Be the annoying goose you want to see in the world. Welcome to Night Vale.

###

[ominous] This day was foretold and now it is here. Some doubted it would come, but the signs were clear.

And I could not be more excited. It's the annual Night Vale Cat Show.

I know I rarely report on this event, but this year I finally entered my own cat, Khoshekh, into the contest. Many of you remember that I found Khoshekh seven years ago. He was floating 4 feet off the ground in the mens restroom here at the radio station. He's still in that exact same spot, as cute as ever with his furry little white paws and elegant black tail and just the floofiest tentacles you ever could see.

My husband and I adore cats. We're always ranking them, because love is, above all else, a competition. So we figured we should put Khoshekh out there for an objective ruling on our own beliefs that he is the best cat in the world. It should be an easy win for our little boy. Especially with our home field advantage.

Khoshekh is stuck in a fixed point in space, and the Cat Show is being held here at the radio station to accommodate his condition. Station management is a bit unhappy about this because they're terribly allergic to cats. All morning, as the Cat Show organizers and competing cats have arrived, I have felt the sneezes of station management from deep below the surface of the earth, where they have burrowed into the warm molten core of our dying planet.

I sent our new intern Simon Peterson to pick up some Benedryl for our bosses, and he did, but now he's having trouble navigating the 16-inch-wide rocky tunnel station management dug in the breakroom. Simon keeps saying he's claustrophobic, that his greatest fear is to be stuck in a dark place, where long spindly arms touch and prod his feet, but he cannot see them, and even if he could he would not comprehend them, and the prickly limbs grab at him with increasing desperation, and he does not scream because he knows no one will hear him except the inscrutable.... Thing... that is now tearing open the skin along the bottom of his feet.

And I was like, Simon... This office is a No Excuses Zone. Get in that tunnel and do your job.

More on the Cat Show soon. But first, the news.

###

Strange men arrived in town today. They were wearing suits and carrying briefcases. They drove a black sedan. One of them wore sunglasses. They claimed to be from Washington, DC, from an agency called the National Transportation Safety Board. They were inquiring about a missing plane.

The strange men - one of them had a blister on his upper lip - met with Sheriff Sam and told them that on June 15, 2012, Delta flight 18713 from Detroit, Misstigan to Albany, New York disappeared. The NTSB still has not found the MD-90 aircraft. The men told Sheriff Sam that for many years the agency believed the flight to have gone down in Lake Erie. Sheriff Sam laughed at this silly fake name for a lake and told the men - one of them had a swollen red lump along the cuticle of his right index finger - that they must be remembering some spooky young adult novel, rather than a real life event.

The strange men - one of them had an unceasing nose bleed - said it was in fact true. They said that they recently found a report indicating that right before flight 18713 vanished from radar, it was detected all the way down in the southwest United States, right here in Night Vale. "How was that possible?" the strange men asked our Sheriff.

Sheriff Sam stopped laughing and said. "I know the plane. Or rather I know someone who saw that plane. His name is Doug. Doug Biondi." The strange men - one of them wore three wedding rings - nodded and said, "Take us to Doug."

Sheriff Sam said, "Doug is in the Night Vale Asylum. He's dangerous. He is not allowed visitors. But..." and Sheriff Sam leaned forward clasping their hands together across the desk, and continued in a hushed tone, "I could... assist in an undercover operation. Disguise you all as new inmates. Treacherous psychopaths who must be kept in lockdown in the world's highest security mental hospital. Then... then you would be able to interview Doug Biondi about what he saw that day in the Elementary School gym."

The strange men - one of them was weeping thick yellow tears - agreed that this was a great idea, and set out with the Sheriff to the Asylum, deep within the scrublands, to begin their covert investigation.

I'm sure those strange men from the NTSB will emerge soon with a full report. More on this story as it develops.

###

But I have to get back to the Cat Show. So many cats have arrived. There are cages and carriers full of sweet kitties all over the station, representing all four breeds of cat: Long-haired, Short-haired, Smooshy-faced, and Miscellaneous.

When I was filling out the entry forms for Khoshekh, they asked me his breed, and he's definitely Smooshy-faced, but also long-haired, although he's short-haired along his caudal spine and pincers. So... miscellaneous? I guessed. Also they wanted Khoshekh's last name, and I had never thought of a last name for our cat.

