15/12/2015 13:30:53 ¶ ●

## Episode 80 - A New Sheriff in Town

I fought the law, and the law won. I ignored the law, and the law won. I abided by the law, and the law won.

Welcome to Night Vale.

There’s a new sheriff in town, Night Vale. The former sheriff, whose name we never knew, whose face we never saw, and whose voice was only ever heard through a vocoder, is gone. Our former sheriff was secretive, reclusive, really into classical music, and kleptocracy, rarely made public appearances, and, when he did, it was with a balaclava and cape.

The new sheriff has a more public persona, refusing to wear the traditional mask or cape, and actually allowing their first name to be known (it’s Sam, by the way).

The sheriff called a press conference this morning to announce that they are taking over the Secret Police, effective immediately.

More on this story as it develops. But first, an editorial.

It’s the holidays, Night Vale. I know many of you will get to spend this time with people you love. I know I’ll be sharing some eggnog with my dearest family: Carlos, Abby, Janice…others.

But, let’s not forget those people who quietly make our lives better. The postal carriers, the baristas and food servers, cab drivers, and the agents from a Vague, Yet Menacing, Government Agency who sit outside our homes, night after night, recording all of our conversations and activities. Think how boring a job domestic espionage must be. They are out there at all hours. Do they ever get to sleep? Or spend holidays with families? Or take vacations? Who even knows?

So, the other day, swept up in the holiday spirit, I took some delicious pfeffernuesse cookies out to the windowless van across from my home, and gave them to the agent sitting in the back. Her name is Monica Barnwell, and she was just a lovely person. She appreciated that I recognized all the hard work she has put in the last several years surveilling me, and I thanked her for her service to our community.

We had some small talk, and then I said, “well, gotta get back to my dull life!” as I looked down at my shoes.

She said, “Thanks, Cecil.”

And then I said, “Monica, would you like me to…I don’t know…question the world government, or be more anti-war, or talk more like a political dissonant, or something? Just to make your day a little more exciting.”

“Oh, that’d be so fun, Cecil, thanks!” she said.

Then I went back inside and told my boyfriend I wanted to get a beret. Either red or camouflage.

So Night Vale, this holiday season, think about all the people you may take for granted. You don’t have to give them a gift or anything; just a thank you, and a smile for all their hard work is enough. And, if you have any particularly juicy secrets, consider brightening some agent’s day by announcing them in a loud, clear voice to the nearest hidden microphone in your home.

The new sheriff has spoken. They opened their press conference with the following statement:

“Citizens of Night Vale, we have a crisis on our hands, and that crisis is…”

Then the sheriff performed a ten-minute modern dance piece, set to music by Steve Reich (of course), that frantically yet lyrically conveyed a disdain for the fiscal irresponsibility of current mayor Dana Cardinal.

The press corps loved the piece, especially its subtle tribute to choreographer Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker’s sweeping repetitive style, even though the Sheriff’s muscular, longitudinal movements obviously indicated heavy training in Lester Horton’s methodology. They applauded politely, and the sheriff continued with their speech. Quote:

“Our Secret Police force has been secretly requesting budget increases to help cover overtime and new equipment. Maybe you didn’t know about it,” the sheriff said, “because it, you know, secret and all. But we were requesting it, secretly. Don’t print that! It’s a secret!”

The sheriff went on.

“Instead, the mayor has decided to use our money to help the citizens of our unfriendly neighboring town, Desert Bluffs. We will not only see a rise in crime, because we have a mayor who decided to disrupt our stable economy, but we will also face a lack of financial ability to effectively stop this crime.

“I will secretly undermine the mayor’s authority, with the help of the City Council and some lizard people I know, to keep Night Vale ’safe.’

“Hey! Don’t report my finger-quotes around the word ‘safe.’ They’re secret!

“This is my promise to you, as your new sheriff.”

One reporter then asked, “Umm, what happened to the old sheriff?”

The new sheriff responded by painting a canvas entirely blue.

More on this story, but first, an update on the trial of the century.

