milliways_bar | (no subject)

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There is a man in Milliways. He is neither tall nor short, nor fat or thin. He is wearing a tie. He is having a drink at the bar.

He is new.

He has always been there.

Cecil, welcome... to Milliways.

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"It tastes like vanilla and reminds me of autumn," replies Cecil. "How is yours?"

"Is it supposed to do that?" the man enquires. "Mine is an excellent Châteauneuf-du-Pape, full of soul and herbal scents."

"It's bourbon," Cecil supplies. "Bourbon of a certain age is supposed to taste like vanilla.

"As for it reminding me of autumn, that's a page out of my personal narrative."

"As with Marcel Proust, the writer, who hinged his whole magnum opus on the taste of a madeleine," the man agrees, nodding.

He sips his wine.

"That was literature. This is happy hour."

He glances over his shoulder, at the observation window.

"Or terror hour. If you're afraid of such things as the end of existence."

"I am generally and credibly assured that the end of existence will always hover on the brink, not come to pass," the man says, "so I personally am quite happy with this place."

"You don't believe in the Big Crunch?"

"Not here," the man says. "Here, the world ends for entertainment purposes only."

Cecil turns on his stool to observe the Observation Window a little better.

"A-plus for visuals but the soundtrack needs work," is his verdict.

"It is silent in space," the man says, sipping his wine while watching the stars explode. "And musical taste varies so widely."

"Is it truly?" muses Cecil. "I like to think the music of the spheres wasn't just a supposition."

"Of course," the man concedes, "if in your world, the stars sing, all the better for you. Space is silent in mine, as there are no molecules to start swinging and transport sound. Or so science says."

"I don't know if they sing," says Cecil, "but sometimes they dance, and sometimes they play hide-and-seek."

"They do that in my world, too," the man says, "as you can describe certain astronomical phenomena that way."

"Oh, can you see them counting and scurrying off too?"

The man laughs. "No, they don't do that!" he says. "They just seem to vanish when brighter lights come close, or they're covered by thin clouds."

"Not quite the same thing," says Cecil, amused.

"I'm Cecil, of Night Vale."

[ooc: Stepping out for bit.]

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Cecil," the man says. "I'm Dr. Hannibal Lecter, from Baltimore."

Edited 2013-08-13 22:11 (UTC)

"Well met, Dr. Lecter," Cecil says expansively.

"Thank you!" Dr. Lecter says. "Isn't Night Vale somewhere in the Southwest?"

"You've heard of our little burg?"

"I do think I have heard it mentioned in passing," Dr. Lecter admits. "Night Vale. Yes. Remind me which state it is in?"

"Definitely not Texas," says Cecil with a vague look in his eyes.

"Yes, I would have thought somewhere further west," Dr. Lecter nods.

"Yes," says Cecil simply. "In the desert."