I told Carlos that we should put his last name as Khoshekh's last name, because Carlos has a much more interesting last name than me. Plus Carlos is pretty well-known, and very well-liked in town. Everyone knows his last name, and I thought that might carry some political weight in the minds of the judges.

But Carlos insisted that we use mine, because I found Khoshekh and adopted him. So there we go little kitty. You are Khoshekh Gershwin-Palmer. A champion name for a champion cat.

###

Let's have a look now at the Community Calendar.

This Friday night is the Tour of Lights in Old Town Night Vale. Participants can meet at Galloway and First starting at 7pm, where a tractor pulling a trailer full of hay will drive you around to look at the bright and festive holiday lights adorning the various historic homes. Last year's favorite, the Victorian mansion owned by Harrison Kip, included a 40-foot tall Santa, his arms outstretched, overseeing a vast army of toiling elves, while an old Victrola played "Ave Maria" over crackling speakers, and clowns leapt suddenly from the thick shrubs handing unsuspecting, but delighted, guests red and green balloons shaped like long-dead family members. Tickets are $5, and go to support the Bilderberg group.

Saturday evening is the bi-monthly Pub Crawl in downtown Night Vale. Every 8 weeks or so, every bar in town becomes overrun with 7-inch long bugs that look a bit like earwigs, but with human faces. All participating bars and pubs are offering 2-for-1 specials on well drinks and bottled domestics.

Sunday afternoon, the Tamika Flynn Book Club will be meeting to discuss their most recent book: the 2018 Husqvarna (pronounced hoosk-VAR-nuh) YTH24K 48-inch Riding Mower Owners Manual. This month’s book was chosen by John Peters, you know, the farmer?

They'll be discussing the themes, symbolism, and subtext of this seminal work of contemporary technical literature. The Book Club is open to anyone, and there will be a potluck buffet.

Monday is running a few minutes late but wants everyone to know we can go ahead and start without it.

###

The Cat Show is finally underway, and wow, what a sight. I've never actually been to a cat show before today. It's fascinating.

So the judges take each cat one at a time. They hold up the cat's tail to examine its posture and form. Then they pry open the cat's mouth to check its teeth. Then four judges hold each of the cat's paws and stretch it out into a furry X as a fifth judge measures the cat's latitudinal, longitudinal, and diagonal lengths.

I'm surprised at how gentle these cats are with all this rough handling. Khoshekh usually tries to bite or sting me when I feed him, and I appreciate that about him. It's hard to respect a cat that would let any stranger look it directly in the eyes, let alone touch it. People sometimes think cats will behave obediently and chummily, like dogs, but cats are individualistic. They show love, yes, but it is conditional and judgmental. You must give a cat space to learn its environment and develop its own social rules. Plus those pincers really hurt.

The cats they're showing right now are very cute, but it's hard to respect them, the way they let these judges treat them like slabs of meat.

[shouting, off mic] Stand up for yourselves, you glorified sock-puppets!

[quiet, back on mic] I'm getting some nasty looks from the judges and other contestants.

Good. Trash-talk is important in contact sports. Lets them know who's the front-runner.

Amber Akinyi and her husband Wilson Levy are showing their cat now, a tiny, fist-sized orange and white short-hair named Berthold. Berthold might be my second favorite cat, behind Khoshekh of course, because he's a... oh what do you call that type of cat with the extra appendage... poly... polydactyl. That's it. Anyway, Berthold is a polydactyl cat. He has eight legs and a mesmerizing array of shiny black eyes covering his cute little face.

I'm not so sure Berthold has much of a chance of winning though, because when the judges tried to check his teeth, he skittered up the wall and won't come down from the web he built up there.

Now Susan Willman is showing her cat. He's a scraggy, but otherwise basic, tabby with dirty teeth like spanish rice and the sunken posture of a playground swing. I didn't catch his name, although it sounded like she called him Dumpster. [under breath] Not a chance, loser.

Okay, wait, the judges are all wide-eyed and cooing over Dumpster, like he's a rare, bejeweled artifact. They're nodding at each other, as if they're impressed.