Judge Siobhan Azdaq has brought in a computer programmer named Melony Pennington to develop the first-ever all-A.I. Jury for the trial of Hiram McDaniels. Attorneys have had a difficult time finding a jury of peers for McDaniels, as he is literally a five-headed dragon and, outside of his family, seems to be the only one of his kind in the area. Not knowing how to find actual dragons to serve on the jury, and not willing to have a five-headed dragon unfairly juried by all humans, judge Azdaq called for science to solve this problem. Because, according to Azdaq, science has solved every other problem.

Both the prosecuting attorney, Troy Walsh, and the court-appointed defense attorney, also named Troy Walsh, agreed that this is a fair solution, “and artificial intelligence is probably a thing anyone with a Macbook and some Red Bull has already mastered, like, years ago,” they said in unison, with identical smiles and matching haircuts.

Pennington has been working with young computer prodigy, Meghan Wallaby, who is an 11-year-old girl who inhabits what once was the body of a Russian sailor, and also was only born three years ago. But then, the specifics of her identity and her manifestation within time are really none of your business.

Wallaby is helping Pennington engineer a sentient program that can think exactly like six different five-headed dragons. Meghan has had a real affinity for computers ever since the…uh, the incident in the school gym that one time.

The other members of the jury will be humans. Auditions for those jury slots will be conducted Wednesday at the Night Vale Community Theater.

Four of Hiram’s five heads are being brought up on charges of conspiracy and attempted murder of our mayor. The fifth head, the violet one, is being courted as a key witness by the prosecution, but they’re having a difficult time getting a private conversation with it.

The trial is scheduled for early next year.

Oh, by the way, listeners, I ran into former station intern Maureen! I actually didn’t notice her at first, as I was listening to an album I just got. It’s a new musical about Alexander Hamilton, who became our nation’s fourth president because he successfully killed former vice president Aaron Burr in a duel.

Anyway, the soundtrack is fantastic, and I was totally engrossed in my lip syncing and self-styled choreography when I saw Maureen waving to me from down the street. I saw she was with someone, but his baseball hat was pulled down over his face, so I didn’t get a good look at him.

Maureen then asked me for a letter stating she’d completed her internship, because she needed those two credits for college. I reminded her she spent most of her internship flickering in and out of existence, so…I couldn’t write the letter. But, I was really excited to see she was dating someone.

Then she said something about not assuming people are dating just because they’re hanging out, blah blah blah, I don’t even like boys, blah blah, but I kept staring at the boy in the ball cap, and I did not like him one bit. I felt like I knew him from somewhere, but I couldn’t put my finger on where.

Oh, well. I’m sure it won’t come up again.

I told Maureen it was a good thing she wasn’t into boys, because this one seemed like bad news.

“Really bad news,” I whispered, and Maureen groaned and rolled her eyes in what I assume was agreement.

Then I said, “Good seeing you!” and walked away.

She shouted, “Come back!” and “Where’s my credit letter?” while waving her fist and cussing, which is (I guess) how kids today say “goodbye.”

Oh, listeners! I need to make an apology. Earlier in today’s show, I mentioned giving some cookies to the agent from a Vague, Yet Menacing, Government Agency, and in the process I revealed her full name as Monica Barnwell, and the location of her operation as in front of my home. Because of this security breach, Monica has apparently lost her job as a secret agent and had to go into hiding for the rest of her life, changing her looks and identity, and never seeing her family or friends again.

Really sorry about that one, Monica.

Let’s have a look at traffic. What do you say?

Feet apart, toes together. Right foot turned 45 degrees. No need for mathematical precision, but if you have a protractor, break it into pieces and swallow it. Absorb its numbers like nutrients. Bend your knees. Bend other things that allow for bending. Do not force malleability.

That right foot, though? What’s it doing? Did you move your foot?

Memories aren’t real.

Do you control your self? Not if you don’t remember being in control. Maybe we pretend to have experienced things so we don’t have to actually understand why they happened.

Your foot is flexing now. Why? What silent siren’s song calls your right foot?

You are sitting. You are passive, still.

Your left foot idles in the dark, complacent and obedient.

Your right foot serves a greater god. It flexes for its idol, all plastic and steel, and full of fire and fumes. Your right foot wishes for you to pray with a clear mind, and open eyes.

