed anything the Queen of Moraine had come up with – even after he contaminated her water supply as a prank that fateful day. He forced himself to chuckle “casually”, balling up the wad of paper in his hand. He stooped over to pat the worm on the head. “Do come again, little one, okay? Tell your master, also, that those shawls he sent me were positively hideous and moth-eaten! He always comes up with the best presents. You’ll tell him, won’t you?" The little worm nodded eagerly and left, inching away through the muck until it disappeared.

Just as the little worm left, a mist slowly advanced throughout the swamp. Wander shuddered, and not only because the mist cooled the air for the cold-blooded creature. An elegant woman with long silver hair, a fair complexion, and a thin light blue gown appeared within the mist. She smirked. “Why, Wander … I haven’t heard a reply from you. Esker informed me he offered to take you back home to Moraine in return for certain … actions … you could perform for us. I came to confirm his offer … and to remind you what happens when I am rebuffed, especially by slimy … little … toads … like you.” She put a finger up to her lower lip. “Now, you certainly aren’t ignoring me, are you, Wander McMooch? After my offer? That would be quite foolish of you.”

Wander tried to laugh it off. “Royal Queen," he exclaimed, inflating his body and gaining about two feet of height, “how wonderful it is to see you again!" He bowed, his face almost touching the muck below. His voice continued to suggest submissive adoration (or at least sucking-up). He straightened back out. He disliked being caught off guard by taller visitors … although he could make himself bigger (handy when dealing with Gorgs, especially), he always felt more vulnerable doing so. For him, making himself bigger merely made him a bigger target for those who were not against violence. “I didn’t want to bother you until I had a couple of plans worked out, that’s all.”

“How thoughtful of you," Mizumi replied with a certain fake politeness. “How do you plan on eliminating the Oracle from the Gorg Province?"

Wander scratched his chin. “Well, I could convince the Gorgs to start a recycling program … after all, no trash, no Trash Heap.”

Mizumi sighed. “I want her gone by tomorrow. Besides, how would you prevent Fraggles from contributing to her?"

Wander jerked back, startled. “Tomorrow? Why so soon?"

Mizumi frowned, glaring at the toad. “Your other plans?"

Wander didn’t like this one bit at all. Mizumi could be a vindictive little witch, but this seemed too … rushed … for her. She was either going off half-boiled or she had been letting her vindictiveness steep for years. Either way, it was incredibly frightening, especially if she wanted the Trash Heap dead. Wander didn’t like Marjory either, particularly because although she was made up of thrown-away odds and ends, she was gentile and compassionate and willing to have fun with Fraggles … not to mention her obsession with bringing about the universe in some sort of disgusting perfect harmony. When he came to the swamp next to the Gorg Province, he had met the Trash Heap and she didn’t appreciate the finer points of swindling and bamboozling. They hadn’t gotten along since. “W-well," he stammered, “the easiest and fastest way would be to kill off her little rat companions, Philo and Gunge. They maintain her life force somehow. Get rid of them and she weakens quickly.” He shook his head, his legs trembling. How was he going to set this up without getting killed either way? “The problem is, Your Majesty, that the Trash Heap is irritatingly powerful. The Gorgs give her a large portion of a year-end dish called … uh, what was it, again? Ah, yes … Goombah soup. It is sloppy mess of leftovers with remarkable rejuvenating properties. Even if you wanted to drown the Gorg castle … she might be able to stop you. It also makes getting near those two rats somewhat … frustrating," he continued, keeping his head down.

Mizumi smiled. “I will send Drumlin to assist you tomorrow morning, should you have failed to eliminate the Oracle by then.” Mizumi then disappeared as well as the mist.

Wander could hear random swamp sounds such as croaking, gurgling, and the occasional birdsong. My, wasn’t he popular today? Threats from two different queens, both promising unimaginable suffering if he didn’t do as each commanded, even though their commands were in direct opposition to each other. He deflated himself and slumped down against the nearest wall, sighing. He would like nothing better than to get rid of Marjory once and for all. However, it had been decades since he’d been particularly nasty to Mizumi, too. While the letter’s author didn’t command him to harm Mizumi, Wander began to theorize that the omission was an implicit suggestion to do so. After all, the letter didn’t exactly forbid it, either, right? The letter said that if he let anything happen to Marjory … well, best not to dwell on what was promised. Furthermore, Mizumi had an unsettling appetite for amphibians. He knew he’d be in a stew if he weren’t careful.

