Baxter and his brothers celebrated their second birthday right this year. But this wasn’t just any party—it was alien themed, hosted by their eccentric (and very real) alien friend Larry, who’d promised to make it “the most intergalactically unforgettable experience in the galaxy.” Wink and Pocket, their sisters, had spent all morning helping Larry decorate: foil streamers, glowing meteor balloons, and glow-in-the-dark cow stickers plastered every wall. Reuben even helped Larry hang tiny paper UFOs from the ceiling fans, though several of them had already spun off and gently smacked Barry in the face.

As guests arrived—so many people who loved them, rats and neighborhood critters like Scooty Joon—Larry triggered the fog machine and dimmed the lights. “Commencing birthday protocol,” he announced in his buzzy translator voice, and a laser light show began, complete wiff sparkles, space sounds, and a hologram of Saturn doing a little dance. In the middle of it all, Fish squeaked in joy, pointing out the cheese-shaped craters on the projected moon. “This one’s Camembert Mare,” he whispered reverently, taking notes for his cheese map.

Suddenly, the cake creaked open, and a tractor beam—just a tiny one—shone down on the table. “Initiating cow obduction!” Larry chirped. From above, small cows descended slowly into the beam, mooing mechanically as they floated skyward. Wink clapped her paws in delight while Pocket chased after one of the cows, determined to save it from the “clutches of the cosmos.”

After the games, cake (glow-in-the-dark icing, of course), and a round of “Pin the Eye on the Alien,” Mom and Dad gathered everyone around the birthday ring of stars. One by one, each sibling shared something they loved about being part of the crew. Waffles, quiet for once, mumbled, “I like when we’re all together like this.” Reuben passed him a fizzy space soda without a word. Baxter looked around, grabbed Pockets hand, fur fluffed out from excitement and sugar, and smiled.

As the sun set over the hills and stars began to twinkle in the real sky, the crowd lit up their tiny souvenir “beam lights” and waved them in rhythm to a surprise encore performance: the boys singing “Fru Time, Wiff Cheese and Lub,” backed by Larry on space synthesizer. It was sparkly, weird, and absolutely perfect.

Everyone agreed it was the kind of party you’d only get to attend once in a lifetime—or maybe once every couple of lightyears.We hope eberyone had a good time!

On Thursdays in New York, Baxter wears his crown wiff pride. It’s not just for show—oh no. That crown means somethin’. Because if you’re king (and he is), you get perks. Royal perks. Like a free pretzel wiff your hot dog.

So there he is—perched at a table in front ob the cart that smells like sizzling onions and sidewalk dreams, jewel-encrusted crown glinting in the city sun. In one paw: a warm, salty pretzel. In the other: a perfectly mustarded hot dog. A nearby pigeon looks on, equal parts curious and enbious, but this meal? This moment? It’s strictly for kings.

Baxter takes a bite, chews slowly, and gazes out at the rush of yellow cabs and cart steam. He doesn’t say much—but his eyes say, “This is New York, baby. And I’m royalty here.”

As eberybody knows, Mondays are a night off on Broadway, so we used some trabel juice and did some Internashunal bizness up in Alaska. Ob course we had to stay and see the northern lights – and boy did we get a great show! It was nice to hab a little break after working so hard on our show. Mother Nature’s show tonight was almost as good as Baxter Wiff a B!

We also met some super nice bears who caught fresh salmon for us – they were total pros, just scoopin’ ‘em right outta the water like it was no big deal. Fanks, bears!

Fank you to Kat Hagen for dis nice relaxing trip for Alaska bizness!

P.S. The fresh salmon is sooo tasty!

(Smash cut to: A bustling Broadway street. Posters of famous shows line the buildings—Hamilton, Wicked, Phantom… and then—one small, handwritten sign on a dark, forgotten theater.) **Remember, dis is in the play, not the reality ob dis play being in the big New Amsterdam theater you’re sitting in now.

NOW PLAYING: “BAXTER WIFF A B”!

