01/04/2014 11:37:00 ¶ ●

## Episode 44 - Cookies

All that glitters is not gold. Particularly that thing over there. That’s, maybe, a giant insect of some sort. It’s really too dark to tell.

Welcome to Night Vale.

I am not a good salesman.

This is why I am a radio host, listeners. Because while I like to talk to people – a real people person, it says in Russian at the bottom of my college degree – I don’t like to shape a conversation toward buying and selling. I like to tell people stories – stories that affect them – allowing my listeners to process the stories in their own unique ways. I don’t want to directly tell them how to think.

I am not a good salesman.

That being said, I have Girl Scout cookies! Please, if you want some, come on up to the station! My niece, Janice, joined the Girl Scouts last year, and I have box upon box of…Caramel deLites, Thin Mints, and those, uh, lemon ones. There are also quite a few of these new cookies, in very heavy, unmarked, black boxes that I think are made entirely of metal.

And there's one box that’s a five-foot-by-five-foot wooden crate, with air holes cut into the top, and Peanut Butter Patties scrawled on it in permanent marker. I can hear breathing inside.

I know people normally order the cookies first, and then get them delivered weeks later, but sometimes a mother goes out of town, and the stepfather isn’t on top of his stepdaughter’s extracurricular activities, and then the child doesn’t know how to sell cookies on her own, so the kindly uncle, with a busy radio job, has to step in and buy up a bunch of boxes, so she can go camping with her friends while you continue to disappoint everyone with your inattention to detail, and sports gambling, and idiotic taste in shoes, Steve Carlsberg! Yes, Steve, this is how things sometimes happen.

[Sigh]

Anyway. Listeners, these cookies are delicious. And I had to buy a lot of them. There is barely any room here in the studio, or in my producer Daniel’s booth. So, buy some cookies! Please, help us. It is…difficult to move, actually.

Sorry, I am not a good salesman.

Many of you have written in asking about our station cat, Khoshekh. He was attacked by an animal that our stupid…[clears throat]…that our evil…[exasperated sigh]…that our station management let in the building for some careless reason.

Well, Khoshekh is on the mend. He lost his right eye, his legs are healing, but he’s missing part of his front left paw, and will walk with a limp. He’s at the vet today to have the feeding tube removed. It’s fine. He is…fine.

Oh, here’s something nice, though! Khoshekh spent his whole life floating four feet off the ground at a fixed point in the men’s bathroom here at our station. He never moved from there until he was attacked. I hate to think much about the pain he’s been in while healing from broken bones and severe lacerations, but…listeners, I got to hold Khoshekh for the first time last week. I got to pick him up, hug him, carry him around my home.

Carlos is allergic to cats. But I bought him some Claratin, so he’ll be fine while Khoshekh heals.

Thanks for all your concerns, dear listeners. It’s wonderful to have him back.

Oh, hey! Janice’s Girl Scout cookies have really been moving! The guys in Sales just came by and bought some classic shortbread cookies. The guys were all wearing matching suits and wool hats, and they threw the boxes of cookies back and forth to each other while shouting “Hup!” and “Catch!” and “Look alive, Sean!” as they jogged back to their cubicles. All of the guys in Sales are named Sean.

So, if you like delicious cookies, come on up to the station!

I already bought all these cookies with my own money, but I told Janice I would donate back all the proceeds from selling these boxes. So, it’s kind of an extra gift to the Girl Scouts of Night Vale.

Several listeners and coworkers have bought cookies, but…no one from station management yet.

It’s really nice when you have the support of your management. I mean, let’s be honest. No job is perfect, and relationships between bosses and employees aren’t always friendly. You’re going to have disagreements, of course, little disputes – sometimes big disputes…enormous ones – but you get over those things. You forgive and forget…only to retract both, and be filled with vindictive rage and unrelenting memories of the pain brought upon you. Such are the difficulties of professional life.

Sure do hope station management steps it up here! We’re all friends, after all! Looking at you in the booth, there, Daniel!

D'awww, listeners, Daniel is blushing! He is very, very red. You have a lot of blood, Daniel!

Listeners, I really mean that. Daniel looks to have a lot of blood.

Let’s have a look now at Traffic.

> Cecil!

Hello?

Listeners? I just saw a glimmer…a flicker of something here in the studio. One moment there was simply a wall, and a floor, and air, and then in another moment there was a shape of a person. Of a woman, a…

> Cecil! It’s your former intern! It’s me, Dana!

Dana! Where are you? When are you?

> For right now, I am here in the studio, but I’m also still trapped in a desert near the mountain, near the lighthouse. But I’m learning more about how this works. If I turn my head just right I can not only see places but…I can be places. I can’t do it for long, but it’s amazing where I can go, when I can go.

> I’ve been visiting with John Peters – you know, the farmer? – who appears here from time to time. I met briefly one of your former interns, Maureen, who flicks in and out of existence here. I’ve even made friends with some of the men and women of this nation-less army that wanders about the desert.

Dana, I am so glad you’re here now! I haven’t heard from you in months! I told your mother and brother I saw you, and you were safe, and that you love them very much.

> Yes, I know. Thank you, Cecil!

> And do you know what? Today is my brother’s birthday. He’s 26 today, and I used the lighthouse and my new abilities to go visit him. I finally got to see my family again, very briefly.

That’s great news, Dana!

> But here’s what happened, and this is…well, when I appeared in my mother’s home, I saw my mother, I saw my brother, I saw their friends, I saw a cake, and the cake said “Happy 33rd Birthday.” And I was confused because he is only 26. And I saw a woman standing near my brother. She wore a suit. She had short, natural hair. She stood up straight, she glowed, she looked important. I recognized her.

> And then my brother saw me standing there, and my mother saw me standing there, and others saw me standing there…and they began to cry! They were fearful tears, turning into shouts and screams. Some people ran from the room, my mother couldn’t come near me. I said, “Mom! It’s me, Dana!” And I held out my arms and tried to step toward her. And no one could control their fear, their cries, no one could move.

> But the woman next to my brother, she was smiling. She knew. She stepped toward me and, in that moment, I saw who it was. I knew who it was. It was me, Cecil! She– I…must have been 29, if my math is good. And she– I turned to my– our mother, and said “It’s OK! It’s OK!” And she held her hands up, and people went silent. People listened. And she told the room who I was, who she was, who we were, and what had happened. Or, for me, what will happen.

> And the tears turned from fear, to relief, to joy. And we embraced.

