01/03/2016 10:26:16 ¶ ●

## Episode 83 - One Normal Town

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t breathe. Don’t breathe. Don’t breathe. Don’t breathe.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Our neighboring town of Desert Bluffs is no more. It has been swept from the map. Its borders, a bad memory. Its name, a forgotten joke.

Oh, listeners, I have long dreamed of saying these words, although the circumstances are different than I could have ever foreseen.

Mayor Cardinal announced today that – after months of extending loans and other budgetary aid to the struggling community – her and Mayor Cardozo of Desert Bluffs agreed that the path to financial stability lay in (I can’t believe I’m saying this) merging the two towns.

As of this week, Night Vale’s borders will extend to include the dumb buildings that used to belong to Desert Bluffs, and all the weirdos that for some reason chose to live there.

Dana said that she understood there would be some adjustment needed from everyone, and then went on to say some other stuff that didn’t really matter because apparently it’s fine that Desert Bluffs is now part of Night Vale, and no one has a problem with that, and that’s OK. It’s fine. It’s fine.

Our new sheriff, Sam, who has been an outspoken opponent to the monetary aid given to Desert Bluffs because of the strain it puts on law enforcement budgets, reacted as expected. At a press conference, they expressed their extreme displeasure in this development by singing selections from Richard Foreman’s Tony Award-winning Broadway musical, “Film Is Evil: Radio Is Good” while weeping copiously.

In response to follow-up questions from the attending journalists, Sam quietly said, “Listen. I just need this right now, okay?” before vowing that they would continue their strong opposition to the mayor’s plan for unification, and then softly crying a little more.

And now, traffic.

There once was a farmer who never much thought of leaving his land. He was comfortable where he was, and comfortable with only ever being merely comfortable.

He had no close friends, although a few people at the farmer’s market knew who he was.

“Yes, I know who he is,” one of them might have said, although none of them ever did. None of them were ever asked.

One night, as he was sitting down alone to dinner, he heard a loud party happening out in his field. Music, conversation, laughter. More confused than annoyed, he went out to see who could have set up a party in his remote field.

But there was no one there.

Instead, the party now sounded as though it were coming from his house. He ran back in, now afraid he was dealing with intruders.

But there was no one there.

The sound of the party was again coming from outside. Not from his fields, but from the empty stretch of road that led from nowhere much to his little farm (which was also nowhere much). He went out to the road.

But there was nothing.

The sound of the party was now just over a gentle slope in the road. He followed it.

Nothing.

Then it was just around the corner. Then, where those trees covered the road in shadow. He followed and followed the sound, each time finding that he was almost but not quite to its source.

And he never came back to his farm again.

“I have no idea what happened to him,” one of the folks at the Farmer’s Market might have said, although none of them ever did. None of them were ever asked.

This has been traffic.

The Ralph’s supermarket announced a small change to their sales structure, indicating that they will no longer be following the “bring food you want up to the cashier and pay for it” model that has been played out for years now, and instead will be structuring themselves as the world’s first auction supermarket.

Any citizen looking to buy food from Ralph’s will have to come to one of their daily scheduled auctions and bid on the kitchen staples and snacks as they are brought up for auction one by one.

For instance, Lot 402 might be a banana, while Lot 403 might be a bag of Sun Chips and a bottle of tomato juice.

Charlie Baer, new weekday shift manager at the Ralph’s, said, “We believe this will be a more exciting and fun way for consumers to get the food they need. And to pay more for it. A lot more,” he continued. “In competition with others, so that if you don’t get that peanut butter, somebody else will. And then they’ll have peanut butter and you won’t. Better open up those wallets and make sure you get the food you need.”

Fortunately for me, Carlos tends to do our shopping, since I personally have…a little trouble with auctions, due to some traumatic experiences in my past. I mean, I know that, as the saying goes, “past performance is not a predictor of future results,” but still…I think I’ll sit these auctions out.

As part of the launch event for the auction system, Ralph’s employees will stand on the supermarket’s roof, pelting passers-by with water balloons and expired produce, and drunkenly chanting the lyrics to every Cat Stevens song in unison, until they have run out of breath and, eyes locked with each other, with hunched-over panting silence, continue to mouth the lyrics they no longer have the breath to say.

Back now to the news.