(The brothers stand in front of the theater, staring at the sign. It’s small. It’s scrappy. It’s not one of the big-name shows… yet. But it’s theirs.)

Baxter (smirking, staring at the sign):
“You know… I fink this is gonna work.”

Reuben (hands in pockets):
“Well, it better. I already started selling t-shirts.”

Waffles:
“And I already signed an autograph deal.”

Barry (clutching his script, bouncing):
“And I wrote three ballads in the past hour!”

(Fish watches his brothers. The chaos. The energy. The ridiculousness of it all. He shakes his head, but this time—)

(He smiles and nibbles some cheese.)

Fish:
“Ok – Let’s do dis together!! Let’s take Broadway. But if this turns into Cats, I’m leaving.”

FINAL CURTAIN DROP. LIGHTS OUT.

“Baxter Wiff a B” – The Showstopping Finale

(After a quick montage ob all the show preparation —after the journey through Broadway’s past, after proving himself, after defying every single doubt thrown his way—this is Baxter’s moment. The show is a triumph. The audience is on their feet. And now, the final number brings it all home.)

(The orchestra strikes up a bold, brassy overture. A mix of classic Broadway flair and modern energy—big horns, soaring strings, tap-dancing rhythms. The lights are golden, sparkling like the city itself.)

(Baxter stands center stage, his brothers beside him. The Marquee B is fully lit above them, glowing like a beacon. This is the final number. The moment they own the stage.)

[Opening Verse – Baxter Owns It]

They said a rat like me could never stand in the light,
“Stay down in the gutters, kid, Broadway ain’t your type!”
But I bopped and I scampered, I danced and I dreamed—
And now da whole world is clappin’ for me!

(The chorus kicks in—full blast. Baxter steps forward, belting wiff confidence, wiff joy, wiff the power of ebery dreamer who dared to believe.)

[Chorus – The Signature Hook]

I’m Baxter wiff a B, I’m big, I’m bold!
I’m takin’ my shot, I’m breakin’ the mold!
They said “rats don’t belong,” they laughed and they sneered—
But now I’m the name dat da whole world cheers!

(The brothers join in—each one bringing their own flair.)

Waffles (jazz hands, dramatic spins):
He’s Baxter wiff a B, da dream is alive!
From da gutters to da spotlight, now we thrive!

Barry (cool, laid-back, arms crossed but smirking):
Yeah, Baxter wiff a B, dat name’s on da marquee!
Broadway’s for da bold, and dat bold is he!

(The *ensemble kicks in—pigeons, old Broadway ghosts (Olibe), random stagehands—*ALL CELEBRATING. The stage fills wiff energy. The music swells.)

[Bridge – The Heart of the Dream]

(The tempo slows slightly, just for a moment—Baxter stands alone at center stage. The orchestra hushes. The lights dim, leaving just a spotlight on him.)

It ain’t just da lights, it ain’t just da fame…
It ain’t just a dream, it ain’t just a name…
It’s da moments we live for, da stories we spin…
It’s family, it’s music—it’s da fire wiffin…

(And then—)

THE MUSIC SURGES BACK.

So clap wiff me, sing wiff me, dance till ya drop—
Dis rat is a legend—and I ain’t gonna stop!

(A tap-break happens. The brothers get pulled into a big, ridiculous dance number. Reuben tries to escape but gets caught in a kickline of pigeons. Barry begrudgingly throws in a jazzy spin. Waffles is thriving. The theater is electric.)

[Final Chorus – The Ultimate Broadway Moment]

I’m Baxter wiff a B, I’m big, I’m bold!
I’m takin’ my shot, I’m breakin’ da mold!
They said “rats don’t belong,” they laughed and they sneered—
But now I’m da name dat da whole world cheers!

(The crowd is clapping along. The lights flash. The orchestra swells to its peak. This is the moment—this is Broadway history.)

[The Big Finish – A Star is Born]

So mark dis day, remember my name—
I came for Broadway, and I CHANGED DA GAME!