You saw yourself! You saw…your older self!

> You should have seen the way everyone looked at the older me, Cecil! They…admired me. They saw me for someone else. I must be important in my future life. I must have a good job, or be a significant part of society. I must have become something.

> I tried to ask what I was to become, but I began to blink out of that time and place. And I was back in the desert, more alone, less important.

You have always been important. You have always been something. Age just reveals the facts that always were, Dana. Experience uncovers the you that always was. I am glad to know that you will be safe, that you will come home. That…

Dana? You just flickered. I– I can’t see you!

> I can’t stay any longer. I’m always going somewhere. Someday I won’t have to go, I will just be in the place that I am. Our time and space will match again someday, Cecil.

And I am glad to know that.

Oh! Tell Maureen Hi.

> Goodbye, Cecil!

The Night Vale Highway Department is asking all motorists to please turn on your headlights when driving through construction zones. If you see workers, please turn on your headlights. If you see workers in orange vests and black balaclavas holding large metal devices that look like miniature satellite dishes, and whispering coded instructions into walkie-talkies, while low-hovering disc-shaped aircraft of the like you have never seen before zip about quickly overhead, please: turn on your headlights.

Please, for the safety of our workers, slow your vehicle. Please turn on your headlights and slow your vehicle. Slow your vehicle, with your headlights clearly in the ON setting, to a crawl.

Come to a complete stop.

For the safety of our highway workers and their vast interplanetary secrets, please get out of your vehicle and walk toward the hum. You will hear a loud humming from above. Please, follow the humming until you are completely lifted from this earth, from this world, never to return.

Well, to return eventually, but not to this time. To a completely different time. Maybe millennia from now. Maybe millennia ago. Who knows? You will! Eventually.

This public service announcement has been brought to you by the Night Vale Highway Department.

Good news, listeners! Daniel is telling me that StrexCorp and the whole management of the station is very excited about my support of the Girl Scouts of Night Vale, and they want to buy every box of Janice’s cookies! In fact, Lauren Mallard, our program director and StrexCorp executive, is back again, here in my studio, with an announcement to make.

> Thank you, Cecil!

> StrexCorp has long been a supporter of community organizations and the Girl Scouts, with their commitment to teaching young girls about nature, surviving in nature, controlling nature with their minds, radiation immunity, and advanced knife-fighting skills, are an important institution here in Night Vale. Not just for our women leaders in the future, but also for StrexCorp, right now, here in the present.

> The Girl Scouts not only have a great reputation for youth leadership training, but a pretty extensive database of nearly every girl in Night Vale. Their names, addresses, phone numbers, emails, and skill levels at various talents – like oil painting, or parasailing, or library science, or slingshots, or…helicopter piloting.

> It sure would be nice to know where the young ladies are who are good at helicopter piloting.

> Very few young girls are trained to fly helicopters. We’d like to hunt down, or– Hmm…weird phrasing. Scratch that. We’d like to find, and meet, these talented girls.

> So StrexCorp is proud to announce that they have purchased the Girl Scouts of Night Vale, and will also be taking over management of the organization immediately.

> Thank you, Night Vale. We look forward to leading your children.

> Daniel? Can you, uh, help me carry these cookies out of here?

Umm, thank you, Lauren, for that.

> You know, Cecil, I was never a Girl Scout myself, but I can say I am thrilled to support your endeavor to help bring your niece…

> I’m sorry, what was her name again?

I…don’t…want…

> Janice. Yeah. It was Janice. I love the way you’re taking part in Janice’s life. You must really care for her.

Yes, with all my heart, but I don’t…

> [Laughs] I know what you’re about to say! It’s my favorite part of your show. Can I do it? Just this once? I’ve always wanted to do it!

Can you…do what?

> Oh, how exciting! Thank you, Cecil.

> [Clears throat]

> Listeners, I take you now to the weather.

[“Haunted” by Maya Kern]

I just talked to Janice, listeners, to tell her we sold all the cookies! And she is very happy about the upcoming camping trip! She is a sweet child who loves the outdoors. Thank you listeners, and station coworkers.

No thank you to Steve Carlsberg, who couldn’t be bothered.

Thank you, um, I guess, to StrexCorp, for contributing to a great cause. Please, continue the great work of the Girl Scouts. Please. They are a good organization and they deserve so much bet– [clears throat]…they deserve so many good things.

I hope all of the girls out there are safe on their upcoming camping trip. There are not many places to hide in the desert, girls. But, you’re very innovative. I mean, for playing tag, of course! I mean for simple games, of course! Not for…self preservation. Or…well-thought-out strategic attacks on a highly-organized enemy. You would never need to hide for those reasons! Why would I even say that? Why would I say anything?

Words? No! These are just strange noises I’m making with my face.

Strange noises!

And for the rest of you, what do you need? Did you get your cookies yet? Are you nourished by a couple of dollars given to a good cause in exchange for some sugary treats? Do you feel you have done enough to help young women – a specific young woman with helicopter skills – to achieve great things in a town that needs, now more than ever, great things achieved?

Did you do enough with your cookie purchase to actualize what you believe in? To empower kids who will one day rise up and speak a great truth while waving tear-stained copies of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese?

Did you?

I’m sorry. [Chuckles] I am not a good salesman.

Oh! And now, it’s time to go pick up Khoshekh from the vet, listeners.

Stay tuned next for a lifetime of self questioning, followed by conflicting answers from an unreliable source.

Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

Today’s proverb: At your smallest components, you are indistinguishable from a forest fire.

15/04/2014 12:51:00 ¶ ●

## Episode 45 - A Story About Them

“This is a story about them,” says the man on the radio. And you are concerned, because this is not a story you were ever supposed to hear.

Welcome to Night Vale.

This is a story about them.

They sit in a car, much like your own, perhaps. Do you drive a black sedan with tinted windows, into which innocent people disappear forever? Then it is very, very much like your own.

There are two men in the car. The man who is not tall watches a house through the window. He makes no attempt to hide what he is doing.

The car is similarly clear about its existence.

What they do is secret, but there is no need to hide it. Not in this town.

For instance: this day, the radio has just started narrating what they do as they do it, for all to hear.

The man who is not tall glances down at the radio. Not annoyed, or concerned, or afraid. He just looks at it, because that is what his eyes do right then. And then he looks back at the house, as the man on the radio says that he looks back at the house.