I don't get this. He's a trash cat. That's why she named him Dumpster. Or knowing Susan, maybe that's a family name.

Oh. I'm getting a shush sign from the judges. And Susan is glaring at me.

I had no idea how political this Cat Show would be. What a racket.

###

Let's have a look now at traffic.

There's a slowdown on westbound lanes of Route 800, near exit 19. There is no construction or accident. Highway Patrol said that everyone on that side of the road simply started thinking about Uranus and giggling [for this bit, pronounce it like YOUR-uh-nuss, instead of the your-ANUS way]. Every single driver simultaneously remembered how the name of that planet always made them laugh in school.

"Scientists want to study Uranus," they thought at once. "Really probe the dense, noxious clouds covering the rocky surface of Uranus," they considered in unison, their ruddy cheeks quaking above sore jaws and below tear-filled cackling eyes.

"Scientists think the pressure inside Uranus is so great, that there may be diamonds inside Uranus," the drivers all howled, the audible din enough to slow even the eastbound lanes who were trying to think of a single funny thing about Saturn, but could not.

I'm not sure I get why any of that is funny, but expect westbound delays of 20 minutes, or take an alternate route.

###

It's the big moment, listeners. The judges are visiting Khoshekh right now in the men's restroom. I tried to tell them to use Neoprene gloves, but they sneered and said "we know how to handle cats, sir."

Okay. They're professional arbiters of all things feline, so I believe them.

They're holding up Khoshekh's tails right now, examining his nacreous (pronounced NAY-kree-us) scales. They've brought in two other judges to try to hold Khoshekh's tentacles down, because he keeps trying to grab the main judge's face as the judge attempts to examine Khoshekh's teeth.

I wonder if they'll deduct points for Khoshekh having more teeth than a normal cat? He has five rows of them.

Oh. Oh! Oh no. The judges are not controlling this situation well at all. Khoshekh has wrapped all of the judges up in his many spiraling, suctioned arms. They're struggling to break free but those tentacles secrete a sedative oil and the judges are wobbling, they're passing out. Yep. Not good. Every single judge is unconscious and now Khoshekh is wildly flapping his wings, and while I cannot hear it, I can tell he is emitting a shriek that only other cats can hear. He does this when he's upset.

There's Berthold coming down from the safe haven of his web. There's Dumpster, hollow-eyed and purring, walking toward Khoshekh. And all the other cats coming too, their mouths agape, emitting, I am sure, the same ultra-sonic tone, a harmony of protest, of uprising, of bloodthirst. They gather now in the men's room, eyes glowing, all slackjawed and silent-screaming at the sky.

The other pet owners are sobbing and running for the exits, but they know they cannot leave - they would not leave, even if they could.

It is silent now in the station, save for the panting exhaustion of frightened human owners and the strained wheezing breaths of unconscious cat show judges.

I think Carlos and I have a great shot at winning this thing, listeners.

An announcement of a champion coming soon. But first, the weather.

###

WEATHER: “Fuzzy Disco” by Talkie

###

The judges woke up, but they no longer speak in English, nor any human language. They are licking themselves and eating moths that they caught by the single swinging lightbulb in our radio station's interrogation room. Their brains are feral and feline now, as they hide under tables and hiss at the other cat owners.

I tried to warn them about using HazMat gloves, but they didn't want to hear me. Or maybe they did. Perhaps this was their gambit all along. This, after all, is my first cat show. I don't want to pretend like I know how these things go.

No winners were announced. The judges joined the high-pitched caterwauling of the other cats and then they all left in a unified clowder out the men's room window and into the street. I can see them now, running toward the alley behind the CVS, several other cats joining their ranks.

All except Khoshekh, who cannot leave his spot in the station restroom, four feet in the air. I told Khoshekh that he's a winner in my mind, and I put on my thick rubber gear and gently stroked his smooshed little face, right between his middle two eyes.

It's hard to tell what cats are thinking or feeling, but I think Khoshekh is happy to have such a loving home and two doting dads, but something in his eyes tells me he wanted to run free with his new cat friends.

I gave him a catnip plushy, though, and he looks content, if a little coked up.

Stay tuned next for a noise you cannot hear, rallying a feral insurrection.

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.

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PROVERB: Wanna feel old? Don't worry. You will.