I scream. You scream. We all scream. Then a long moment of dawning horror as our mouths remain open but no sound is left to save us. Welcome to Night Vale

###

Listeners, it’s been a while, but I’m happy to say that Carlos and I took a little vacation together. Just the two of us. We’ve had some lovely and peaceful trips to the remote desert and the forest, but never to The Big City. Lately we’ve been talking about how fun it would be to go see a musical, shop at fancy stores, and take in the myriad cultures of urban life.

Living in what feels like the middle of nowhere, we often forget that The Big City is only a couple hours in the car away. A place that close shouldn’t seem exotic, but it really is. We had a fun time, and I can’t recommend it enough.

It was a little tough to leave home, though. Our son was in good hands with my family, so we didn’t worry, but we certainly missed him. Plus, I‘ve been hoping my cat Khoshekh will come back to his home here at the radio station. I mean, what if he returns when I’m gone? But Carlos said, “Cecil, Khoshekh’s been missing for 6 months. You have to come to terms with him being gone for good..”

Of course, Carlos is right. He’s so scientific. So we packed our things and drove out of town.

The first thing we did in The Big City was visit Middle Park, a huge expanse of nature right in the center of this thriving metropolis. There were loads of trees and birds. Plus people everywhere, enjoying a gorgeous spring day. Some were skateboarding, others were reading on blankets in the shade, and others were camping in tents made out of hotdogs. We even saw a political demonstration. A group of protesters was throwing rocks at the sun. Wow, there’s always excitement in the Big City.

Middle Park also has a beautiful lake where some of the last remaining Ichthyosaurs live. People come from all around to feed them breadcrumbs, bits of ham, whole ducks, and Mountain Dew Flamin’ Hot. Next to the lake is a Dog Park. I was blown away by the lack of tall electrified fences around this area. There were people in the dog park. And dogs! I should suggest this for our own Dog Park at the next Night Vale Town Hall. The Big City is packed with surprises. I even saw one man who had his cat with him on a leash. The cat was so chill and accepting. And he reminded me of Khoshekh. I got sad thinking about him, but it passed. It passed. We came to the Big City to get away, to have fun. And boy did we.

###

But first, financial news.

Once there were many gods, far more than we have today. These gods had specific jobs. There was Pokrah, the god of acorn caps. There was Namostathanos, the god of washing trousers, but only in river water. There was Bhouzhent, the god of cinnamon-flavored dental floss. But over the millennia of human civilization these gods were made redundant, their duties passed on to fewer and fewer gods who made no more money but had far more responsibilities. The remaining gods grew angry. They were unable to unionize because of the oppressive corpocracy of the stars, and soon the system began to show the flaws of de-specialization. More profits, the void demanded of the celestial rulers. These gods are merely middle managers of the skies, and they’ve lost the thread. Now we have fewer than 30 gods remaining, and they’re struggling to keep track of everything they have to keep track of. As a result, the DOW is down 10, the NASDAQ is down 8, and NFTs are silly.

This has been financial news.

###

So after the park we had reservations at Le Fin de Tout [pronounced: La Fawn de Too], the only 3-star Michelin restaurant in The Big City. It’s post-modern French cuisine, so not only is it delicious, they are quite creative with their presentation. One of my favorites was the Beef Bourguignon. The entrée was reduced to its chemical nutritional components, dissolved in a saline solution, and then the waiter came by with an eye dropper and placed 3 drops in each eye. Did you know your eyeballs can taste beef? Well they can’t, and that’s kind of the point. This restaurant really makes you think!

For dessert we got the Cherry Clafoutis [pronounced CLA-fu-TEE]. It’s a classic French tart that’s traditionally served by a blindfolded man on a 300 horsepower Kawasaki motorbike, but at Le Fin de Tout, our clafoutis was served by a woman in a Luchador mask driving a 1995 Chrysler LeBaron convertible with the top down.

It didn’t have the homey charm of the Moonlite All-Nite, of course, but it was a once-in-a-lifetime dining experience.

There was one odd moment, though. As Carlos was paying the bill, I noticed an interesting couple one table over: a woman wearing a long cloak, her back to me, and a man dressed in a sharp black suit and tie. He was so handsome, like in a dangerous way. I wondered if he were mafia or a spy, or some foreign oligarch. He was frightening, but I couldn’t turn my gaze. Something about his eyes. They were… kind. No, innocent. And gentle. At one point the woman put her hand to his cheek, and I swear it sounded like he was purring. It was adorable and strange.

But it also reminded me of Khoshekh, and that cast a small shadow on our otherwise delightful dinner. Of course, just then the waiters brought the cart over to carve a single raw carrot tableside before loudly shouting “a murder has been committed” and wheeling the carrot back into the kitchen uneaten. And I was once again in the classy fun of Michelin-starred dining.