The dissolve of Desert Bluffs into Night Vale continues. It’s not only new people, but new ways of life.

Dave Morales Cariño, a former Desert Bluffs resident, announced the founding of the first-ever Joyous Congregation of the Smiling God here in Night Vale, on an old industrial stretch of the eastern expressway.

Night Vale is a proud city of bloodstone worshipers, but certainly there are many in town who know of the…power of the Smiling God, and belief and worship in the Smiling God is not a new thing here. In fact, a few long-time Night Vale residents attended the inaugural service at the Joyous Congregation’s church, located in a storefront that used to sell leaf blowers and leaf blower accessories.

The City Council said that sales from their bloodstone factory have fallen by as much as one percent, and that this is totally not okay with them.

“We’re seeing someone now,” they said, in a high-pitched whiny voice. “And it’s just not a good time for us to be losing any income! Mayor Cardinal won’t let us devour the Joyous Congregation, but we urge you to stick to the traditional worship of bloodstone circles. Like your mother, and your grandmother, and the lizard people before her.”

Paul Birmingham, local community activist who lives in a lean-to behind the library, wanted everyone to know that he was against it.

When questioned what he was against, specifically, he shrugged and said “I don’t know. It. All of it. Or, some of it. The bad parts. Totally opposed. Not a fan at all,” he concluded.

He waved signs, all of which just said “No.”

Paul has a long history of political activism in Night Vale, starting with his “oregano should be legal” campaign that he waged ferociously for the better part of the 80s, only giving it up when he found out that oregano already was legal.

Then he shifted into environmental activism, marching every day in front of City Hall to draw attention to his controversial “What if I see as red, is what you see as blue? What if color isn’t even real?” campaign.

More recently, he had joined the Air-Filled Earth Society, the group that believes the earth is a precariously inflated orb that could pop or deflate at any moment.

Now, he seems to have dropped all of his previous specific beliefs for the more general stance of negativity without target. A “no” directed at nothing.

Reporters report his breath sighed. Reporters report his shoulders sagged. Reporters report his shouting waned, his signs drooped. Paul wiped his brow.

“Just…something has to be true, you know?” he said. “Somewhere in all of this, something has to be true!”

He squinted at the sky before concluding, “I still can’t see them. I wish I could. Then maybe I would understand.”

He wandered back to his lean-to, seeming to have grown years older, his defiance burned out of him.

And now, a word from our sponsors.

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Breaking news: The Sheriff’s Secret Police and the City Council have taken unilateral action to disunite Night Vale and Desert Bluffs. The sheriff, backed by the hulking figures of the City Council, led a fleet of Secret Police cars into neighborhoods that used to be Desert Bluffs, announcing that all these buildings were now Night Vale’s, and that everyone living there needed to go.

“Nothing against you personally,” the sheriff said as their Secret Police chased after former Desert Bluffs citizens with what could be described as comically-sized potato sacks, if it weren’t for the grim seriousness with which the police conducted their chase.

The former Desert Bluffs citizens started to flee, panic set pale and glistening on their faces. But they stopped when they saw yet another car coming at them from the other direction.

Black sedan, tinted windows, unmistakably governmental.

It pulled directly in front of the sheriff’s group, bringing everyone to a momentary confused halt.

Out of the car stepped Mayor Cardinal. She looked around at the scene as it lay. She couldn’t have seemed younger or more tired. She took a slow, deliberate breath.

“Go home, Sam,” she said to the sheriff. “Go home, all of you.”

The sheriff looked around at their police officers for support, and then shouted back, “You can’t stop us, Dana. We will drive these people out of our town.”

“No, Sam,” she said. “You won’t. You won’t because it’s their town too, now. You won’t because there’s nowhere else they should go. You won’t because it’s a bad thing to do and I think, somewhere in there, you aren’t a bad person. Maybe I’m wrong about that, wouldn’t be the first time. But primarily, you won’t,” she concluded, “because I won’t let you.”

And she folded her arms, and she said nothing more.

The Secret Police still held their potato sacks, unsure now of what they should do. Their sheriff no longer ordered, or even goaded, but just stared thoughtfully at their mayor.

The former citizens of Desert Bluffs stopped fleeing, looking back at this first figment of hope.

