01/09/2014 12:35:00 ¶ ●

## Episode 53 - The September Monologues

Cecil: The wind out of the desert is changing. I feel it. You feel it. A shiver in the midday heat. A crackle in the television broadcast. A shift in your immune system.

It is September, and something is different.

It is September, and the days have gone sinister – from first eye’s open to last slow breathing.

It is September, and so, listeners – dear listeners – Night Vale Public Radio is proud to introduce The September Monologues.

Faceless Old Woman: Chad? Can you hear me? My mouth is half an inch from your left ear and I’m whispering. You will feel a heavy warmth there, like air from the swamp. That means I’m talking to you, Chad. I’m right behind you.

Listen, Chad…how long have we lived together? Your whole life, that’s the answer. Not that you’d know it, because I do it secretly. That’s my name: the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home. Though, also, I don’t have a face.

Chad, I am getting away from the point. You are the point.

Is this how you want to live your life? Shuffling from one trivial moment to the next, never letting anything add up to anything else?

Chad, it’s not my place to say, I know. My place is hiding behind the boring button-up shirts in your closet, my thin, gnarled fingers almost brushing your hand each time you reach for one of those milquetoast frocks on your way to another unsuccessful night trying to find someone who will make you more than you are.

Chad, do you know how many flies live in your apartment? I do. I know all of their names, and I tell them where to lay their eggs. So listen, Chad, do not get on my wrong side. My fury is vast, and murky, and expressed through a papier-mâché gape-mouthed that I left behind your cereal boxes this morning. Not that you’ll find it. You never eat breakfast. A good breakfast is the start of a good day, say the tablets we found in that ancient crater last year.

But I’m not here to lecture you, Chad. I’m here to understand. Like, what’s with all the candles? Your room is strewn with clothes like your dresser got sick from overeating, but suddenly you’re buying nicely-scented candles, and arranging them carefully in the living room? That doesn’t seem like you, Chad.

And the fabric. That rich, red fabric that you bought and…are you sewing that fabric, Chad? That doesn’t seem like you either. Your other hobbies involve watching or consuming and now, here you are, doing! What does it mean?

I’ve uncovered many secrets, Chad. Do not think that you are going to be able to keep anything from me. I know what is behind the old VHS copy of Cliffhanger in your media center. I know about the way you talk to your horse figurines.

Yes, I know about the horse figurines.

And I know about the dreams, Chad. I put my faceless head very close to your face at night as you sleep. If you opened your eyes, I’m sure it would upset you.

So fragile, and yet so certain – your belief in the sanctity and privacy of home.

Oh, what about the amulet you hid in the bag of lettuce deep in your fridge? Why the amulet, that ancient cracked painting of a screaming goat set upon gold and ebony? I couldn’t lift it, Chad. I tried with my bony, skin-taut arms that have a surprising animal strength. Those arms that have been so close to you so many times, but that you’ve never seen. I tried to lift it, Chad, and I couldn’t. Why wasn’t I able to lift it?

This is me, as a part of your life, trying to understand that life. And you, drinking beer with your friends, drinking beer by yourself, drinking beer before work by yourself, smiling with your friends and smiling at your work and sitting dead-eyed and silent for hours inside your living room, wearing a polo shirt and khaki shorts, crying without making a sound or moving. A silence of tears down your slack, boyish face.

Chad, this is you, and I’m trying to understand.

I’ve stopped googling bees and I’ve started googling your name over and over. I can’t find a trace of you anywhere. What are you, Chad? I thought I understood. I do not understand.

And now, you are rising from your easy chair, still weeping. You are putting on a long red robe and lighting the candles arranged through the room in a pattern or a shape that I do not recognize. You are raising up the amulet and you are speaking…no, shouting, no…intoning.

This is not a language I understand! I understand every language. Your very speech is outside of my reality.

What I saw next, Chad, was beyond me. I have seen death in its many heaving forms. I have seen the low-flying ships that hide on the horizon in front of the setting sun, and I have seen the misshapen silhouettes of their pilots. I have seen the websites you visit.