When his heart stopped racing, Wander leaned back and smiled. This may turn out to be his most infamous con yet….

<><><><><><>

The Great Hall of Fraggle Rock was filled to capacity. It was a large cave, with a central pool and multiple ledges and ridges that stretched up to the base of the Gorg well, some forty feet above. Every available spot in the three-dimensional space was taken by a Fraggle, from the loudly-colored hyper ones from what was known as the Rock to the blander-colored monotone ones from what was known as the Cave. A hushed mumbling pervaded the space. Every Fraggle held a small rough rock, which glittered as they spoke.

At the edge of the Fraggle Pond stood Red, Cantus, Mokey, Gobo, Wembley, and Boober, the one who obsessed over doom. Cantus played a few bars of his theme on his magic pipe to silence the crowd. He put the pipe away and motioned to the crowds. “We are all here," he noted to Mokey.

The light purple Fraggle with the shoulder-length, bluish-white hair nodded, her voice still silky and lacking Mokey’s usual dream-like quality. She raised her voice so all could hear (though it was barely necessary, as the acoustics permitted even the furthest Fraggles to hear her). “Fraggles … the time has come, not to say good-bye, but to join as one … in one movement.” She paused, inhaling deeply before continuing. “We have sent for allies among those called Silly Creatures. Humans … are a strange species, but I know there are those who have good hearts. Travelling Matt has used the cave filled with time-space portals to get help for us.”

“Great, we’re all going to die," Red uttered under her breath. She didn’t have anything against Gobo’s Uncle Matt personally … she just thought he was an idiot. He was a Fraggle that could confuse a hat with a sock if you gave him the opportunity. It also irritated her that Gobo practically worshipped him. It was like Gobo couldn’t tell the difference between exploring and getting lost, because Matt sure couldn’t. He only survived his adventures because fate was kind to him, that’s all. Meanwhile, Red was inching her way closer to climbing to the top of the Great Hall every season … and Gobo acted like she was just standing on one leg.

“Those portals lead to many areas," Mokey continued, ignoring Red’s comment. “You must all leave the Rock, carrying with you the tiny crystalline entities called Ditzies. In this way, the Rock, if darkened by the danger to come, can be re-lit.”

“Why don’t we just camp out with the Gorgs?" Wembley asked Cantus. “Besides, the Trash Heap can protect us as well.”

Cantus held his tongue and lowered his eyes.

Gobo noticed. “What is it, eh?"

Cantus shook his head. “Madame Heap," he replied solemnly, “will not live if she stays where she is.”

Red gasped. You could hear a single hair drop on the cave floor. Red could bear it no longer – she lunged at Cantus, grabbing him by his cloak. “You mean we aren’t there protecting her?" she screamed, shaking Cantus furiously.

“Red!" Mokey exclaimed, trying to pry her friend from the Minstrel. “We can’t protect her!"

Red had a death-grip on Cantus. Her face was tightly curled downward. “There are at least a million of us! If we all work together … we can stop it!

Cantus shook his head. Red stopped. The look of his eyes calmed her immediately. “Red, courageous Red … we cannot help her. But her family can.”

Red eased her grip. “Her … family?" She glanced back at Mokey. “How can a Trash Heap have a family?"

Cantus put his hand on her shoulder. “We haven’t the time.”

Mokey nodded. “We need to evacuate the Rock in twenty-four hours.”

Gobo adjusted his vest nervously. “So, what about the Doozers, eh? What about all the creatures of the Rock?" He bit his lower lip. “We’re not going to let them die, are we?" Throughout Gobo’s travels, he had learned to make friends with lots of different types of creatures. He did not want to believe that fate would make him meet those beings if they were only going to leave the Rock … forever.

Mokey replied, “The Doozers and those who are able will stay in the Gorg’s basement.”