“I’M BAXTER WIFF A BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

FINAL NOTE. THE MUSIC SLAMS TO A CLOSE.

(Baxter stands center stage, paws outstretched. The curtain falls. The lights burst into gold. The audience is on their feet, roaring.)

(The rats did it. They took Broadway. The Marquee B glows one last time—forever part of Broadway history.)

BLACKOUT. CURTAIN CALL. THE DREAM IS REAL.
___________________

Thank you for coming.

Please stop by Fish’s curated cheese table on your way out.

(Lights rise on a dimly lit café corner, where Fish stands alone, bathed in a single golden spotlight. His tiny paws clutch his worn parchment map, its edges curled from years of careful study. The café is quiet, save for the faint sound of distant city life—a soft saxophone playing in the street, the chatter of late-night diners, the clinking of espresso cups.)

(Fish takes a deep breath. This is his moment.)

“The Cheese Ballad – Part II” 

(He begins soft, wistful, longing.)

FISH:
Oh, I dream ob a city wiff cheese on each street,
A place where da dairy’s deliciously sweet.
From cafes to bistros, each bite tells a tale,
A journey ob brie, ob gouda, ob taleggio pale…

(He unrolls the map with reverence, his eyes gleaming like a cartographer discovering new lands.)

Here in West Billage, where romance runs free,
I bited a brie that was made just for me.
So creamy, so breezy, it melted like dreams,
A whisper ob dawn wiff buttery beams…

(The music shifts—adventurous, thrilling. Fish spins, his tail flicking as he traces his map like an explorer ready to set sail.)

And Liddle Italy, oh, da magic runs deep!
Wiff mozzarella so botty, it makes me weep.
A pile ob Parmigiano, crumbly, so grand,
Grated on pasta by an old baker’s hand.

(He twirls dramatically, pointing eastward with conviction.)

Da Lower East Side, where da bold cheeseblends glow,
Bagels and cream cheese put on quite a show!
But wander beyond, where da hipsters all line,
You’ll find a smoked gouda wiff depff so debine…

(The orchestra swells—strings and accordions blending in a melody of nostalgia and passion. Fish clutches his map, the weight of history and flavor almost too much to bear.)

Oh, but Brooklyn, dear Brooklyn, you baffle my mind,
A cheddar so sharp, it could cut wiff its rind!
A blue cheese so tangy, so big and so bold,
It sings wiff da bridges, a blue-and-white gold…

(The music hushes, reverent, almost sacred. Fish’s voice drops to a hushed whisper.)

And Queens, oh, Queens, da treasures you keep,
Halloumi wiff grill marks, a bite so deep.
A queso so precious from Jackson Heights’ streets,
A taste ob da world in a city ob beats…

(The final chorus swells, Fish rising onto his tiny hind legs, holding his map like a sacred text. The wind shifts—as if the very city itself is listening.)

So here is my map, my dream and my guide,
A city ob cheeses, wiff boroughs so wide.
Each block is a blessing, each nibble a rhyme,
In a grand cheese-ballet ob history and time!

(*He stands, breathless, victorious. The café falls silent. Then—suddenly—**)

THE ENTIRE CAFÉ ERUPTS INTO APPLAUSE!

(Diners rise from their seats, chefs wipe away tears, a tiny rat barista raises an espresso in Fish’s honor. Somewhere, a cheese wheel is dramatically rolled onto the stage. A spotlight gleams off its golden rind. This is a moment.)

(Fish takes it all in, his tiny chest rising and falling. His life’s greatest passion has just been given a standing ovation. And yet… something is missing. His brothers. Baxter. The theater. The adventure…)

(As the crowd cheers, toasts, and revels, Fish stares down at his map. The glow of the Marquee B still lingers faintly in his mind.)

Fish (softly, to himself): “Maybe da real treasure isn’t just da cheese… it’s who you share it wiff.”

(Lights fade. The city hums around him. Fish rushes out stage left…)