🌑 DALE’S BROADCAST: “THE NIGHTWATER TRIO GOES TO SPACE PROM”

Folks… I have seen some things in my time. Robot bees. Sentient fog. A raccoon that may or may not be immortal.

But nothing — and I mean nothing — prepared me for the day Barry Nightwater opened a portal like it was a screen door and said:

“If I have to suffer through this, then he does too.”

And by “he,” he meant me.

Which is how I, Dale of Dale’s Haunted Broadcasts, ended up being yanked through a swirling cosmic doorway like a man who forgot to read the fine print on reality.

Verity objected, of course.

She objected with the intensity of a malfunctioning supercomputer and the emotional precision of a cat watching someone rearrange its furniture.

Barry ignored her.

Because Barry has entered his “I’m too tired for this nonsense” era.

🌌 THE PORTAL

Let me tell you something: Barry’s portals are new. And they are not OSHA‑approved.

One minute we’re in the bayou. The next minute we’re in a marble hall so shiny I could see my own existential dread reflected in the floor.

And standing there?

Nobility.

Real nobility.

The kind who wear clothes that cost more than my entire broadcasting setup and smell faintly of entitlement and imported citrus.

👑 THE ANNOUNCEMENT

We barely get through the door before some herald with a voice like a malfunctioning trumpet bellows:

“Presenting… Barry Half‑Naked!”

I swear to you, I almost died.

Barry did not blink.

Verity tilted her head like she was calculating the herald’s lifespan.

Lady Morgan, meanwhile, looked Barry over like she was deciding which part of him to eat first.

🪑 THE SEATING DISASTER

Now, here’s where things get spicy.

The staff scans us.

Barry’s scan comes back as:

UNCROWNED KING

Which, frankly, explains a lot.

My scan comes back as:

“Human‑ish.”

Verity’s scan comes back as:

“Absolutely not.”

So naturally, they try to shove us into the standing‑room‑only section like we’re emotional support animals.

Barry just says, calm as a saint:

“If they’re not seated with me, I will leave.”

And folks… The silence that followed?

You could’ve bottled it and sold it as a weapon.

They scrambled. They panicked. They rearranged the seating chart like it was a hostage negotiation.

And suddenly we’re sitting near the front.

Because that’s what happens when your best friend is apparently royalty.

🍷 THE ARISTOCRAT INCIDENT

Now, every party has That Guy.

You know the one.

Too drunk. Too loud. Too confident in his own opinions.

This one waddles up to Barry and slurs something insulting — I won’t repeat it, but it involved Barry’s clothes, his origins, and possibly his mother.

Barry smiles.

Closes his eyes.

Just for a second.

And then—

The aristocrat’s pants darken like a storm cloud.

Water. Everywhere.

He’s whisked away by attendants insisting he “spilled a drink.”

Sure, Jan.

Barry summoned swamp water into that man’s trousers and I will take that truth to my grave.

🕯️ THE END OF THE NIGHT

As the party dissolves into gossip and scandal, Lady Morgan approaches.

She looks at Barry. Then at Verity. Then at Barry again.

Like she’s trying to decide whether to recruit him, marry him, or mount him on a wall as a conversation piece.

And that’s where I’ll leave you for now, folks.

Because whatever she said next?

That’s a story for another broadcast.