The one who is not short is supposed to be watching the house as well. Four eyes are better than two, seven eyes are better than three, and so on. But he is not watching the house. He’s looking down at a crossword puzzle, on which he has just written, “TEETH” for the fifth time. This iteration fits neatly into the horizontal of another.

He considers the crossword for a long moment. His partner only considers the house.

He, the one with the crossword, turns to the other and begins to say, “What is a five letter word for the discreet bone structures attached–”

But he is cut off.

“There he is,” says the one who is not tall.

They exit the car and approach a man who is leaving his house. The man does not appear surprised to see them. People rarely are.

“What is this.” He says, but he leaves a period at the end of the sentence, not a question mark.

They take the man and put a blindfold over his eyes, and they put him in the car.

This is not a story about the man. You don’t care about him.

The two men and the car, along with the other blindfolded man, leave Coyote Corners – a quiet development of old tract homes – the same way they had come: openly, not-thought-about, feared, secret.

“I was thinking of inviting you to dinner,” says the one who is not short.

He often voices what he is thinking of doing, and rarely does any of those things.

“That would have been nice,” says the one who is not tall.

“Yes, it would have been,” says the other, a tad dreamily perhaps. That is not an adverb that is supposed to crop up in a car of this description. Few adverbs are.

“Mmmmm mmmmmmmmm mmmmMMMmmm mmmmmmm mmmmmmmmm,” says the man with the hood over his head.

Forget him. This is a story about them.

That part of their work done, they drive to the Moonlite All-Nite Diner. It is not night, but the neon is on – an insubstantial wisp of green in a larger insubstantial wisp of blue.

They are narrated along by the radio, until the man who is not tall turns it off.

In the parking lot, the man who is not short looks up.

“Hey, what is that?” he says, indicating the clear nothing of the sky.

“What is what?” says the other.

“I saw something,” he says, “for a moment. Just there, for a moment.”

He points again. Again, there is nothing. There couldn’t have been less.

“Oh, I’m sure it was…” continues the man who is not short, but he does not say what he is sure it was. The man who is not tall considers his partner for a moment, and shakes his head.

Inside the diner, inside a booth, after menus and waters, they dig into matching turkey clubs.

The diner smells like rubber and bread. The man on the radio tells them this quietly, from staticky speakers set into a foam tile ceiling.

“Read any good books lately?” says the man who is not tall.

“Of course not!” says the other.

“Good,” says the first.

Bites of sandwich, bits of time.

“I’ve done the living room in a different color,” says the other, who is not short. “It was one color, it is now different. I hope that I will feel differently as a result.”

“Hmm,” says the first. He never knows what to say to things like that. He wishes he did. He offers the man who is not short some fries instead, to indicate what he feels about their friendship, but cannot say.

The man who is not short eats a couple. He knows what the man who is not tall means by offering the fries, because they have worked together a long time. And also because the radio explained it to him, just then.

Outside, the blindfolded man sits in the car, the desert heat trapped within by the glass.

Don’t worry about it.

After lunch, the three men drive to the industrial part of town, which was set aside by the City Council to be the industrial part of town some time ago.

“Yes,” the Council said. “This area around here will be pretty industrial. Warehouses, and factories, and things like that. Some graffiti, and chain-link fences.”

They cut a ribbon that they were carrying with them. The Council always carries a ribbon for that purpose.

The car pulls into a warehouse. The radio is back on, and still talking about them.

The warehouse is cavernous, and full of crates. Some of them tick, others do not. They form an angled hillscape of corners and flats, up and away in every direction.

The warehouse smells like rotting wood and dryer sheets.

Their supervisor waits for them, with crossed arms and a cross expression.

“A disgrace!” she says. “Let me tell you something,” she says, and says nothing more.

The two men indicate the blindfolded man in the back seat of the car.

“Ahh! Ahhhh,” she says, waving vaguely at the blindfolded man. “Someone has to be to blame,” she says, pointing at everything but herself.

“It was very simple,” she says. “We take buildings from the miniature city we discovered under the bowling alley, we put them in crates, we ship the crates out to various warehouses in the desert, and, as a result, our interests are furthered. It could not be more simple!”

The man who is not short is not paying attention. Something has caught his eye. It is so dark and distant, what he sees. It seems like it cannot possibly be real.

“Hey, look at that!” he says, pointing at what he sees.

The man who is not tall and their supervisor look where he is pointing. There is nothing but the ceiling of the warehouse, with some dust and light in between.

“Very good,” says the supervisor.

“Yes. Good,” says the man who is not tall.

They turn back to each other.

“Oh, is it?” says the man who is not short. He squints up at what he sees. “I was worried that it wasn’t very good, at all!”

“Aaaanyway,” says the supervisor, “now the city has declared war in revenge. Although they haven’t yet figured out it was us stealing the buildings – they just declared a general war, in the name of their god, Huntokhar, on everyone from the ‘upper world,’ as they call us. This war has been raging for almost a year now. People have died, yes, but listen – people die all the time, for all different kinds of reasons. I wouldn’t worry, if I were you.”

“Hold on,” says the supervisor. She mumbles instructions into a walkie talkie, and a series of 'yes sirs’ and 'no sirs’ and hawk shrieking sounds come in response.

“Sorry,” she says when she is done. I didn’t have to do that now, it wasn’t urgent at all.”

“I understand,” says the man who is not tall. He understands the second-most of the three people in the room.

And then the voice on the radio coming from the car changes its story. They all notice. They are told by the radio that they are noticing before they notice, because that part of the narration happens before the story changes.

Even the man on the radio does not know why he changes the story, or where this other story comes from. He does not always understand everything he does. Sometimes he does understand, but he hides it from you.

In any case, here is a new story, one he tells without regard for why he is telling it:

Somewhere else, not here, there is a woman wandering a desert – a desert not unlike this one, but not like this one either – it’s not the same desert, I need to clarify that.

Also, with her, are great masked warriors – women and men of enormous size who listen as she speaks, and follow her as she walks. She is winning them over because she has survived so much. She is young, but in her experience she is as lost and scared and ancient as the rest of them.

Her feet hurt. They hurt. She keeps walking, and they keep following.

Beyond her, no longer just on the horizon, much closer than that, is a light spreading across the desert. The light is alive, and malicious, and vast, and encroaching. It buzzes and shines and everything about it hurts those who are close to it, and destroys those who are within it. It spreads – not just in the desert I am talking about – it spreads in different forms, in deserts not unlike it. In deserts very similar to the one I am talking about now. Not always in the same form, not always as light at all, but with the same intent: to devour everything until there is nothing left. It is a Smiling God of terrible power and ceaseless appetite.

