Disclaimer: How lovely that Henson owns all of them. I use them in the highest respect, and with peace. Set during season three, probably right before Scratch'n'Sniff. Ah, SnS.... The title is from a Pogues song. Almost appropriate.

Drunken Boat

by Ana Lyssie Cotton

In his time on Moya, John Crichton had seen a lot of things. Talking roaches, furry aliens, you name it, he'd seen it. So when he was confronted with a green felt-covered frog, he figured it was merely a halucination.

"You're not real." He announced, covering his eyes. Perhaps, if he did this for long enough, the frog would go away.

This had to be a trick of Harvey's. The little bastard was probably looking through John's childhood. Playing Freud with his earliest memories, or something.

"I'm not? How interesting." The voice was the right voice. It sounded so wrong inside Moya.

A felt hand touched John's wrist, and he reluctantly lowered one hand.

He eyed the frog. "You're a muppet."

"So I am." The frog replied with austere dignity. "And you know what? That's not half-bad."

"Wait. Harvey, dear, don't you know that not all frogs are muppets?" John's voice was caustic and sarcastic as he dropped the other hand and bent over to poke a finger into the muppet's belly.

"And how would you know that?" The frog demanded, rearing back from the poking finger. "Did Jim Henson die and make you God?"


The frog turned pale, which was disturbing, since he was made of felt. "Dead?" He gasped, leaning one spindly arm against the corridor wall. "No. No, he can't be... I'd know. I know I would."

"Ok. Y'know, this is fascinating, but you're not really here." John waved a hand, "You're just brought on by my obsessive need to distract myself. Or by Harvey. Some of my money's on Harvey. How 'bout it, Harv? Gonna 'fess up? 'Cause this is getting old."

"My name," The frog announced, "Is Kermit." He eyed John, "And you are?"

"John. Crichton."

The frog held out a hand and seemed to smile, "Nice ta meet ya. You remind me of a bear friend of mine, Fozzie. You haven't seen him around here, have you?"

John gingerly shook the felt hand, "Uh, no. I haven't seen Miss Piggy, Gonzo, Floyd, or any of the Electric Mayhem, either. Although Dr. Teeth might be working for Scorpy."


"No, see, Scorpy is a black card subject."

"Black card?"

"Yes. So I don't want to talk about him."

Kermit frowned, "Very, well, then." He suddenly seemed to perk up, "Hi, there! I'm Kermit the Frog reporting to you live from--" He placed one felt-hand over the microphone he was suddenly using and looked at John. "Where am I?"

"Moya." Almost as fascinated as if he were watching a car crash, John slowly sank down into a crouching position, and watched the frog.

"From Moya. I'm here today with John Crichton, passenger. Tell me, John, what do you do?"

"I'm an astronaut."


"Y'know," John said, slowly standing, "I know a muppet-like guy. Except he's slimy. Too bad he isn't here, I'm sure you'd get along with him wonderfully. You could interview his Dominar-ness to your heart's content."

"Dominar?" The frog puffed up, "You know Dominar Rygel XVII?"

"Yes. I know Sparky."

"Oh, this is marvellous, simply marvellous!"

"No, it's not." Finally sick of the insanity around him, John growled, "Harvey! This is ridiculous! Stop making me want to put you back in the dumpster!"

Kermit looked at him, then at the microphone, "So, then, you don't want to be interviewed?"

"I do not. Harvey!" John gave a growl that might have been tinged with laughter, "Don't make me come in there. You wouldn't like it!"

"Well, if I'm disturbing you that much," Kermit said softly, "I guess I should go." He looked at John rather sadly, "I just... I guess I just wanted to see you."

And then he was gone, disappearing in the same blink that he'd appeared in.

Crichton groaned. This was ridiculous. Seeing frogs and muppets, and Harvey ignoring him. The world had gone insane. Or perhaps there was hope. D'Argo. Yes. If he found D'Argo, perhaps they could argue. All would be right with the world, then.

With that cheerful thought in his head, John sauntered off down the corridor.

He was almost whistling.

Behind him, by one of the ribs in the corridor, a tiny nose peeked out followed by little black eyes.

After all, it wasn't like it *hurt* anything if they only looked.

Was it?

The rat gave a soft giggle and scampered over to a small service shaft.

Just a little look. Then he'd go.