Oh, this was getting good! The magic of radio. Leaning back in his chair in his best affectation of an old-timey Detective, Cecil spoke into his microphone, pantomiming the writing of notes while his tattoos writhed around his wrist.

"Detective Malone leaned heavy on one hand, sighing openly into the receiver while he wrote out his notes. Cats. Why did it always have to be cats? They kept coming back into his life, the one constant that he could never seem to wash away. Cats. Always cats. They haunted his dreams, his fevered, drunken dreams - all whiskers and ghostly paws and tusks. He could see one of them now, behind his desk, scratching up his lamp. No one else could see the cat. They never could."

Cecil was in the zone. All three eyes were bright and glittering. He just loved radio, it was his passion.

"He shook himself, rolling his eyes and then returning him to his notes. He couldn't be picky. Not now. 'Yes, Ma'am. I'll...find your Fifi.'"

Satisfied with his turn, he grinned brightly, looking to Rory.