###

More soon, but now it's time for one of my favorite segments “Hey there Cecil,” where I offer advice to some of my listeners. First question comes from Joseph F. in Night Vale.

“Hey there, Cecil. So I wrote this show. It’s fiction. All of it. Night Vale. You. Everything. But then about a year ago, I suddenly found myself living in this town. This town that I made up. And… this is hard to ask… because as the creator of Night Vale, I feel like I should know the answer… but how do you leave here and get back to the real world?”

[encouraging] Well, Joseph F., I’ll concede that Night Vale is fiction, in that everything is fiction. Nothing is real. So, you can’t get back to the “real world,” because none exists. But… I dunno. If writing got you here, maybe try writing your way back home. Worth a shot.

Next question, this one from Sunita R. Sunita writes: “Hey there, Cecil. What’s going on?”

[beat]

Nothing much. Just doing my show.

[beat]

Well, that’s all the time we have for Hey There Cecil. Thank you everyone for writing in.

###

Okay, back to my trip. Carlos and I went to see a show in the Big City. Listen, we have some great theater in Night Vale, but nothing beats the glitz and glamor of a stage production in The Big City. Carlos got us center orchestra tickets to see Samuel Beckett’s musical extravaganza “Krapp’s Last Tape,” featuring some really catchy numbers like “Alone With a Tape Deck” and “Just One Man Talking Very Slowly, If at All” and “Hello Starkness, My Old Friend.” You wouldn’t believe the huge chorus line dance routines that this single 70-year-old man performed over no music, just the dull hum of a reel-to-reel machine.

I have never been so blown away by sparse, poetic, ennui. You get your money’s worth in production value at these Big City shows.

But during the climactic scene where Krapp pensievely retreats into his memories of youth, I caught a glimpse of one of the loge boxes. There sat the same couple I had seen at dinner. Her face was obscured by the hood of her cloak, but I recognized the dangerously handsome man by his kind eyes. They looked completely enraptured by the show. And I was enraptured by them.

Why could I not turn my eyes away? I see lots of attractive people in this world, without needing to gawk at them, so it wasn’t that. Was I suspicious of these two? Did I know them somehow?

Suddenly! They both turned, swiftly and together, and looked right at me. I gulped and twisted back toward the play, afraid to look at them. Were they still staring at me? Do they think me suspicious? Do they know who I am?

After a few minutes passed, I slowly turned and saw… They were gone. They were gone, at least, from their seats. I wouldn’t see them again. Not that night anyway.

###

And now, local news. Night Vale’s Director of Emergency Press Conferences, Pamela Winchell, called an emergency press conference today to address wind. “Wind is the dumbest possible thing,” she announced from her podium, which was just a makeshift stack of milk crates.

“Wind makes it so hard to walk, or to keep your hair nice, or to set your napkin down on a picnic table. Sure we can fly kites, but kites are dumb too. Who are these people that absolutely, above all else, have to fly a kite?” she ranted.

At this point a gust of wind came along and rustled her notes, which flew up into the air. Winchell then pointed and pleaded, “See? It’s so stupid! Why should this be happening?”

A reporter on the scene asked Winchell why she didn’t hold her press conference indoors. Winchell stared for an uncomfortably long time at the reporter. She then pressed a button on her lapel which ignited her jetpack and she flew away, never breaking eye contact with the impertinent journalist.

###

On our last day in the city, Carlos and I went shopping at a luxury boutique. Carlos got himself a Salvatore Ferragamo lab coat, some Tom Ford safety goggles, and a pair of Louis Vuitton HazMat gloves. I bought a maroon faux-fur tunic by Dior and a matching Dolce & Gabbana hunting cap. I also went to a touristy shop to get some tchotchkes to give as gifts. I got my sister a Snow Globe that features The Big City’s famous Statue of Eternal Fear. And for my brother-in-law, I got a T-shirt that has that classic Big City slogan “If I can make it here, I’m lying to myself,” and I got my niece an official basketball jersey for The Big City Trouserpants, which is her favorite NBA team.

I love shopping, but I may have over-bought. I had to carry these huge shopping bags around the Big City Museum of Art afterward. We wanted to see their new exhibit featuring some of the most prominent names in modern art: Van Gogh, Cezanne, Monet, Kinkade, all the greats.