The woman wanders the desert, followed by the masked warriors. They look back at the light on the horizon, and they know that the time when it will reach their little patch of land is coming, and so many other little patches of land as well.

Soon, they will have to turn. Soon, they will have to face it head-on. And not just that woman and her desert. Not just her at all.

The man on the radio returns to the story about them. He does not know how he knew what he just said, or why he would tell it to you. He is innocent, and kind.

But anyway, this is a story about them. And so you do not care about anyone but them.

They, and their supervisor, are listening with interest to what just happened on the radio. The man who is not tall has taken notes.

“I’ll look into that,” he says. “It is exactly as we suspected,” he does not say. He did not suspect any of that.

“Someone has to be to blame,” the supervisor says again, gesturing this time directly at the blindfolded man.

“I understand completely,” says the man who is not tall.

“Me too,” says the man who is not short, although he does not understand. He usually does not. His partner understands for him, and it all works out OK.

As they leave the warehouse and the supervisor and the piles of wooden crates, the voice on the radio says something about the weather.

[“Pretty Little Head” by Eliza Rickman]

By the time they leave the warehouse, it is night. Or maybe the sun has just set early. The sunrise that morning had been particularly loud and strenuous.

“You know,” says the man who is not short, looking down at his crossword, “I worry every time that I’m not going to finish these when I start them. The future, where I have finished, seems so distant from the present, where I have started.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” says the man who is not tall. “But you would. I know. I know you would worry about so many things. I do worry about that. About you worrying.”

“Do you think everything will turn out all right?” says the man who is not short. “I mean everything,” he says to clarify. “Absolutely everything,” he says as further clarification.

“Yes,” says the other, “I do.”

He does not.

“I…do!” he says again.

He does not.

He glares at the radio.

They drive past the Moonlite All-Nite, a glass box of bad food and good people. They pass Teddy Williams’ Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, badly damaged by the war, but still running its weekly bowling league. They pass by City Hall, which is covered in a yellow tarp, stamped with an orange triangle. Moving farther out, with absolute purpose, they pass by the Used Car Lot – alive with the wolves that populate all car lots at night – and Old Woman Josie’s house, silent and empty for months now.

Then the town is behind them, and they are in the Scrub Lands and the Sand Wastes.

They stop the car and get out. Pebbles crunch in the sand in response to their movement. The radio murmurs behind the closed doors of the car. The headlights illuminate only a few stray plants and the wide, dumb eyes of some nocturnal animal.

The two men don’t look back at Night Vale. They look forward, at the darkness that stretches out as far as anyone here can imagine. Most anyone here tries to imagine as little as possible. There is no need to imagine here.

“Well, get him out,” says the man who is not tall, and the man who is not short opens the rear door of the car and guides the blindfolded man out.

The blindfolded man stumbles a little, but not much, and there isn’t anything specific he stumbles on. He stumbles like a stage direction – like the next in a bulleted list of items.

“Put him over there,” the man who is not tall says unnecessarily.

We all know the drill. We all know how this, and everything else, ends.

The blindfolded man walks 15 feet or so in the direction of the darkness, so that the men and the car are between him and the distant dome of light that is Night Vale. He walks to a certain point in the cool sand, and then stops – partly because the man who is not short guided him there, but mostly because he has taken himself there, as we all eventually take ourselves to that point where we will not be able to take ourselves any farther.

The man who is not tall, still by the car, pulls out a knife. It is not stained, does not look used, but he speaks its brutal history in his posture – in the way he holds it.

The blindfolded man breathes normally, his shoulders loose, his covered face slightly down. His feet sink a little in the sand. Behind him, in practical terms as far away as anything has ever been, is the town he is from.

The man who is not short, standing next to the blindfolded man, looks up at the sky.

The man who is not tall walks up to join them with the knife.

“What is that?” says the man who is not short, pointing at the sky.

“What is what?” says the man who is not tall, from just behind him.

“That planet up there!” says the man who is not short. “It’s so dark, and so close! It’s looming! It’s…so close! I wonder if I could…”

He reaches up.

The man who is not tall makes a gesture with the hand that holds the knife.

The man who is not short is no longer reaching up. He is no longer standing up.

In many ways, he no longer exists at all.

“Someone has to be to blame,” says the man who is not tall.

Or no, he sighs this.

Or no, he thinks it out loud, but it comes out more thought than speech.

He looks up at a night sky that is absolutely clear of anything but void, and stars, and the occasional meteor, and mysterious lights moving at impossible speeds, and the faint glimmer of spy satellites looking back down from the nothing to the something.

“I’m sorry,” he says, although not to anyone that still exists and can hear him. He just says it, leaves some undirected words in the hot night air, and then returns to the car.

He may be crying. I know if he is or not, but I am choosing not to tell you, because this is private information and you have no real need to know it.

The blindfolded man removes his blindfold, and looks down at the man who once was not short, and now is not anything at all.

He, the man who can see, is also not short. He follows the man who is not tall to the car. The man, not short, not blindfolded, gets in the passenger seat.

“Always an unpleasant business,” he says. He does not comment further. He does not need to.

“Looking forward to working with you,” says the man who is not tall.

“The same to you,” says the man who is not short. “Ahh, the same as well to you.”

This has been a story about them.

The radio moves on – news, traffic, political opinions, and corrections to political opinions – but somewhere in the desert there is one person who does not move on. This was also a story about him.

Stay tuned next for as long as you can, until you cannot stay tuned anymore.

Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

Today’s proverb: Knock, knock. Who’s there? Orange. Orange who? Orange you glad I didn’t say your mother’s in the hospital? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do? Listen, I’ll drive you over there. We’ll leave right now. Grab a coat, it’s a little cold out. I’m so sorry.

30/04/2014 10:00:00 ¶ ●

## The Debate

[for this episode PDB and TXT eBook formats are more disadvantageous than usual due to colored text used to transcribe Hiram McDaniels which does not show up in those formats – likewise if you use XKit’s Read More Now extension that text will not be in color – click the Read More link on your dashboard to see the colored text on the cecilspeaks blog page, as the CSS required to show that text in color does not run on tumblr’s dashboard]

We found a little piece of heaven here. It is black, smooth, oblong. It hums a soft but discordant note, and we are afraid to touch it.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Listeners? We have a first here Night Vale! A mayoral debate!

