It is a fact little known that the novelization of the first Muppet Movie was penned by none other than Game of Thrones author George R.R. Martin.  Although copies of the book are devilishly hard to get hold of, I have acquired one, and will post a chapter or two from time to time to give you a sense of the visionary ambition and moral complexity of the piece.  For tonight, here’s a first taste– the Prologue.

Prologue: The Agent

I should start back, the Agent whispered to himself as the sun sank below the treeline and darkness crept into the fens and gathered around his small boat.   I have no business in these swamps; I’ll find no talent here.   He bent over his oars and applied himself to rowing back to town, but stopped when he realized that he was lost.  Lost- and the only warm body for miles, a feast, no doubt, for mosquitos and clouds of biting flies.

“Help! Hello,” he cried, a cold terror growing within him. “This is a serious call for help!”
It was then that he heard the song:

 I’ll sing you a lay of the rainbow

Whose legs are red yellow and green

And many’s the swain who would part them

to look for the treasure between, oh

The fine pot of gold that’s between.

The song was accompanied by a stringed instrument with a distinctively percussive twang, and the voice that floated above it was nasal but warm and familiar, questing and melancholy.  The Agent was an ordinary man and knew a man’s fear—but above that, he was a sworn representative of The William Morris Agency, and no bayou snark or grumkin could keep him from his duty.  He turned his boat around and rowed towards the source of the song, pushing through the dense vegetation until he emerged into a clearing.

There, in the center, sat a frog.  It was playing a banjo, but stopped when it saw the Agent and turned to stare coldly at him with its bulging black and white eyes.  A long moment passed, before the frog spoke.

“Have you a tongue in your mouth, or do you mean only to stare stupidly,’ he asked before using his own tongue to snare a passing fly.

“Forgive me,” said The Agent, “but my mother always told me that frogs don’t sing.”

“Never believe anything you hear at a woman’s tit,” snapped the frog.  “We frogs can sing—and dance, when the mood takes us.  Aye, and we can do even more wonderful things.  I, myself, have done pratfalls, bird calls and bad imitations since I was a tadpole, working only to a mirror.”

The Agent saw his angle and took it.  “And did you get standing ovations, Ser Frog?” he asked.  “Did adoring crowds call out your name?”

The Frog was quiet then, and brooded a moment in the twilight.  “No,” he admitted.   “It’s these swamps.  They steal up on you, eating away at your dreams, making you feel that the only real things in life are decay and the endless hum of insects.  I’ve seen frogs with ambition before.  Sure, they wanted to change the world with their japes and songs.  But not a one of them made it out of the fens, and when the alligators ate them, they were already as good as dead inside.   Speaking of which, you’ll want to watch out for alligators too.”

“I come from the city of Holy Wood,” said the Agent, “and I have something here you should be very interested in.”  From his from indigo circlatoun jerkin, the Agent withdrew a slender jeroboam; inside was a small vellum scroll.  “I have this from my home office by raven,” he told the frog, unfurling the missive.  “Read.”

“World Wide Studios announces open auditions for frogs wishing to become rich and famous.”  The Frog thought a moment before responding.  “That is, indeed, my heart’s desire-  but how can a frog come to wield power like that?”

“Alone, he has no hope of it,” admitted The Agent.  “But with good representation, it’s a whole other ballgame.  You could make millions of people happy.  Listen, don’t make any decisions now.  Here’s my card.” From the bottom of the boat he retrieved a wooden shield painted with the two golden leeches that were the crest of William Morris.   Handing it to the frog, he said, “If you ever come to Holy Wood, look me up—I know a place does a killer lamprey pie.  We’ll talk.”

“Aye,” said the frog, struggling to hold the banjo in one hand and the heavy shield in the other.   “But for now, you’d do better to talk to Arnie the Alligator.” Almost invisible in the gloom, the reptile froze, its toothy maw gaping inches away from the Agent’s hand.  Realizing it had been spotted, however, it was seized with a terrible self-consciousness, and pretended instead to be yawning.    “Arnie,” the frog continued, “would you please help this man find the nearest dock?’  Arnie didn’t respond, but swam behind the boat and began nosing it in the right direction.  The frog watched them go.

By all the gods old and new—Holy Wood, it thought.  I’d miss this old swamp, but…millions of people … happy. 

The frog put down his banjo and retrieved a small bicycle from behind a log.  Moving right along, he thought, as he mounted the bike and headed west, to cities full of men, and to his dreams.