“Yeah sure, doll… man, the boss is gonna just LOVE you,” the dog replied, with a growly sort of laugh as it set off down the corridor away from the room which had so intrigued her moments before.
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Probably a good time to recap:
“Come on Kermit,” she said to her animatronic frog companion, “we’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
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OT: Why did I picture this?
“And. Here. I. Thought. We. Couldn’t. Get. Any. Lower,” the animatronic frog remarked with more sarcasm than one would expect from an artificial television show host.
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“Don’t be sassy,” she reproved the frog, setting off after the dog’s disappearing form, “it’s not becoming.”
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The dog was quite fast, and before long the pair found themselves confronted by something from Kermit’s worst nightmare, an eight lane divided highway, with the dog waiting impatiently for them on the other side.
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A chicken briskly crossed the highway as onlookers screamed “WHY???!!!” much to the dog’s consternation.
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Looking around they saw, in the dark distance, a pedestrian bridge over the highway; with someone or thing that appeared to be guarding it.
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“I guess we cross over there,” Risotto said uncertainly to her frog companion, waving in a “hold on a minute” gesture to the dog, who was barking in impatience.
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“Oh look. Three goats are going to cross-- Let’s see what happens,” said Risotto as she and Kermit watched intently.
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The goats walked confidently across the the highway – the cars never striking them, an unintentional choreography – only to stop in the dead center and bellow ominously as they tilted their heads up to the sky.
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That was unfortunate, since, as everyone knows, when a frog is looking to cross a busy highway, the greatest danger after you’ve crossed the first four lanes comes from the alligators in the river.
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Fortunately(?), however, the alligators stopped to look up as well, emanating whatever passes for gator noises in eerie antici…
…pation.
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Meanwhile, back at Stately Wayne Manor…
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Bruce Wayne sighed to himself as his Hot Pocket neared completion in the toaster oven.
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Suddenly, a light through the window blinded him; squinting, Bruce moved out of the way of the light and looked at the wall behind him, blinking in confusion as he beheld an odd symbol lit up on the wall using a spotlight that wasn’t the normal Batsignal.
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The toaster continued to heat the Hot Pocket.
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The outside slowly began to warm, but the inside of the Hot Pocket was still a popsickle.
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Bruce turned to the toaster oven, gazing forlornly at the partially heated Hot Pocket within and expecting he would once again be delivered an unevenly-cooked snack thought, “that’s the last time I buy an appliance from a pig puppet in a wig off the internet, even if it looks like a great deal.”
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That’s when a rather hefty woman in a mumu dress and an obviously fake wig opened the oversized window and ushered herself, a talking dog with emphysema, and half a robotic frog into the room.
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“Alfred, how did these people get in here?,” Bruce said as he forcefully punched the intercom, “I told Dick I’m not donating any more money to that circus.”