But Chad…what I saw in that moment, what you summoned in your living room, what you brought to us here in this little town, my town, the town I secretly live in, the town in which I am, at least in my view, presumptive mayor…what have you done?

Chad, this is all to say that I am the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home, but…not your home, Chad. Not anymore. Because something else is living there now.

Oh, Chad. Something else is living there now.

Cecil: The air is different. Or…no. It is the way we are breathing that is different. The breathers, all of us, have changed. We’ve gone funny, you know, just…funny. Words can’t capture it. But I have only words.

So, up next, more words. After that, words. Words, and words, and words. Words that form The September Monologues.

Michelle Nguyen: Nobody’s made a good album in years! “Michelle,” you say, “Michelle Nguyen, that’s not true!”

Well, you’re right. Very little of what I have to say is true. Some of it is, though. Make of that what you will.

No, don’t. I don’t trust you to make anything good.

Hang on, there’s a customer.

Welcome to Dark Owl Records!

You! You! Why are you here? What do you want from me, you–

Never mind, they left.

We sold a pretty decent record the other day. It was a Beach Boys album. Everyone thinks the Beach Boys are the best. And fine, fine, they contributed a lot to American music. You can hear their influence on people like Cole Porter, and Joni Mitchell, and Mozart, but I’m so sick of everybody thinking they know music just because they buy a Beach Boys album!

I begged the guy not to buy it. It was, of course, the one with most of their big hits on it, like “The People Under the Floor,” and “I’m Being Followed,” and “Tracking Device Inside My Skin,” and no doubt the Beach Boys’ most famous song, “Hand Me That Hammer, Madame Dentist.”

He bought the album anyway, but I broke it into pieces as I handed it to him, and then I told him the store was closed and he wasn’t allowed to leave. He’s still somewhere in the basement. A couple people came looking for him, but I covered my eyes with my hand and sat silently so they couldn’t see me.

Point being, there are still a few good albums in the world, but not many.

Oh! You know what I ordered for the store last week? It should arrive any day. If you’re a true lover of folk music, you’ll be just as excited as I am for this. I ordered 25 copies of Woody Guthrie. They’re scale replicas of his body in his most recognizable pose: holding a guitar in one hand and an aquarium full of mice in his other two hands. These replicas are 3:1 scale, so there’s no room with our low ceilings. I’ll have to keep them outside of the store in people’s lawns and next to highway overpasses and such. But they’re just great!

Oh, wait. Never mind. Folk music is over. It’s done, came and went. Stop listening to folk music! The Guthrie replicas are now 70% off. Please don’t buy them, though. Folk music is dead.

You want to know what music I’m listening to right now? Joy Division. Not “Unknown Pleasures.” Everyone’s listened to that album. That album will never be talked about by me again. No. I’m listening to a different Joy Division album. It’s a pretty recent album that was never actually released, because they never wrote it or recorded it or produced it. But I managed to get a copy of this album, and I listen to it almost daily. In private, so it’s not ruined by other people having heard it or talked to me about it. It’s a good album. I cry when I hear it. I cry when I think about it. I’m crying now.

I’m sure it doesn’t sound to you like I’m crying, because you can’t comprehend my crying. You can’t see me or hear me crying because you don’t know me. You don’t truly know me. This Joy Division album truly knows me in a way no other human ever has.

And so, that’s a complete list of music I like.

Looks like the coroner is here again.

Hello, Linda! We got the new Panic! at the Disco album in!

[whispers] I’ve been selling her blank CDs for years now and telling her that’s Panic! at the Disco’s aesthetic, that they just release completely silent songs with no titles on albums with no tracks or cover art and no name. It’s really funny, except for, their new album really did come out and it’s called “Quit Fabricating Our Musical Career, Michelle,” so I’m a little freaked out by that. But also, I think I’m really impacting the future of music. [end whispering]

We here at Dark Owl Records pride ourselves on that: impacting the future of music. Also, the past. We impact the past in music.

I’m wearing a hat right now! So, know that.

