Chapter 20:

Cult Logic and Carpet Smell

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At 4:20 AM, the fax machine screamed.

I’d been sleeping on a bench behind the town’s only semi-functional vending machine, wrapped in a FruitBlast Max XXL banner and shame. The scream was followed by the unmistakable staccato clunk of dying technology forcing itself to be relevant.

The paper emerged in a blur of static, heat, and poor formatting.

It read:

BRAKING NEUUSS – ALIEN SUICIDE IN NORTH CAROLINA

Death Time: 04:20

Where: Freedomville Town Square

Cause: Unconfirmed, guilt

Spiritual Aftermath: Pending

According to the fax—sent by Local Emergency News Aggregator (L.E.N.A.), a service run out of a retired Arby’s—the alien formerly known as Kaito Sasaki had taken his own life on public display. A tragic event. A national loss. And also, according to the fine print, a 50% off coupon for collectible “Skyboy Memorial Plates” available at the Freedomville Flea Mall.

The accompanying report came from Dr. Leonard H. Fogsbottom, whose career had peaked exactly 26 hours ago when he declared that Kaito “lacked symmetry and possibly a soul.”

Fogsbottom, after a thorough five-minute investigation at the crime scene, concluded the following:

“The alien died of emotional implosion. Classic extraterrestrial burnout.

He perished quietly, possibly while thinking about taxes or his ex.

Then, using methods known only to spacekind, he fled the area in an act of post-mortem teleportation.”

Asked to clarify, he added:

“It’s like when a hermit crab dies and the shell scuttles off on its own. You wouldn’t understand.”

Three fringe science journals immediately nominated him for the Nobel Prize. One of them was a Tumblr blog. The other two may have been ChatGPT-generated by his family.

The mayor gave a press conference from a lawn chair:

“We lost hero. A statue. source of income. We build tourism park, called Alien Dead. Open next summer."

A candlelight vigil was held by two retired wrestlers.

At sunrise, the Freedomville Gazette ran the headline:

“SPACE BOY DEAD. TOWN MOURNS. TOURISM UP.”

And the pedestal?

Empty.

All that remained was a single muddy boot, a banana shirt caught on a wind-chime, and a paper sign reading: “Maintenance.”

A tragedy.

A mystery.

An opportunity for public art funding.

But here’s the thing:

None of it was true.

Kaito Sasaki didn’t die.

He didn’t vanish.

And he definitely didn’t teleport via heartbreak.

He was taken.

And now, dear reader, let me tell you what really happened.

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It was sometime after midnight when the wind changed.

Freedomville had settled into its usual nightly rhythm: distant cicadas, off-key karaoke from the one bar that still had a jukebox, and the occasional argument between raccoons over sandwich crusts.

At the center of town, Kaito Sasaki stood motionless.

Zip-tied.

Sore.

Crying.

The cardboard sign around his neck now read:

“NO FEED ALIEN (He Has Allergy)”

Every few hours, a tourist would drive by and take a blurry photo. One even live-streamed it with the caption “North Carolina Weird Statue (Blinked???)”

Kaito hadn’t blinked.

He just gave up briefly.

But tonight, something was different.

The wind carried the smell of sweat, gasoline, and poorly hidden intentions. The streetlamps flickered once, then twice, then died entirely—as if the grid itself decided this wasn’t worth powering anymore.

And then, they came.

Figures emerged from the dark. Slow. Deliberate. All in black, faces hidden behind what looked like repurposed foreign language textbooks cut into masks. One of them was wearing a child’s Dora the Explorer backpack. Another had a belt made entirely of Duolingo photos

They moved in complete silence, except for the one who tripped over a rock and muttered, “Ow. Crap. Sorry. Proceeding.”

Kaito blinked. “What the—”

A hand clamped over his mouth.

Another cut the zip ties.

Another two grabbed his arms.

“Nope! Nope! I’m not doing this again!” he shouted, thrashing, kicking, flailing like a noodle in a wind tunnel.

His foot connected with someone’s shin.

They yelped. “He’s stronger than he looks!”

“No he isn’t!” another hissed. “Just get the bag!”

The “bag” turned out to be an old IKEA tarp with the word “CULT” spray-painted on it in glittery green letters. They threw it over Kaito’s head and started dragging him toward a waiting van with tinted windows and a suspicious lack of license plates.

“You guys know I’m technically state property!” Kaito screamed. “This is a federal crime! I THINK!”

One cultist replied in a voice muffled by his owl-shaped mask,

“Silence, apocalypse-bringer. Your trial awaits.”

“MY WHAT—?!”

And with that, the doors slammed shut.

The van pulled away into the night.

And Kaito Sasaki—the banana-shirted, llama-draped, deeply unwilling protagonist—disappeared once again.

They drove him to an undisclosed location, a secret base. On the front door, the following words were written:

WELCOME TO THE COVENANT OF THE FORGOTTEN STREAK

(Please remove your shoes.)

When the tarp finally came off his head, Kaito was on his knees.

The first thing he noticed: carpet.

Shaggy. Brown. Smelled like chili and regret.

The second thing: candles. Dozens of them. Half melted. One dangerously close to an unplugged keyboard.

The third: an entire wall of foreign language posters—Spanish, French, Korean, even Esperanto—torn, burned, or defaced with phrases like “STREAK TRAITORS,” “WE REMEMBER,” and “LANGUAGE IS LAW.”

The room looked like a cross between a teacher’s lounge and a doomsday bunker.

“Where... am I?” Kaito asked.

A dozen masked figures stood in a half-circle around him, each one dressed like a schoolteacher.

One had a laser pointer holstered like a weapon.

Another wore a full kimono and Crocs.

A third was definitely just someone’s grandma holding a glittery plastic ruler like a wand.

And in the center of them all—him.

The man in the sombrero.

Still wearing the hat.

Still wearing the cloak.

Still looking like a discount anime villain who got lost on his way to Comic Con.

Kaito groaned. “You again?!”

The sombrero tilted slightly. “We meet at last.”

“No! We’ve met twice already! You tried to kill me and got obliterated by a goat!”

One of the cultists stepped forward. Her mask was made from a Duolingo tote bag. She raised a clipboard.

“You are Kaito Sasaki, correct?”

"Allegedly."

“You have been charged with crimes against The Duo. The fallen. The green. The grammatical.”

Kaito blinked. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

“We will now proceed to pre-trial orientation,” another cultist said, pulling down a yellowing flip chart labeled “JUSTICE FLOWCHART: OWL EDITION.”

“Oh my god,” Kaito muttered, “Between being a literal statue and this, i honestly don't know what's more boring.”

The lights dimmed.

The projector buzzed.

The cultist with the laser pointer clicked it on and began:

“Long ago, humanity was united by a sacred system. Grammar.

And then one man failed his streak.”

The laser moved to a blurry screenshot of Kaito’s Duolingo profile. Underneath, in Comic Sans:

“STREAK BROKEN. WORLD BROKEN.”

“I literally didn’t even get a warning email,” Kaito said.

“Silence!” barked the man in the sombrero. “You will speak when spoken to—or during the scheduled rebuttal phase.”

“There’s a scheduled rebuttal phase?!”

“Yes,” the cult leader nodded. “This is a fair trial.”