“The Doozers don’t mind having their entire lives uprooted and destroyed?" Boober asked in his gloomy way. His voice reminded one of a trombone in quality.

Cantus shrugged. “They relish the idea that all their buildings will be destroyed … since it means they can start from scratch.”

“Figures," Boober replied. The only beings more in denial about the nature of reality than Fraggles were Doozers, Boober thought glumly to himself. No matter what you did to their structures, made from pressed radish dust, they always celebrated such destruction. All they could ever think about was building. He slightly shook his head, absorbed in his own morose musings: he was certain such unrelenting optimism was a terrifying mental disorder.

Red let Cantus go, turned to Mokey, and quieted her tone. “Mokey," she pleaded, “you have to come with us. You’re … you’re my best friend.”

Mokey ran her fingers through one of Red’s pigtails. Her smile was warm. “Red … you and Gobo are natural leaders. It makes sense for you two to be in charge of the evacuation. I must stay behind with Cantus and Convincing John. We are the only ones who can hear the solution to this problem.”

Boober slowly worked his way to Mokey. It had been particularly hard on him, watching Mokey act strangely for so many years, ever since that awful nightmare. He had been attracted to her sense of morbidity for decades. She could write the most depressing poems in all of Fraggledom, something that he admired. On the other hand, ever since she dreamt of the death of her Deathwort plant, she hid in far away caves to chant to herself for several hours each day about strange things like “Seeks” and “Pau” and “Unity”. It terrified him, and not even his belubious, the fluffy part of his tail, could stop his heart from racing every time he thought about it. Of course, since he always focused on the negative … no one really noticed much. “Mokey," he started, his voice nearly a whisper, “if you … if you need us….”

Mokey stroked his face. Her voice, for one brief instant, returned to normal. “I’ll call. Thank you, Boober.”

<><><><><><>

Jenny and Sarah were cleaning up the arena where they had had a party, a rousing affair in honor of stellar reviews of opening night that left the whole place looking as though it had been hit by a tornado. Large monsters from the Muppet Theater helped with the big equipment, the Electric Mayhem had already carried away their portable instruments and sound systems, the stagehand Rick Hollandaise busily polished the crown he had lent to the show, and Ms. Bitterman was passed out on a lonely sofa in the far corner of the place, having been given a special concoction by a mischievous King Prawn, who was still more than a little upset about being conned by a beautiful woman.

Kermit called out for Jenny. She stopped sweeping, looked around, and spied the famous frog … with someone she felt she had seen before … somewhere. Kermit finally reached her, panting. “Jenny, Matt here needs our help," he told her, pointing to the elderly creature beside him, who matched Kermit’s height. The creature had beige skin and fur, a tail with a white fluff on the end, a long white mustache and thick white sideburns. He wore a khaki jacket and a hat one might expect famous explorers to have.

Jenny snapped her fingers, a light appearing in her eyes and voice. “Ah, Travelling Matt – you attended the wedding in Manhattan Melodies, am I right?" Jenny and the gang had been trying to “fill the pews” for the big wedding number and during the rushed costume fittings and place arrangements, this elderly little fellow had just stumbled onto the stage, looked around at all the creatures sitting there awaiting the bride and groom, and casually sat down in the front row. By the time the audience witnessed the start of the wedding scene, it was too late to remove him. Besides, it offered a humorous look to have something so tiny sit with large brown bears.

Matt nodded. He fidgeted. He sounded like a gruffer version of Boober, though his pitch varied more: “Yes, it was a very beautiful ceremony. However, I regret I have a favor to ask of you … if it’s okay.”

“Oh?"

“Matt here is a Fraggle from Fraggle Rock," Kermit interjected. “Fraggles are magical creatures who can show up anywhere magic is needed.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, grunted, and turned from them, focusing on sweeping.