Many of you know that mayor Pamela Winchell will be stepping down soon, and that this is entirely her own decision. She issues daily press releases in shaky, uncertain handwriting, explaining emphatically that she made this choice on her own, and that no one is soul-merging with her and forcing her to leave office.

Each press release is signed, “Yours truly, though not me truly, Pamela. P.S. –” And then there’s just a sticky black sludge for a P.S.

And we have some new candidates for this coveted office, all of whom I am welcoming in this studio.

This is a great day! The first ever mayoral debate the town has seen. Since this is America, and we are a democracy, mayors have always been chosen by counting, and interpreting, the loud pulses coming out of Hidden Gorge. That’s still how it will be done, but we thought we’d offer a chance for citizens to hear from the candidates they’ll have no impact on electing.

But first, this breaking news:

The City Council announced the closure of Route 800 for the following reason: deer. The City Council spoke in low, sing-songy chants, a steady digital bass ululation underneath their unified voice. They stood atop a makeshift pyramid out of heavily charred copies of the official biography of Sean Penn, heroic mementos of our recent victory over the Night Vale Public Library, and announced that the deer have taught themselves advanced mathematics, telepathy, and short-range time travel. No official word yet on what these deer have done to cause the only highway in and out of town to be shut down, but the Council is asking anyone still out on the roads right now to please, return home.

If you are not a citizen of Night Vale, but cannot currently get out of town to your home because of the road closings, then congratulations! You now live in Night Vale! Please pick up a New Citizen Welcome Packet and mandatory orange poncho at the City Hall.

OK, listeners! It’s time to introduce the candidates who will be taking part in our studio debate.

First, someone I’ve known my whole life, and you have too. It’s the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home!

Welcome!

Hello.

And where are you? I can hear you, but I can’t see you.

I’m behind you in a mirror, just over your shoulder in the distance. You’ll see slight movements in the dark. You’ll feel a single fingernail gently run across your cheek.

Ooooh! Uh, Faceless Old Woman, um…can I call you Faceless Old Woman?

I have a name, Cecil!

You do?

Yes.

…

Let’s introduce the next candidate, and I’m so glad to finally meet this man. Nooo, not man. No, this person…noo, uh, not person. This entity, Hiram McDaniels.

Hello!

You know, in the entirety of Night Vale’s recorded history, there is no sign of a five-headed dragon ever running for mayor, so it hasn’t happened in at least seven years.

Cecil, I am thrilled to be breaking new ground for those of us who do not identify as human.

We are thrilled!

Yes, my purple head brings up a good point. I also do not identify as a single being. I have five heads. You’ll notice that my opponents have one. One head each, just the one.

Only one head? That is impossible for thinking!

Well, green head, not impossible. But certainly very difficult.

And speaking of your opponents, let’s meet our last candidate for mayor. It’s an honor to introduce our wealthiest citizen, and now potential new mayor, billionaire Marcus Vanston! Welcome!

Yup! Hey. I mean, uh, whatever. All this? This is…this is whatever. You know, I used to own a dragon.

Excuse me? What an inappropriate thing to say!

I agree with Mr. McDaniels’ gray head. Ownership of sentient life is cruel and unconscionable.

Yeah. Well it was great. It had eight heads, though, not just five. Yeah, I pretty much used it for commuting to work.

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! [HISSSSSS]

Great! Let’s get the debate started! We’ll have opening statements as well as two rounds of questions. So listeners, if you have a question, call now. Call, silently, to the sky with pleading eyes. When the birds come you will feel your question has been received. You will not know for sure, because presumed knowledge is arrogance.

But first, let’s pause for a quick word from our sponsors.

It’s not easy starting a small business. There are a lot of things to worry about, like building a customer base, developing a strong product, wrestling with self-doubt, crying a lot, bleeding a little, looking up in the small hours at the sagging ceiling over your too-small bed thinking, “Why? Why?” Being overrun by rats and worms, and discovering that you are just matter, just rotting organic matter, fated to feed the earth and trees.

Yes, there are many concerns facing small businesses. Web design should not be one of them!

Hey! Want a simple low-cost and beautifully designed web solution for your small business? Well, do you?

It…doesn’t sound like you do, actually.

I am looking at your web page right now, and it is lovely! Really smooth, really easy to navigate. Looks like you put a lot of thought into this, and you…don’t need our help. We won’t even tell you who we are because we don’t want to pressure you into changing what you’ve already done with your web site. It’s…it’s perfect! Wow! Good job! Really, we…we just…wow! We are sorry to have interrupted.

I just want to say, you are really, really good at web design.

Much better than us.

Carry on, I guess.

Let us get to our opening statements. You have two minutes each. Faceless Old Woman.

Night Vale, I want to be your mayor. Who better to serve as leader of a town than the one person who lives secretly in the home of every single resident? I know each and every one of you personally. Intimately.

Mike Numminen? You need to discipline your children more.

Claire Franklin! Tell Eva you love her! It’s been three years and you need to take this seriously!

Felicia Jackson, there is an enormous spider on the back of your dress this very moment. You should probably change clothes before you leave the house. Change clothes slowly.

What other candidate can help our community on such a personal level? I have set fire to countless home appliances, and stood secretly and stoically over crumbled bodies of sobbing citizens who only thought they were alone! Night Vale, you are not alone! I am here. I am always there, staring at you with curiosity…and concern. Look for me out of the corner of your eye just before you fall asleep. I want to brush against your face at the deepest gulf of night.

I want to be your mayor.

Thank you for that! Let’s go next to Hiram McDaniels and his opening statement. Hiram?

Thank you. Ladies, gentlemen, sentient creatures, imagine your perfect Night Vale. Close your eyes and imagine what a perfect town would be like.

You can’t, can’t you? That’s because you only have one head! I have five.

Listen, I don’t mean to say that I’m better than you. I, after all, have my own faults. Caring too much, caring too little. Caring just the right amount, but at the wrong time. Debilitating claustrophobia, and occasional lack of control over my fire breathing.

One thing I do have is a multitude of heads. Heads that can think through problems that a single head cannot.

Here, try this: Try solving an easy math problem. Quickly, what’s 56 times 97?

5,432! The answer is 5,432! Your math skills are undeveloped and puny!

See? I have a green head that is excellent at math! I mean, I don’t know why mayors have to be, uh, good at math, but the point is..