I hate Panic! at the Disco. I’ve never actually heard their music, so I don’t actually hate them so much as resent them. Or rather, resent what they stand for. Or rather, resent what I believe that they stand for. Or rather, resent my perception of other people’s projections of what they stand for. Or rather, myself.

I hate myself, is what I’m trying to say.

We have that in common, I think!

Panic! at the Disco is probably fine if you were to ever listen to their music. Lots of people buy lots of their music. Of course, lots of people buy lots of ridiculous things: overpriced coffee, minivans, dogs, furniture, towels, medicine…you name it, and some idiot will buy it.

Linda! Is that a Public Enemy cassette? Don’t touch that! You do not have hip hop access here!

We have a pretty good hip hop collection. Mmmm…that’s not true. It’s just that one cassette. And it’s broken.

Anyway, t-shirts and posters and trance music are all 50% off this weekend at Dark Owl, so come visit the store.

Wait…never mind. We’re closed until further notice.

You’re not allowed in here anyway. Not with that tattoo. Who has a Woody Guthrie tattoo these days?

Cecil: It will all be over soon. And then, something else will take its place.

“Like waves,” says the common metaphor.

“From dust to dust,” says a simplified version of a complicated philosophy.

“Mmmmmmmm, zmmmmmmm,” says the big bang, still echoing quietly through everything it created.

Let us return, one last time – before it, you, or anything else ends – to The September Monologues.

Steve Carlsberg: There are glowing arrows in the sky. You can’t see them. I do.

There are dotted lines and arrows and circles. The sky is a chart that explains the entire world. But you can’t see it. I know that.

The world makes sense. I– I believe that. I– I do. It has to. Otherwise…it wouldn’t make sense! And that would be the worst thing that could possibly happen.

No one listens when I talk. They hear, but…they don’t listen. Even now, maybe your attention is drifting. Why pay attention to me? Why pay attention to Steve Carlsberg? “There he goes again, with his theories and explanations.” But I see them! I see the arrows in the sky. I understand what is happening.

Night Vale is a weird place. No one else sees that, I guess. But I do. It’s not like other places. I’ve never been other places, but I know. I know what other places are like. I’ve read books. Don’t tell anyone, please. Don’t tell anyone that I’ve read books. I have to maintain my position and the respect of my peers. I’m a member in good standing of the PTA. I bring scones and they are always the first item in the pot luck to go. I take great pride in that.

My…uh, brother-in-law, step-brother, brother-outside-of-the-law…I can never get those terms straight. Well, he just brings store-made hummus and wheat-free pita chips. Every time! I make my scones with my own hands, from scratch. Sometimes, I put in the zest of orange, sometimes I don’t. They are not always the same.

Nothing is.

People pick at the chips and hummus. They want to be polite. Often, they are not. We all, all of us, so often fail at what we want to do. That’s OK, as long as we understand our failure. As long as we see it. I see my failure to help my community the way I would like to help it. I would like to guide it somewhere new, but the only person who listened to me was that man on the Desert Bluffs radio. And then…well, then all the rest happened.

The world would be better if more people saw the dotted lines and arrows in the sky. I can look out my window and see them! I’m doing that now.

Listen, I love my wife, and she loves her brother. And we both love our daughter, and my…brother-in-law? Half-brother? Double-brother? Hmm…Well, he loves his niece. So that counts for a lot. That counts for most of it. I don’t hate him the way he hates me. How could I? I understand him. He hates me because he doesn’t understand me at all. Cannot see the dotted lines. He cannot see the arrows.

I first met him at the wedding. He’s busy, or he says he is. He does always seem to be at the station. Or at least, he used to be. This last year’s been good for him, I think. It has softened him a little, in the right places. Although not at all toward me. But I never expect that.

He was very nice when I first met him. “Welcome to the wedding,” he said grandly. Which was odd, since he actually arrived after me. But it was a nice gesture anyway, and I accepted it with a handshake and a “Hello! It’s an exciting day, isn’t it?” I said. “Here, try a scone!” I had made scones. It seemed right, in the midst of a formal celebration like that, to have a little touch of home, to remind people of the lifetime of simple gestures that this grand celebration was meant to launch.