And then the sheriff got in their car, turned it around, and drove away. The Secret Police all got in their cars and followed. The City Council roared and stomped but, without the police to back them up, they too eventually retreated.

And still Dana stood, silent, arms folded, until the last of them was gone. She turned to the new citizens of Night Vale who had, moments before, been fleeing.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Dana. Don’t hesitate to get in touch if you have any problems, okay?”

She got back in her car. She, too, left.

I…uh…I– I– I don’t know where I stand on this scene, as it just unfolded. I need to think about it. While I think about it, let’s go to the weather.

[“The Sky Is Calling” by Kim Boekbinder]

Here’s what. We all have our regionalisms. For instance, in many parts of the country, there is a sandwich, known as a sub sandwich, that is in other places known as a hero, a hoagie, a grinder, a longburger, a prince’s delight, or a bread burrito.

This is one example of a difference in culture. There are others.

It is in these little details that we see ourselves, that we define how we are not others, and thus how we are ourselves.

When confronted with someone whose “normal” is not our “normal,” we are forced to confront the most frightening prospect of all: that there is no such thing as “normal.” Just the accidental cultural moment we happened to be born into, a cultural happenstance that never existed before, and will never exist again.

Our idea of “normal” is a city built on sand. For instance, for us, our city is literally built on sand and this is our “normal.” We resist difference because it requires we acknowledge that the culture we grew up with as “normal” is just a momentary accident. It requires we accept that the world we were born into will never be the same as the world we die in. The longer we live, the more we become interlopers, even in our home towns. But, if we’d let it happen, also, the more we will learn.

I…cannot say I am always happy about Desert Bluffs. It can be said that I have ranted about them on the radio, sometimes for hours, while listeners called in to complain that they wanted me to talk about something (anything!) else. I have thrown things at the microphone, and attempted to cast spells upon Desert Bluffs that would drive them into ruin.

But my happiness, or unhappiness, is…irrelevant to their existence. They exist. And so do I. And now our differing “normals,” in such close proximity, perhaps will edge just slightly toward each other.

Night Vale may never again be the Night Vale I knew, but it will be some kind of Night Vale. It will be a version of our town that someday, someone will look back on and think, “Those were the days! That was what was normal!” And that person will be wrong. And that person will be right.

Stay tuned next for tomorrow’s winning lottery numbers, broadcast to everyone simultaneously, and so reducing each jackpot share to a small but fair amount.

And, from a town that isn’t the town it was before, and then won’t be the town it has become, and then will change again, and then again after that, and all of them the same town, and all of them our town:

Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

Today’s proverb: Actually, it’s Property’s Brother.

15/03/2016 12:49:54 ¶ ●

## Episode 84 - Past Time

Dress for success. Put on your tall hat and rubber gloves and long gray coat. Success requires this specific outfit.

Welcome to Night Vale.

It’s spring again, which apparently means it’s baseball season.

My brother-in-law Steve…[Cecil takes a deep breath and lets out an exasperated sigh]…Steve and I took his stepdaughter Janice for Little League baseball tryouts this weekend. Steve and Janice play catch a lot together. She really loves the sport. It’s actually pretty adorable.

She shouts things like, “Go farther, Steve, I wanna see how far I can throw the ball!”

And I shout things like, “Keep going, Steve! See how far away you can go!”

The tryouts were at the haunted baseball diamond over near the Shambling Orphan housing development. There were a lot of kids there. Say what you will about all the people from Desert Bluffs moving to Night Vale (and I’ve said many things), but it’s created enormous growth in youth sports. There are leagues for kids with all kinds of interests and abilities.

Janice tried out for a wheelchair softball league, the first of its kind in Night Vale.

Plus, I got to spend time talking to Little League baseball coaches Betty Lucero and Lucia Tereschenko. Lucia is a fascinating woman, so despite having to be around Steve all day, I had a pretty good time.

More on that in a bit. But first, the news.

In a study released today, the Greater Night Vale Medical Community has found a statistical link between a high-carbohydrate diet and the number of squirrels on your lawn.

According to the study, they found that people who take in a higher than normal number of carbohydrates have an average of 4.74 squirrels somewhere on their lawn, but those with lower carb intake have a slightly different number of squirrels.

A representative from the Greater Night Vale Medical Community said, “You can see from this pie chart,” and here the representative pointed at an American flag, “that the data shows a statistical link between these things.”