Our friend Larry had told us this was one of the best exhibits going, and he wasn’t lying. We got to see Manet’s “Autumn Leaves on a Soccer Ball,” Gaugin’s “Broken Bike Horn,” and even O’Keeffe’s “Definitely Just a Flower.” Those were all masterpieces, but I was especially taken by one work in particular. It was a small, maybe 14- by 10-inch painting by Georges Seurat called “Magic Eye Dinosaurs.” It was the first ever work of Pointillism, which is a style of 19th century impressionism that requires the viewer to cross their eyes just right in order to see a three-dimensional image. It was stunning.

I got so caught up in staring at this painting, I didn’t notice the fire alarm had gone off. Carlos had to pull me away. The crowd filed out of the museum mostly without incident, but one person actually knocked me over. I didn’t see who it was. I just grumbled, got back up and walked outside. My bags felt way heavier, but I was in a foul mood. Nothing felt right. I was bummed that our museum trip got cut short.

But then outside, I saw that woman in the cloak, the one I’d seen at the musical and the restaurant. I finally saw her face clearly, and I knew her. It was Mino. Carlos and I had gone to see an art exhibit of hers in Night Vale last year. We both waved and said “Mino! Hi! How have you been?” She smiled and waved uncomfortably. I said, “Were you at the musical last night? I thought I saw you. And who was that handsome fellow?” I was chatting her ear off, but before she could reply, the shifting crowd filled the space between us and her. When the crowd thinned again, she was gone.

It turned out to be a false alarm at the museum, but Carlos and I were ready to go.

We had a tired, quiet drive home. Carlos listened to his new favorite podcast “My Brother, Your Brother, and a Cursed Amulet.” We were too exhausted to unpack fully, but I did want to get my gifts wrapped and my new clothes ready for work for the next day. But when I reached into my shopping bag, I felt something… unfamiliar. It was wooden, rectangular. Maybe about 14- by 10-inches. And I froze. I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want to know what I had inadvertently taken home with me.

Then: a knock. At our door. Again. And Again. Finally, my guts quivering in fear, I answered it. More on that soon. But now, the weather.

###

WEATHER: “Black Car” by Penfriend https://penfriend.rocks/blackcar

###

At our door is the dangerously handsome man with kind eyes. The one from the restaurant and the musical. He introduces himself as “Silas.”

“Silas,” I repeat.

I’ve heard that name recently.

Silas is holding one of the LOST CAT posters I had hung around town. He tells me “I know where your cat is.”

“Where?” I ask.

“He’s close by,” the man says, and then adds the caveat, “But first, I bumped into you quite by accident in the museum today, and I think one of my belongings ended up in your shopping bag.”

“Ummm,” I struggle to respond. I know I have been played. I was an easy mark, a wide-eyed, naive tourist in the Big City.

“First,” he interrupts my feelings of shame and anger, “I’m afraid I ran into you quite hard, and for that, I am sorry. But I would like my item returned to me.” His kind eyes do not blink. I cannot ignore his charm, nor his vaguely threatening aura.

I bring him the item still in the shopping bag. I’d taken everything out of the bag except his stolen paint---- nope. I do not assume it is a stolen anything, painting or otherwise. I have not seen the item in question. I merely hand it over, unseen, in a bag, to this dangerously handsome man with kind eyes, and I say “Here ya go.”

He nods his ‘thank you,’ rather than saying it and walks away.

I call out, “What about Khoshekh? What about my cat?”

The man pauses, and without turning around, says “He’ll be back soon, Cecil. Maybe not often, but soon.”

“How do you know my name?” I ask.

I do not see him smile but I sense it. He leaves without answering.

That was last night. This morning, I came back to work, and listeners, you’ll never believe what I found. Whom I found. My cat, Khoshekh, returned to the radio station bathroom. He’s not floating 4 feet off the ground anymore. He was standing on the floor. Above him were his grown kittens: Larry, Mixtape and Potato.

Khoshekh purred and rubbed against my legs, which was so sweet but also so painful because of his sharp, caudal spine. He ruined my brand new designer tunic. But I didn’t care. He’d returned to me.

It was as if the man named Silas told the cat named Khoshekh he should visit Cecil again. Cecil who misses him. Cecil who had always cared for him. Cecil who had been searching for him for months. And so Khoshekh came back to check on me. And his children.

Sadly, he didn’t stay long. But it filled my heart to see him. There he was walking around. Freed from his fixed point in space. Cats can’t smile, so I couldn’t see his happiness, but I could sense it.

He’s gone again, but I feel so much better knowing he’s okay. Such is the life of a cat owner. You can’t train them or confine them. I’m learning this now. But with his newfound freedom, I hope Khoshekh is staying out of trouble wherever he goes.

Stay tuned next for your own birth. The simulation had to be reset. We apologize for the inconvenience.

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.

###

PROVERB: Put your money where your mouth is. Right there. Near the bottom of your face. Put your money in there. Eat it. Eat your money.