“Uh," Kermit continued, doing a double take on Sarah, “anyway, they need a place to hang out until some … uh … issues are worked out in the Rock.” Jenny didn’t respond immediately. “I told him he could borrow my house on Sesame Street. But, there are so many….” Kermit hoped Jenny could help him find a place for all of them. He had heard about Fraggles back in the early eighties …

Kermit and Grover, a self-labeled cute furry blue monster, strode into the post office one cold winter afternoon. They hadn’t received their mail that day, but Grover wouldn’t go unless Kermit joined him. As they joined the line waiting for their mail, they noticed a purple-faced cowboy with brown hair standing in front of them, humming to himself absent-mindedly. Kermit glanced at Grover and tapped the cowboy on the shoulder. “Uh, excuse me, could you move forward, please?" he whispered.

The cowboy turned around and got a big grin on his face. “Well, HOWDY, uh … uh," he buried his head in his hands, his cheeks blushing with embarrassment.

“Kermit," he replied, frowning. “Let’s just try to move the line forward, alright, Forgetful?"

Forgetful Jones stared at Kermit blankly. “Why? The music ain’t even started yet.”

“Music?" Grover asked in disbelief with his normally high-pitched gravelly voice.

Jones sighed and rolled his head around in a circle melodramatically. “Well, of COURSE, there’s supposed to be music – this is ‘line dancin’’ after all, you know!" He shook his head. “And they call ME ‘forgetful’, sheesh.”

Grover glanced over at Kermit, whose mouth was crunched up in that characteristic frown he always got when he was about to scream at someone. Grover quickly stepped forward and whispered in Jones’ ear.

Forgetful laughed, slapping his knee. “Yee haw … I FORGOT," he informed Grover cheerfully yet sheepishly. He strongly patted Grover on the shoulder. “Well, just to let you know I don’t mean no harm or nothin’, I’ll go up to that lil’ lady up there at that there winder and get those envelopes you’re needin’, okay?" Before they could respond, he marched up to the window and was handed some mail, which he distributed to Kermit and Grover. “Here you nice young fellers go … Kermit … Gobo ….”

“Gobo?" Grover asked, staring at a small postcard. “My name is not … ‘Gobo Fraggle’.” He looked at Kermit. “I do not even think this postcard goes to Sesame Street at all.”

Forgetful Jones snatched it from him and stared at it carefully. “You mean, you ain’t got this ‘Uncle Matt’ feller writin’ to ya?"

Grover sighed. “My … name … is … GROVER," he informed Jones slowly, starting to lose patience himself.

“Look, Forgetful, just hand it back to the postlady," Kermit told him flatly. Kermit tried so hard to keep his temper with Forgetful. It wasn’t HIS fault his short-term memory was shot.

Jones shrugged and smiled that ever-cheerful smile of his and handed it back to the postlady behind the counter. “Here ya go, Gobo," he told her. He stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “You know, that’s a right pretty strange name for a girl….”

“We are quite intelligent and helpful creatures, Miss," Matt offered tensely and hopefully. “There’s about a million of us strong. We obviously all can’t fit in one Silly Creature’s cave … but our strategy is to split up … temporarily … until the danger passes.”

“What danger?" a young male voice asked. Everyone turned to see a young man with curly brown-blonde hair. He stretched out his hand to Matt. “You’re Travelling Matt, right? You were at the ball….”

Matt twitched his nose. “Uh, the goblin ball? Yes!" he replied, nodding enthusiastically, shaking Toby’s hand. “Yes! I remember now! You’re the young Silly Creature who became heir to the throne of the Goblin Kingdom, am I right?" He turned to Kermit, smiling. “Brave young lad.” He glanced back at Toby. “We’re unaware of the identity of the one who threatens the Rock, I’m afraid.”

Toby bowed slightly. “Consider my place a sanctuary, then. I’d be honored to have such a prestigious guest.”

Jenny smiled. Sarah’s brother was such an accommodating sort, much like her father had been. She nodded. “Yes, we’ll be happy to help any way we can. We should be able to fit quite a lot of you in our theater.”

Kermit tapped Matt on the shoulder. “We might be able to come up with some space at our theater, too … though not to the same extent.”

Matt sniffled, tears welling up in his eyes. “I … I never would have guessed you Silly Creatures and talking Space Frogs could be so generous! The Fraggles will welcome your hospitality with open arms!"
 
Top