Another representative, who was previously unnoticed, then emerged from behind the first representative and stated, “It is important that you adjust your carbohydrate intake and/or your trust/distrust of squirrels accordingly.”

The first representative then did a set of 12 push-ups, the kind where you clap your hands between each one.

“Believe us. We’re doctors,” a third representative said as she lowered herself down head-first from the ceiling at the back of the room. As everyone turned to see her, she said, “Just kidding!” and then the three representatives began juggling and doing yo-yo tricks to hip hop music.

And now it’s time for another edition of “Hey there, Cecil!”

“Hey there, Cecil! I just moved into a new apartment, and after two months, my landlord is telling me I’m behind on rent. But I’ve been paying my rent. On the last day of each month, I carry a 20-stone bag of quartz chips and two pheasant carcasses, and lay them outside his office. What am I doing wrong?

“Also, what is the currency these days?

“Signed, In Debt in Old Town.”

Hey there, In Debt!

Well, I think you’re in the wrong here. Quartz and dead pheasants are not currency. They have not been legal tender since the 1990s. So, you are in arrears on your rent. Here’s what I would do:

Write a nice note to your landlord explaining you didn’t understand how money works. Then, maybe find a different job, where they pay you in actual American currency – which has no physical form, and is just a series of arbitrary numbers printed on ATM receipts. Hope this helps.

“Hey there, Cecil! I love dogs a lot. The other day, I saw a young couple out walking the cutest little beagle puppy. I asked if I could pet him, they didn’t say anything but the dog had the sweetest expression, so I pet the dog.

“The couple didn’t speak or move. She just glared at me. The boy was smiling. And as the dog licked my hand I asked the boy, ‘what’s your dog’s name?’ and the boy laughed. It was a cruel, hollow laugh.

“And I pet the dog once more and they left, and I can’t get that dog out of my head. I’m dreaming about it now. Terrible dreams! Terrible dreams where I cannot move. I wake physically incapacitated and crying. When I can finally move I run to the bathroom needing to vomit, but unable. I am covered in cold, cold sweat but my face is on fire! I hunch over the sink, spitting up small globs of black tar, every single night.

“So my question is, should I get a dog? And if so, is a beagle a good breed?

“Signed, Dog Lover in Downtown.”

Hey there, Dog Lover! You should absolutely get a dog! You sound allergic to beagles, so maybe a Basset instead.

“Hey there, Cecil! What are you doing Saturday night at, say, 8 pm? Would you be interested in an opera and drinks after?

“Signed, Lonely Boy in the Laboratory.”

Hey there, Lonely Boy! Yes! I would very much like an opera, and…whatever else after.

And now, back to the tryouts.

Coach Lucia Tereschenko told me she’d been seeing more and more of those…strangers lately. And she does not like them.

“They stand and stare at the kids. At the coaches, at the parents, just breathing. Not moving, or speaking. Them, I do not like, “ Lucia said.

“At first I thought they were from this Desert Bluffs, so many of those people coming to Night Vale, but Desert Bluffs families play in the baseball league now. I meet them, they are nice people. They are good people. They do not stand and stare and breathe,” Lucia said.

“These strangers…they are from someplace else. Not here, not Desert Bluffs, They are not humans! They are not even ghosts. Believe me, I should know,” Lucia said, and then laughed. “Get it? Because I am dead?”

I told Lucia I got it, but she continued.

“I’m dead, Cecil! Is funny! Laugh, okay? I am a ghost.”

And so I laughed. It was genuinely funny.

But then she went suddenly solemn.

“Oh, these strangers. They remind me of those terrible men on the train.”

I asked Lucia, “What men on the train?”

But just then an errantly thrown baseball bounced to a stop at Lucia’s feet. She bent over to pick it up but – being a ghost – her hands went right through it.

“Ach! Cecil, some days I can pick up the ball, some days I cannot. Can you help?”

I picked up the baseball and threw it back to the child, who nearly fell over running, but caught it nonetheless. And Lucia said, “You still have a good arm, Cecil! You were a great shortstop.”

I told her I don’t remember playing baseball, and she laughed and said “Well, you know what they say about growing old. Memory is the second thing to go.”

I asked, “What’s the first?”