“Oh,” he said. “This is just scrumptious! This is the best scone I’ve ever had!”

He hasn’t said anything like that in some time.

We chatted for a while. I don’t remember what about. Maybe the weather.

No, definitely the weather. I remember it was the weather, because we had to stand in awkward silence for a bit as we waited for the music to stop playing.

But then, it all turned. “How ‘bout those secret agents?” I asked, indicating the black-suited women and men lining the back of the room, taking photos and writing down everything that everyone said.

“Aah,” he said. “Yes, well…” he said.

He was raised in the Night Vale tradition of silence. And with a belief in the power of hierarchy and bureaucracy. I had been raised that way too, but it didn’t stick. Because I could see the arrows, and the dotted lines, and the circles laid out across the world. I could clearly see how things were! The way that it was all organized, and for whose benefit.

“Well, sure,” I said. “Those agents from… Oh. Well, um, this next part is complicated. People always just refer to them from being from a Vague, Yet Menacing Agency and…while they are certainly menacing, there’s nothing vague about them.”

I explained to Cecil then exactly what branch they’re from, who specifically they report to, and whose desk those reports ultimately land on. People could die for knowing these things. But I’ve always known it. I could always just see it, how it all really was laid out.

And as I talked, Cecil’s face changed. It twisted into a grimace.

“I won’t have you teaching Janice lies like that,” he howled. And I’m sorry for using such a melodramatic verb, but he really did. He howled! And then he refused to speak to me again.

During the ceremony, he tried to object on the grounds that I knew and spoke aloud forbidden knowledge and dangerous truths. Which is actually a mandatory reason to cancel a wedding according to the laws of Night Vale, but his sister talked him down.

Since then, though, he’s never trusted me. It’s because of Janice. It’s because I want Janice to understand the world the way I do. I want her to see the arrows and dotted lines, to know the world, not just repeat what has been told to her.

My brother-in-law, as you might imaging, disagrees. “She will learn only what she is allowed to learn in schools!” he explains to me regularly, and loudly. “Don’t poison her with education!”

I don’t know. Maybe he’s right. It’s not like knowing has made my life easier. Quite the opposite.

Quite the opposite.

But every time I look up, I see them. Glowing arrows in the sky, dotted lines and circles, a great chart that explains it all, and I ask you, how can I know all of this? How can I understand, and not try to explain? How can I see the dotted lines so bright and tangible, and deny them?

I have to try, even if it means that everyone – even my wife, or even Janice – grows to hate me. The truth is more important than all that. It has to be.

Or else, why would it shine so clear above?

Cecil: Well, that’s it for The September Monologues. We’ve said so much. What more is there to say?

Today’s proverb: [static sounds]

15/09/2014 11:31:18 ¶ ●

## Episode 54 - A Carnival Comes to Town

Cecil: The secret to a long life lies in how acutely you perceive time.

Welcome to Night Vale.

A quiet caravan of flatbed trucks rolled into town last night. The trailers were unmarked, except by age and neglect. The trucks parked along Bandera Street, in an abandoned lot in the heart of the up-and-coming Abandoned Lot neighborhood. People we do not know emerged from the trucks and began to unload tall lights and heavy speakers.

Perhaps may of you were jostled from slumber by the faint pulsing of music that sounded like music you know, even though it was music you had never heard.

Perhaps you woke unaware there ever was a sun, confused by your own consciousness, hearing the echoes of these unknown choruses, and found yourself singing along, mouthing familiar words placed in an unfamiliar order.

We do not know what these trucks have brought, or what those within them intend. All I can say is, you should not got near that abandoned lot on Bandera Street until we find out more – which might take a while. It’s a very busy day. We can’t investigate every horrifying fleet of unmarked trucks. We’ve got more important things, like this voicemail from my boyfriend!

Carlos: Hey, Cecil! I made so much progress today! Doug, and some of the other members of the army of warriors who roam this Otherworld desert, took me to the top of the mountain, to the lighthouse up on it.