Well mayors have to be– they have to write budgets, and they have to know population numbers, and all things that–

Yup! See? Good point there from my blue head! See how we all work together? I could think quickly about a variety of topics thanks to my many heads and brains and personalities and needs and desires. Some of these desires are nearly unmanageable, and I have a strong desire to be a good mayor. So you know I’ll do everything – EVERYTHING – I will stop at nothing to do that. I will be mayor!

Charming. Thank you, Hiram!

Marcus Vanston.

Hmm? Yeah.

Go ahead with your opening statement.

Let me just finish this email to my assistant.

“And that is when I first understood what it meant to love myself for who I am. I am a complete person, Jake.”

And……send.

OK, so, people of Night Vale. I would like to be your next mayor. I will use all of my resources to do this. In fact, I’ve already invested several million dollars into finding and excavating the Hidden Gorge where mayoral races are decided. I plan on developing a single computer voting machine to help…streamline elections. So once that is complete, everything should work out fine. We’ll all be…just fine. Some of us will be more “just fine” than others, but again that’s also…that’s also just fine.

Thank you, Marcus. Thank you, candidates, for your desire to serve the Night Vale community with your leadership.

I want to go now to the issues. But first, an update on our earlier news story.

Listeners, we’ve just received word that the newly-intelligent deer are stopping on the road, and allowing themselves to get hit by moving vehicles. They are then using that physical contact to launch themselves, and the drivers, and the wrecked vehicles, backward in time by several days.

The leader of the deer, a two-headed spider-eyed mule deer named, as all deer are named, Deer, apologized for the problems they are causing, but they just want to experience pain.

They have been so numb, emotionally, physically, spiritually, and they want to remember again what it is like to hurt. Not just in their bodies, but to see others suffer as well.

“The time travel was a happy accident,” Deer admitted, as they had no idea humans experienced such angst, such terror, when confronted with multiplicity of self.

The Sheriff’s Secret Police remind us that while capable of time travel, the deer don’t actually understand the implications of parallel universes versus linear continuity. The deer, while talented, are still very dumb animals.

The deer countered that the Sheriff’s Secret Police are just being mean now!

The City Council are asking that residents lock their doors, and close their windows. The deer are organized, and they will stop at nothing to get what they want, Night Vale. Be safe.

And now, back to our first ever mayoral debate. Let’s reach out to our community, and find out what they want from their mayoral candidates. First caller, you’re on the air. Who is this?

> Hi, Cecil! This is Diane Crayton. Candidates, as a member of the Night Vale PTA, one of the most important topics to me is our schools. This past year we’ve seen a rise in some concerning trends. Declining graduation rates, gun violence, teacher complaints about centipedes crawling out of their eyes at unexpected moments, and clocks that don’t work correctly, causing confusion about when the next class is. What will you do, as mayor, to improve our schools?

Well, the centipede thing is tough. ‘Cause centipedes are helpful and intelligent beings. So I’m not gonna say they have no right to live in, and crawl out of, teachers’ faces. But I think we can find ways to compromise with them, about living in maybe different parts of the body so that they do not distract our children from learning.

As for the other issues, we spend an exorbitant amount each year on extracurricular activities, such as sports and art and history. I think we could take some of that money, put it towards after-school programs to help tutor students in important topics like music and bricklaying, and…how to build great stone shrines to…oh, whoever, I mean, uh, let’s just say reptiles for instance, just as an example. That’s just an example.

While I agree with my opponent that we must stop our children from learning too much in schools, I disagree that we must cut finding from any school programs, nor should we ask the government for more. We can do this as a community. I propose selling off unused items from our homes to raise money for our schools. Cecil! You have a whole set of collectible jadeite bowls you never use. I would be happy to sell them on ebay for you! Hiram, you live in a cave that I do not like, but you have a collection of rare jewels and coins in a mahogany chest that you keep locked and buried. Let’s put those up for sale! Marcus, you have a coffee table made of human bones.

Yeah, and I need that coffee table.

Please, let the Faceless Old Woman finish, Mr. Vanston.

OK, but I need that coffee table.

Oooookay!

No no no…I need it.

Well, we all have things we do not use, books we do not read or care for, furniture and electronics and dead mice and antiques that could be worth a lot of money to our students! Children are our future. They are a terrible and less enjoyable future than the future we all represented, but they are a future nonetheless.

Marcus, do you have a rebuttal?

No, doesn’t really affect me at all, no.

Um, sorry for yet another interruption in our debate, but I’ve just received an update on the deer situation. The City Council announced that the deer are multiplying.

When asked how they are doing this, the City Council rolled their eyes, and said “the same way deer always replicate – by humming and breathing softly in unison until others that hear them suddenly become them! Good thing you’re a reporter and not a biologist!” the City Council teased.

But then a sudden shared laughter broke the tension of the room.

The City Council then announced that they just can’t be here anymore, and that they wish us all the best in our final moments.

“We’re pretty much done for,” the City Council reassured reporters. “The deer have taken over the streets, the sidewalks. Many are standing at your window right now for you to see their eyes and hear their hums.”

Do not open your window or doors, listeners. Stay by your radios. Stay always by your radios, and we will update you with more information.

OK. Uhh, next caller, you’re on the air. Who is this?

> This is Erika?

And what’s your question, Erica?

> It’s spelled Erika! With a K?

I’m sorry. What’s your question, Erika?

> Well, uh, I’m an angel, and I’m concerned? I'm– it’s not concerned, just…anxious.

Let me stop you right there, Erika. Angels aren’t real. But go ahead with your question.

> Of course. Yes, uh, well, um, there’s a tiny civilization living under Lane 5 of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex? Angels haven’t been able to determine where this nation came from or what it wants. And it’s rare that angels cannot solve a problem but when they cannot, they turn to small town civic leaders for help and guidance.

> What do you know about this nation of small people in the bowling alley?

Erika, let me first say thank you for your hard work. You do not exist, but if you did we would be extraordinarily proud of the work you do protecting humans.

That being said, it is a crime to acknowledge the existence of angels, so I have nothing more to say.

BURN IT! BURN IT TO A PIT OF ASH AND DESPAIR!

We could just, uh, burn it down, or…whatever.

I’m not crying.

What was that?

I said I’m not crying.

Um, listeners at home, Marcus is hunched over, head turned away from his microphone. He is sobbing.

No I’m not.

Uh, perhaps he has been chosen by the angels who – as a legal reminder – are not real in the slightest. But those who are chosen for special tasks by angels often cannot stop weeping when they talk about angels.

I’m fine. Next question. *sniff*

Uh, caller? You’re on the air with the mayoral candidates.