“Relevance,” she said quickly. “Relevance.”

Listeners, sorry I have to interrupt my story. We’re getting another call from Hiram McDaniel, literal five-headed dragon and former mayoral candidate. Hiram is in the jailhouse for attempting to kill our current mayor, and he’s on our phones now.

Hiram? Hello?

Hiram’s violet head: Cecil? It– It’s me, Hiram’s violet head.

Cecil: Hello, Violet! Listeners, it was Hiram’s violet head who courageously turned in his other four heads for their crimes against the mayor. Violet, how are you?

Hiram’s violet head: They cut a hole in the cell where our main body and our other four heads are! My head is poking out of the hole and into the fresh air! Technically, I’m not in jail, but I’m also not free! I think I’ve made a mistake.

Cecil: You did the right thing, Violet. Your other four heads wanted to kill the mayor.

Hiram’s violet head: There are five of us, but there is one of us.

Cecil: I’m not sure I follow.

Hiram’s violet head: Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself! I am large. I contain multitudes!

Cecil: Ah, ha-ha! My favorite line from Die Hard!

Hiram’s violet head: Cecil, I’ve removed myself as a witness for the prosecution. I stand with my other heads. I– I stand with and for myself!

Hiram’s gold head: And it sure is nice to have you back, Purp– sorry, you are not purple, you are Violet. I respect that.

Hiram’s violet head: Thanks, gold head!

Hiram’s gray head: Injustice makes me sad.

Hiram’s gold head: We’re gonna do our best, Gray. We’re gonna do our best.

Hiram’s green head: WE WILL BURN THE COURTHOUSE! WE WILL DEVOUR THE JUDGE! WE WILL CRUSH THE JURY WITH OUR TAIL!

Hiram’s blue head: They are shackling and muzzling us for our own trial, Cecil! They think our green head is serious in his threats!

Hiram’s green head: MY THREATS ARE ONLY METAPHORS, YOU SOFT SENTIENT POUCHES OF FUTURE FOOD!

Hiram’s violet head: Cecil, I– I cannot be separated from myself. I– I may disagree with myself, but I am in this all together!

Cecil: Violet, I don’t know if…

Hiram’s gold head: But listen, Cecil. If Night Vale knew the trouble they were in, they’d let us out so we could help fight these strangers.

Cecil: Oh, believe me, Hiram, the new sheriff is working double-time to get rid of the Desert Bluffs–

Hiram’s gold head: Not Desert Bluffs people, Cecil. They’re harmless hard-working folks. I’m talking about the strangers, the ones that don’t move. The ones that breathe. You tell your mayor friend I can stop 'em.

Hiram’s gray head: We’re not strong enough.

Hiram’s blue head: They would be quite resistant to our fire, and even our strength.

Hiram’s green head: WE WILL TEAR THE STRANGERS TO PINK, FLESHY SHREDS, AND THEN CHEW THEM! AND THEN SWALLOW THEM! I AM BEING LITERAL!

Hiram’s violet head: I will fight with you, Green! Y– you too, Gold and Gray and Blue! We can do this. We can do this! But– but– but– but Cecil, we need out of this prison.

Cecil: Uh, I don’t know what I can do about that, Hiram.

Hiram’s gold head: I’m sure you’ll think of somethin’. We’re gonna make it through this. Thanks, buddy!

Cecil: Well, then.

Let’s have a word from our sponsor.

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Little League coach Lucia Tereschenko told me the incredible story of her journey to Night Vale.

When she was a young woman, she left her home to travel west across America. She wanted to find a new life for herself, out of the crowded smoke-choked cities. She walked for miles, picking up work in roadside towns. She rode in carriages when she had money, and she eventually found a job making belts for an old tanner who worked Lucia long hours for little pay.

The old tanner was otherwise kind, and treated Lucia like her very own daughter, because she never had a family. But the tanner grew ill, and Lucia took care of her, bathing her and fetching herb mixtures from the apothecary.

One morning the old woman was no more. Lucia ran her business for a while longer, but since the tanner had no heirs, and Lucia did not feel she had found her true home, she continued west, where there was supposedly golden sunshine along an azure sea.

Soon, however, she once again was in desperate need of money so that she could eat, and could sleep in safety. She met some men. Silent men. Men who kept their faces in shadows, who kept their voices in shadows, who kept their guns in shadows. And she worked for them, never knowing what her job was – just that she was to ride the train with them until the time was right.