Oh, right…I’m still stuck in the desert Otherworld. How are you? I miss you!

Anyway, they showed me the photos on the walls inside the lighthouse. One of the warriors, whose name is Alicia, and who is not a woman or a man, and who is Doug’s partner, and who has a dog, and who is trying to make a new currency based on sand, walked me through the pictures. There were photos of living rooms, and parks, and lawns…photos of Night Vale.

I asked if Alicia took these photos, because they were good photos! Colorful, well composed, alive! Alicia shook their head no, and the other warriors in the room pointed quietly back to the photos, and I saw that they were literally alive. The people and all of the things that were not people moved in the photos! Blades of grass in the breeze, small bees spiraling, a man refusing to smile – and all within the confines of rough driftwood frames.

Inside the lighthouse, you can see anywhere – although you cannot go to any of those…“wheres.”

And, as I leave this message, I can see you, Cecil! Yeah, I’m watching you shave!

Oh, it’s cute how you pull up your nose like that. Oh! But you missed a spot.

I’m sorry I haven’t had time to go looking for the doorway back to your dimension. I’m learning so many things, though! I– I promise. I promise to return soon. This…desert Otherworld is just so scientifically interesting! Maybe it’s the most scientifically interesting community I’ve ever seen!

[sigh]

I love you! I’ll try calling you again tonight. Is it even night time there? Ugh, I’ve lost all sense of time.

[sigh]

Cecil: So…I don’t know. All of that, and such.

And now, the news.

The foundation is finally being laid for the new Old Night Vale Opera House. Old Woman Josie was on hand for the ceremony. In fact, she brought her own cement mixer and poured it herself. Several creatures claiming to be angels, wearing yellow and orange triangles – the logo of StrexCorp, now of course owned by these same creatures – were on hand to assist. But Josie kept slapping their many hands away when they attempted to help her with the heavy mixer and strenuous work.

“I’m fine, Erika! I have this! Go get me some water,” Josie said, wiping her shriveled brow with a green handkerchief. “I ain’t that old!” she said before adding, “Hey! You forgot to record Castle last night! Make yourself useful and double-check the TiVo before I get home.”

One of the supposed angels – all of whom are named Erika – pointed out that Castle is in reruns, and she could probably download the episode she missed from iTunes. There was a long pause as Old Woman Josie stared at Erika in silence, concrete churning its dull pulsing hum, onlookers forgetting to exhale, a single drop of sweat rolling down one of Erika’s seven cheekbones.

And then Josie said, “OK, whatever. Is the Chopped marathon on tonight?” and continued her pour.

The angel-like beings claim that StrexCorp is Night Vale’s first angel-owned and angel-operated company. They claimed this proudly, and even placed it on their brochures and signs – despite the great risk of arrest and imprisonment for the felony of acknowledging the existence of angels.

Completion of the new Old Night Vale Opera House is scheduled for this coming Spring. Many town residents are excited and confused over the return of this cultural landmark, as none of us know what an opera is.

“Is it a type of deli?” asked one bystander, who shielded his eyes and asked not to be identified before dissipating into a black cloud and joining the rest of the cowardly air molecules.

“I heard opera is a virus you get from kissing,” said another bystander, who was clearly former mayor Pamela Winchell wearing a fake mustache and clumsily altering her voice.

Nobody but Old Woman Josie and her mysterious friends know what an opera is. Hopefully we’ll all find out soon, Night Vale! Hopefully it’s a good thing. I have my doubts, though. I am sometimes more doubt than man.

The strangers at the abandoned lot have begun unloading the fleet of trucks, removing large metal cases from the trailers and assembling gargantuan machines covered in rust and the faint echo of bright color.

Residents of the Abandoned Lot District, who usually just talk hopefully about a day when they’ll be allowed to finally build homes, have reported hearing organ music and smelling deep fryers. They saw carnival workers carrying bags of strange candy and leading packs of unfamiliar loping animals into the lot. Many of the strangers wear large wigs and bright painted faces. They carry foolish hats and mangled balloons.