> Hi, this is, uh, John Peters – you know, the farmer? Now last year there was a pretty big glowing cloud that went through town? Dropping, uh, dead animals and things everywhere. Now I know that that Glow Cloud is now on the School Board and all, but is there anything that one of you could do to keep it from dropping animals everywhere? I nearly lost my organic certification because none of those cows, or crows, or nurse sharks, or spider wolves it dropped had any paperwork. Also, all that radiation was probably not healthy.

Uh, thank you, John. Candidates? What will you do to protect us from the Glow Cloud? What will you do to serve the Glow Cloud? What efforts will you make to hail the almighty Glow Cloud?

[All chanting together:] ALL HAIL! ALL HAIL! ALL PRAISE AND REPENT BEFORE THE GLOW CLOUD! GIVE YOUR TEETH! GIVE YOUR EYES! GIVE YOUR ALL TO THE GLOW CLOUD!

And to John’s point, it’s a difficult situation, given that the Glow Cloud is a stand-up member of our community. But, the Glow Cloud is also a

[All chanting together:] TERRIBLE FORCE OF DESTRUCTION! A PUNISHMENT FOR WEAK HUMANS! A CELEBRATION OF UNBRIDALED MADNESS AND PAIN AND FEAR AND PAIN AND PAIN AND PAIN! ALL HAIL THE GLOW CLOUD!

Thank you for your call, John.

> Yeah, you bet.

All right. Next up. Caller?

> Hi, this is Erika again?

Erika? You sound different.

> I do?

Well, yes! I mean, in your earlier call you sounded like a man, and now you sound like a woman.

> Angels cannot hear gender, Cecil.

Well. If angels were real, Erika, what would your question be?

> Thank you. This question is just for Marcus.

> Marcus. If called upon by angels to serve a great good, to serve a great calling, to serve a great war, would you serve?

Marcus? Are you crying?

Hang on. *sniff* Nope, I’m fine. I'm– I’m fine.

> You are needed, Marcus. You are needed now.

Oh, my. Marcus is rising from his chair. His feet are off the floor. He is stretching to inhuman lengths! His eyes are glowing black and his fingers are spiraling long and diaphanous.

Marcus? Ooooooh, dear.

Uh, listeners, Marcus grew gold feathers from his back, as he vanished. And he is gone.

> I am sorry to interrupt your debate, Cecil. Goodbye.

Um, goodbye, Erika!

> Oh, and, uh, Cecil!

Yes?

> I’m afraid…

Yes? Go on.

> No, that’s…that’s it. Just…I am afraid. OK, bye!

Oh! All right!

Well, this debate has certainly taken an odd turn, listeners, but none of this happened and we will comment no further.

One last caller? You are on the air.

> Hi, this is Steve Carlsberg? And, um, my question is for Hiram. Hiram, –

NO!!! NO!!! STEVE CARLSBERG!?! WE ARE OUT OF TIME FOR QUESTIONS GOODBYE!!!

Candidates, let’s get to our closing statements. Faceless Old Woman.

My fellow Night Valians, my opponent talks about human children but he has never been a human child. I have. It has been centuries, but I have. He claims he wants to improve fitness and health in our schools, but he cannot even regulate his own body temperature. I can. I can also regulate yours.

He says he cares about you, but I am the only candidate who is actually in your home at this very moment, writing down the grim specifics of your eventual death on the back side of one section of dry wall. You’ll see it someday, when getting some pipes or wiring fixed, and you’ll be impressed.

Not impressed, terrified. This is a promise I make to you.

My other opponent is now an angel, and cannot legally be thought about.

So vote for me. The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home.

I’m touching your neck right now. You smell nice.

Thank you.

Hiram?

Night Vale, Sure, there’s a Faceless Old Woman Secretly Living In Your Home. And I respect that! She is vaguely familiar, and unsettlingly comfortable, and I admire that.

But isn’t it time we stop this politics as usual? Isn’t it time we got the government out of our homes? There once was a day when we all needed government agents snooping around in our books and dishes. That was a different time!

Should the government really be able to…touch our necks, and be aware that we smell nice? I say no!

I am literally a five-headed dragon. I don’t know anything about being human. I do things like breathe fire, fly, regenerate limbs, and molt. I don’t care anything about your personal lives. They’re your choice! I wouldn’t even know how to interfere!

YOU ARE INFERIOR AND EMOTIONALLY CONFUSING ANIMALS!

So vote for me, Hiram McDaniels. I am literally a five-headed dragon with no regard for human life. Choices. Human life choices.

Thank you both!

Um, I’m very sorry for the…technical difficulties. I don’t know if you can hear that, but there is a very soft humming sound coming from the mics, or…or the soundboard, or…or something.

I don’t hear it, Cecil.

I don’t…I don’t hear a thing.

I remember this sound from before. Um, we’ll have an engineer come and take a look at it.

Uh, in the meantime, ladies and gentlemen, and all in between, the deer…have gotten quite out of hand.

One of the sales staff, um, thank you, Roberta, just handed me a note that says there are dozens of deer surrounding this station and trying to peer into the windows.

Yeah, that’s what I’ve been saying right there, then. I could go outside and set fire to them if you want, uh. That would be a very mayoral solution.

That’s a fool’s errand, Hiram. Did you never play Deer Duck Dragon? Dragon beats duck, but deer beats dragon?

So we– we– we need a duck?

No! Deer beats duck, too! Deer beats everything! It’s a terrible game.

Yeah?

Oh, she’s right, Hiram. But it's– it’s not the deer. The– the humming is something worse.

Listeners, I fear something much worse is lurking. So, as we all hide from the deer, and hide from the hum, and hide from it all, I take you now to the weather.

[“Promise to the Moon”* by Jason Webley]

Listeners? The quiet humming is not the deer, but a swirling black vortex just outside our studio door. In fact, the deer have backed away from the station. I have seen this vortex before, listeners. And I am afraid to approach it. But Hiram went to look inside.

Yeah, and I found this guy in the vortex.

> Hello.

Who is this man? Not man. Who…is this creature? Why is he covered in blood? And where are his eyes?

> Hi! I’m Kevin!

You stay away!

Hello, Kevin. That’s Cecil. Wow, you guys look…almost just alike!

> Oh! Hello, Cecil! Nice to meet you! And yes, I completely see the resemblance! It’s mostly in the eyes, I think. OK, I met Hiram, and now Cecil, who are you?

I am the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home. Well, most homes. Not yours. I’ve never seen you before.