One afternoon, the men stood up simultaneously and moved in different directions: one to the front of the train, one to the rear. One climbed through the ceiling onto the roof of the car. Two more drew pistols on the passengers. They told Lucia to keep everyone calm.

The train whined to a halt, and the men hurriedly unloaded crates from the rear car onto a horse-drawn cart. The crates were warm, warmer than the air around them. They smelled sharp and earthy, like freshly ground cinnamon.

The apparent sheriff of the little town the stopped in, the town of Night Vale, a place she’d never heard of, soon arrived. He was wearing a welding mask and a cowboy hat. The sheriff drew his gun on the shadowy men but, being out numbered, he was unable to do much to stop them.

So, while calming the others on the train, Lucia crept behind one of the men. He had a kerchief drawn across is face (not an actual kerchief tied in front of his face, but a simulacrum of patterned fabric hand-drawn on his face). Using one of her leather belts, Lucia whipped the gun out of his hand and deftly picked it up from the ground. She fired at the outlaws, felling both.

Outside, the sheriff felled two more.

But, as she climbed up the top of the car, she heard a shot from just below her. And then she was lying on her back. She couldn’t remember why she had laid down. She saw, in the sky just above her, a dark planet of awesome size, lit by no sun. She didn’t know how she had not noticed it before. It was so close. An invisible titan, all thick black forests and jagged mountains and deep turbulent oceans.

And then…well, let me take you first to the weather.

[“The River, The Woods” by Astronautalis]

I asked Lucia if that’s how she died.

“Well, one moment I’m in a gunfight,” she said, “and the next moment I’m a ghost.”

She asked if I had a cigarette. I don’t smoke, so I sad no.

“Meh, I couldn’t hold it anyway,” she admitted.

“Why are you living in a baseball diamond,” I asked her.

She said this wasn’t always a baseball diamond, it was just a field. A field where train tracks used to run. A field where a train once rolled to a stop.

But, right around this time the game of baseball was becoming popular, and kids began coming to the filed to play. Lucia watched, and learned, and grew to love the sport’s simplicity and structured grace.

“It’s a beautiful game, Cecil! So I started trying to coach the kids, but since I’m translucent and hazy, they got scared and ran away, calling this the 'haunted baseball diamond.’ Over time, the kids realized I had some helpful things to say about batting stances, and hitting the cutoff man, so they came back.”

Lucia turned to one of the kids. “Eye on the ball, Manny!” she shouted.

I asked Lucia, “So, you think those men on the train were related to these strangers in Night Vale now?”

“You do not see evil like that very often,” she said. “But no. Those men on the train performed their evil because they needed whatever was in those crates more than they needed life, or peace,” she said. “These strangers? They don’t need anything. They are evil, for evil’s own sake.”

I looked over and saw Steve and Janice coming my way. They were high fiving and grinning.

Lucia said, “She’s a good kid, good arm. She’s going to be a great shortstop like her uncle!”

I told Lucia I hope we have a good baseball season, and it was wonderful catching up with her. Steve, Janice, and I turned to walk back to Steve’s van.

Lucia whispered to me, “We’re past time for hope, Cecil. They’re no longer coming. They’re here. And we cannot stop something that wants nothing.”

Staring straight at Janice, ignoring Lucia, I said, “You made the team! Congrats! Let’s get ice cream!”

Behind us, I heard a distant bark. It was a sweet, sickening yelp. And in the reflection on the van window, I could see a boy in a hoodie, holding a beagle puppy, and both of them were looking at us.

I felt cold sweat, but my face was hot. My tongue was sticky and thick.

“Steve, can we get a dog?” Janice said, all strapped in.

“Let’s get that ice cream, okay?” I interrupted.

The dog barked again, and I did not look. I did not look at anything as I got in my seat and shut the door. I felt like throwing up.

“Thanks for driving, Steve,” I said, putting my hand softly on his arm.

He looked momentarily amused. No, not amused. Concerned. And we drove away as Janice told us all about her new team.

Stay tuned next for something lurking just outside your window. Don’t worry, it’s not a human.

And as always, goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

Today’s proverb: Dance like the government is watching.