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Cecil lazily waved the microphone back and forth in front of his face with one tentacle during his broadcasts. This left his hands free to caress the delicate glass-framed photograph of beautiful, perfect Carlos standing in his lab next to Big Rico’s.
Cecil’s tentacles weren’t extraordinary; in fact, they were considered positively mundane by the other inhabitants of Night Vale.
Now, Old Woman Josie’s wings, on the other fleshy arm-bound appendage, were quite breathtaking. Erika, Erika, and Erika had given them to her on behalf of all of the angels for letting them crash at her house. They were identical to the angels’ and positively magnificent. The way the lights above the Arby’s shone on the diaphanous black membrane that stretched between the metacarpals covered in a dusting of short black fur was reminiscent of moonlight on a bat’s wings, not that anyone had ever seen a bat in Night Vale. Bats had been illegal since The Incident.
Cecil was always a little jealous of some of the other citizens’ bodies, except Steve Carlsberg (who had scales up his arms and couldn’t feel pain, the jerk). It was part of why he stayed in the radio station as much as he could. He tried to distance himself from the others to limit his envy, which literally turned his eyes green. But he could never be jealous of Carlos. Carlos was different.
Carlos didn’t have tentacles, angel wings, or scales, and he could definitely feel pain. His hair was shiny and soft and perfect, but it didn’t crackle with electricity and he couldn’t use it to pick things up. His skin was smooth and dark, but it didn’t glow or attract precious metals. He was always the same height and he didn’t make any strange noises. In short, he was boring by Night Vale’s standards, but Cecil was gripped. He just wanted to look at beautiful, perfect Carlos forever. He was exquisite because he wasn’t. He was just Carlos.
Beautiful, perfect Carlos.