> Faceless? You’re not faceless! You have a beautiful face! A memorable face. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen such deep hazel eyes, or proud lips, or archaic jaw.

I do not have a face, Kevin. I have never had a face.

> You do have a face! And it’s unlike any other face in history.

Why are you here? Explain to me what you are doing here.

> Oh. Sure.

> Well, I was sitting in my own radio studio in my own town, and I heard that…humming again. I saw a spiraling white vortex and rushed into it. It has been months since I have seen it, and once I met a man there who looked like me! With my eyes, and my smile. I think he was you, Cecil!

> I know that I am Kevin. I know I have been in this strange studio before, with its old-timey microphones and acoustic gray foam walls. A place like this is usually covered in clumps of hair and reddish-brown hand prints streaking down the only remaining unshattered window. But they do things differently here in…where is this?

Night Vale.

> Oooooh myyy! So this is Night Vale! Oh! How delightful!

> *clears throat* Hello out there, Night Vale listeners! This is Kevin from Desert Bluffs!

> You know, I was just telling my intern, Vanessa? I was telling Vanessa just today how much I have wanted to come here! I’m always telling her that, as a matter of fact. I just never get around to actually visiting. Work and family, and you get so busy it’s hard to find the time.

> And so…here I am! I wish Vanessa were here! She would love Night Vale! You guys have such…eh…you know!

> We always talk about coming here and here I am, without her! Oh! I wish you could have met Vanessa! Always a joke to start the day. She had one about limestone this morning, hahahahahahaha! Haaa! I don’t remember it, but it was a hit.

> Always a laugh, always a smile, a big smile! Where she’d show me all these perfect teeth, and I would just imagine the rest of her perfect skull. Funny how the skull is so visible in your mouth. Weird. Who thinks of that stuff? I don’t know. Weird, right?

Maybe next time you come you could bring her.

> Oh, gosh, I wish! But no.

No?

> Oh, dear, I’m sorry, no. Vanessa died many years ago. We’re all still very upset about it. Very upset about what we saw. Some of us never came back to work again. Some of us never left our houses again. Most of us never woke up again.

> I don’t like to talk about it much.

I’m sorry.

> Night Vale, I don’t know why I was brought here, but I am starting to see we are connected. And by more than just a two-lane highway. We are connected much more deeply, Night Vale! And if this is true, I imagine your town, too, has been seeing a rise in the deer population this evening. It is a blessed event, of course, as these deer have been so very helpful to all of us in Desert Bluffs, doing all our math problems, gaining us extra work hours by time-traveling us back and forth…so productive and adorable, those deer!

> But, of course, there is sometimes too much of a good thing.

> StrexCorp, our parent company – oh! And I believe yours too, now, Cecil – is issuing a recall on all these time-traveling deer. They tried to implement the project slowly, but it got a little carried away. If you have lost loved ones, or are no longer in your original timeline or universe, then we apologize. Please contact StrexCorp attorney Luisa Reyes, as she is preparing a class-action lawsuit against StrexCorp. We’ve already budgeted for the remuneration for community harms, so don’t you worry about us! We’re fine!

> We’ve sent helicopters to dispatch the deer. If you have earplugs, you may want to put them in now, or simply turn up some loud music to drown out the machines and screams for the next hour or so.

> I can hear the fading hum of the vortex that fortuitously connects our two radio studios, Night Vale.

> Cecil, I will see you again. I am certain.

> I can’t wait to tell Vanessa what a great town this was! Haha!

> I must go. It was nice to meet you two!

He said I have a face! I’ve never seen my face. What do I look like, Hiram? Am I beautiful?

You are beautiful when you do beautiful things. Do you do beautiful things?

I think that I do.

THEN YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL! IT IS A SIMPLE CALCULATION, YOU SMALL DEFENSELESS SACK OF BONES AND MEAT!

Well, thank you, Hiram. You are beautiful, too.

Cecil, you are…distracted.

Cecil? You…you alright, there, buddy?

I….can’t….um…

Cecil, it– it’s going to be OK.

Actually, that’s a lie. In general, it’s not going to be OK.

That man with the missing eyes, and bloodstained skin and teeth like an abandoned cemetery? He was certainly terrifying, but he’s gone now.

He was…

Cecil, we all get frightened and freeze in the face of unbearable terror. I mean, only if we can see that face. Some faces are apparently there but unseeable.

I…you’re right. Um, thank you both.

Candidates, uh, thank you, also, for coming on the show tonight. I think you both would make an excellent mayor, and I look forward to casting a meaningless vote for one of you soon.

Listeners, thank you for listening to the show tonight. Remember that you may hear terrible machines and screams as corporate agents terminate the false deer. Their attempt to destroy our way of life, by bringing us together as one, has failed. We are free to remain ourselves and find our own connections – beautiful or grotesque. Either way, a beauty or grotesquery of our own choosing.

So relax tonight, Night Vale. You are yourself. You are safe.

Tonight is a good night.

Tomorrow is unconfirmed.

We will all find out together.

Thank you again, candidates, and listeners, do not forget to cast your vote on election day. We do not know where votes will be cast, what election day is, or if votes are even read, but…it is your democratic duty.

Stay tuned next for a chasm of subjectivity and bravado between yourself and every other human being.

Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Commonplace Books. It is written by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Cranor.

The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin.

Guest voices tonight are Kevin R. Free, Mark Gagliardi, Mark Evan Jackson, Jackson Publick, Hal Lublin, Annie Savage, and Mara Wilson.

Today’s weather was Promise to the Moon by Jason Webley.*

Original music by Disparition.

Today’s proverb: Don’t judge a book by its cover. By its leather cover. By its human skin-looking cover. Don’t ever judge that book!

And now we welcome back to the stage Jason Webley!

Hi again. Um, so Joseph invited me to…to come do this and asked if I could play something to kind of finish things up, and I didn’t quite know what the right thing to…for that might be, so I asked John from Disparition if he had any ideas, um, which he might explain if he had a microphone.

Um, I think he would say…well, I know what he said in the email, which was that it might be kind of nice if we played a song by Joseph Fink. And so…but we wanted it to be a surprise, so we didn’t rehearse it. 'Cause…'cause sneaky fellow that he is, he would have heard us.

So, um, yeah. This is “These and More Than These.”

[“These and More Than These” by Jason Webley and Disparition]

*on the bandcamp page, the song played in the weather is listed as “Last Song” but that listing is incorrect