Listeners, I know what this is, and it is not good. A carnival has come to our city, Night Vale. I do not even know how you can protect yourself from this wicked cultural affront to our community.

I reached out to the City Council but I just got their voicemail, which was the Council saying, in unison, “We’re not here anymore. Good luck with whatever that is in the abandoned lot! If you’d like to scream or cry in horror, please do so at the tone.” So at least their voicemail is the usual one, but I don’t think we’ll get much help from them.

Night Vale, I have only ever heard of carnivals. I never thought I would ever have to actually see one. No one knows what they will do in the face of catastrophe until they are in that face, and here I am, still not knowing what to do.

A carnival. Oooooh, all the mysterious lights in the sky. I do not know how this carnival found us, nor what they intend, but I am certain it is not good.

It is rumored that our neighbors in Pine Cliff once welcomed a traveling carnival. Pine Cliff is now inhabited only by ghosts. But I don’t actually know if that was related to the carnival at all. They might have been that way already.

And you know, there is a certain sweetness to the hastily-assembled rides, to the thought of eating air-blown pastel sugar, your boyfriend winning you a stuffed animal at the bird-mocking booth, exchanging known quantities of fiat cash for meta-fiat paper coupons. Oh, it sounds just…it sounds just…dreamy!

No! These wicked magicians of the midway! They must be using mind control to draw us in. Do not fall victim to…holding hands hotly under the cool lights, the undulating swirl and discordant fugue of the merry-go-round about us. Carlos! Oh, Carlos! Let’s go to the carnival – No! Stop it, Cecil! No!

Night Vale, avoid the carnival! Hide in your homes.

This Thursday, at the Night Vale Public Library, is the twice-annual Cleaning of the Books. The Sheriff’s Secret Police Super Secret Special Forces Unit will be on hand to subdue the librarians, who regularly attempt to not only undermine our city with dangerous books, but also sink their sharp claws and pincers into library visitors before flying them off to eat or toy with or…whatever it is they do to their victims.

The Cleaning of the Books is our way of double-checking that the librarians are keeping a clean stock of municipally-approved books, such as The Biography of Helen Hunt and all four of Dean Koontz’s novels.

Librarians are well-known for sneaking in books by dangerous authors. In 1988, two – two! copies of Pride and Prejudice were found in Night Vale. No one knows quite how many people read these copies, but the ensuing riots inconvenienced hundreds and led to the current cleaning schedule.

Not everyone is in favor of this practice, though. New mayor Dana Cardinal issued a public rebuke of book cleaning. The mayor admitted that, while “books are pretty dangerous,” and she “doesn’t recommend them for everyone,” we should “concentrate more on protecting ourselves from the librarians themselves, who are the real danger.”

Teenage book lover and heroic militia leader Tamika Flynn also offered her protest of this important event, saying, “books and libraries are dangerous. Which is exactly why we should protect them. Librarians are conniving and vicious monsters, but they also know how to recommend a good read. Their methods may be violent, but we must be willing to face great challenges in order to achieve great things.”

Tamika continued, “We will grow soft without books, Night Vale,” as she waved her favorite copy of Helen DeWitt’s The Last Samurai, onlookers shielding their eyes from the forbidden tome.

I don’t want to disagree too much with young Tamika, I – I respect her leadership and her vast knowledge of books, but…not everyone is cut out for reading difficult literature. Perhaps…perhaps we could split the difference. We could select just a few people in town who are allowed to read challenging books. That way the masses don’t have to be exposed to complex ideas, and a small committee of trustworthy people, like Tamika, can tell us in a gentle way what those books say. Very quietly, so we don’t have to hear them. It’ll be all the fun and simplicity of an intellectual oligarchy, but without all the awful reading.

Intern Maureen has returned to our studio. She was swept away a few weeks back by an enormous gust of wind, and we thought her lost. We held services for her at the Rec Center. Her whole family was there. Many of her friends from the Night Vale Community College came, or at least, I assume they were friends from school. They all had human bodies with coyote heads, and they were eating armadillos out of a duffel bag. Huh. College kids.

Well, we were all glad to see Maureen come home safe. Or, most of us. Her family seemed…disappointed, this being the second time they’ve mourned her death in vain. They seemed emotionally exhausted. Not angry. They told her “This is the last time, Maureen. This is it! No more!”

Anyway, today at work, Maureen’s been doing some research into carnivals. And according to her, carnivals need money to operate. If we do not want a carnival in town, then we should just not give them our money, and the carnival will go away. Maureen has also handed me a report saying…oh, my! Night Vale! The carnival grounds have been completed. A 40-foot tall wheel with empty compartments spins lazily in the hot sun, as broken speakers sing cacophonous platitudes over simplistic chord progressions.

Carnival workers are brandishing hammers next to a tower inscribed with ascending numbers and topped with an alarm bell.

Night Vale residents have gathered near the grounds, but are not yet entering. A group of the carnival workers with white faces and bulbous noses and large shoes have opened the gates to the carnival grounds, and are cooing and beckoning our citizens to enter. These masked interlopers wish to sway you with broad toothy smiles, but they are nightmares, Night Vale. They are lies incarnate.

Remember that we are a great town. We are a great town that does not back down to grave danger. Are we not the same town that defeated a Smiling God, and a fascist corporatocracy, and once – once – survived a Street Cleaning Day?

I said earlier that I did not know what to do in the face of a catastrophe, but I was wrong, Night Vale. I was wrong. When I think only of myself, I am scared. But knowing I am with you, I am not scared. We are in this together. I have a community I can trust and love. There is no need to be frightened of treacherous outsiders.

Outsiders? Wait. How did these outsiders get in? Night Vale is not so easily found, so…how have they so easily found it?

Oh! Ohh! The carnival gates have opened! All of Night Vale is there. Only I sit contained in my booth, helpless as usual.

The carnival workers smile wider, and wider, and wider, and wider. Breath is heard, loud and wet and without an obvious source. The birds are gone. There is a fearful infinity of an instant.

I take you now, uncertain of what this next instant will bring, and none of you near a radio anyway, to the weather.

[“Bremen” by PigPen Theatre Co]

The carnival has left. Night Vale citizens resisted entering the metal gates. They formed a semicircle around the opening and shouted, “Interlopers!” while pointing. As is our friendly, mandatory way of welcoming strangers.

Soon the painted people backed away, closing themselves into their miserable flatbed corral. They disassembled their mechanical monstrosities and drove them away. Night Vale, en masse, waved fists and sticks and farm tools and cactuses and animal parts. Our citizens chanted curses upon the carnival.

The carnival employees, in their haste, left behind several artifacts of their attempted threat to our sanctity – our sanity. We found clear plastic bags filled with cheaply-produced dolls. There was a large styrofoam-stuffed green and orange squirrel. As the trucks drove away, proud and vigilant Night Vale citizens set the squirrel ablaze, that unholy totem of that unholy carnival.

The sun long gone, presumably scared away by the unexpected visitors, the happy fire of victory shone out to meet the tail lights of the retreating trucks.

Witnesses heard the carnival perpetrators saying things like, “Run!” and “Get out of here!” as they made their way to their trucks. Shouts of “What the hell is this town?” and “Where the hell are we?” and “This is definitely not Modesto!” and “I think they’re gonna kill us, Stacy! Run!” were the verbal white flags, signaling our triumph as a town – as a proud community that stood for itself once again.

And Intern Maureen, who is…hey! Maureen? You look upset. Are you upset? Is everything OK?

Uhh, Maureen does not look happy, listeners. I’m not sure why Maureen is not happy about today’s victory she helped bring about. You are part of this, Maureen! This victory is also yours!

Maureen? Do you not love victory over outsiders who mean us harm? Maureen, do you–

Well! Maureen left the control booth. She just got up in a huff and left. Huh. Teenagers. I guess.

Stay tuned next for people arguing about sports. Not on the radio, somewhere else. Somewhere and soon people will be arguing about sports. I don’t know what’s happening next on the radio. I never do.

And as always, goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

Today’s proverb: Say what you will about dance, but language is a limited form of expression.