This has been traffic.

And now an update on the new sheriff’s press conference.

The sheriff announced that while they couldn’t do anything about the money the mayor has already wasted on neighboring towns, the Secret Police would certainly make it clear to anyone from Desert Bluffs who might be trying to enter Night Vale that they would not be wanted.

The sheriff announced a plan to tag all Desert Bluffs citizens with bright orange hats that have the word “UNWANTED” written in blinking L.E.D. lights across the front.

As the sheriff said this, several journalists shifted uncomfortably in their seats. This is because their seats were uncomfortable, but they still nodded excitedly about the sheriff’s cool new idea.

One journalist pointed out, though, that the orange hat thing would be an added expense, what with having to print up hats and design the L.E.D.s and all that. “And this whole press conference seems to be about our city’s lack of funding for new projects,” the journalist said.

In the tense silence that followed, the journalist added, “Plus, everyone from Desert Bluffs is pretty easy to identify, what with all the blood on their sh–”

But then the reporter was helpfully tackled and muzzled by the other reporters who did not want to get off on the wrong foot with the new sheriff.

As the great television news man Edward R. Murrow once said, “Hey, don’t rock the boat, okay?”

In the commotion, no one seemed to notice the appearance of several strangers, standing around the perimeter of the conference room. Our new station intern Kareem was there, and claimed the strangers really didn’t appear so much as seemed to have always been there, even though he was positive they were not there at the start.

They were completely still, except for their breathing. They were definitely breathing. And everyone heard it.

No one knew what the strangers wanted, but they were certain it wasn’t good.

The members of the press stepped backward into the middle of the room. They waited. And from the silence came a noise. There came a sudden…

Oh. It’s almost 20 past the hour, listeners. I had better get to the weather report. Here you go.

[“She Knows” by John Fullbright]

Where was I? Ah, a-ha.

They waited. From the silence came a noise. Then there came a sudden…

OK, yeah. Basically, everyone was quiet until a reporter asked the sheriff, “Who are these people? Will the Secret Police protect us?”

The sheriff did not respond. It was quiet, save for the strangers’ breathing for about three minutes.

Then the questions and cries came in increasing volume and pace, “Who are these people? Sheriff, why aren’t the moving? What do they want? Has anyone seen my phone? We’re going to die!” Et cetera.

Eventually the room devolved into panic, members of the press shoving to get out, but in a way that suggested that the exit was through each other.

Then the sheriff raised their hand, and announced into the microphone, “Everything’s fine.”

No one believed the sheriff, and the sheriff, knowing this, rephrased the statement.

“Some things are not fine, but other things are fine! This,” and here, the sheriff indicated the whole room, “is probably fine.”

The panicked reporters were now filled with both fear and doubt. The sheriff stood, stupefied, as a single bead of sweat rolled down their brow, along the nose, forming a thin wet crack across their entire face. No one breathed. Except the strangers, of course, who, by the time the droplet had completed its erratic journey, were somehow several feet closer to the press corps – despite never having visibly moved an inch.

Everyone in the room, including the sheriff, knew that death was upon them. None of them were afraid of death. They were, instead, terrified of what would come immediately before, and immediately after, death.

Listeners, like I said earlier, our own intern Kareem was part of that press corps today. So, to the family of intern Kareem, he’s a good intern. And is doing great work. He got back from the press conference a little bit ago saying he had a great time, and he also provided some excellent reporting.

According to Kareem, the strangers encroached slowly on the remaining journalists, moving without seeming to move. No one could look the strangers in the eye. They did not know what the strangers wanted of them, just that their lives were likely over. Kareem said he heard someone crying, another person frantically chanting, and he was trying to take it all in.

But then he heard a flapping of wings, like a pteranodon or a librarian. And, looking up, he saw a flash of blackness and long feathered creatures descending from a dark sky. And the next thing he knew, he was back at the radio station, safely interning once again.

Kareem called the creatures that saved everyone “angels,” but I reminded him that there is no such thing, and according to the A.P. Style Guide, it is illegal to acknowledge the existence of angels, so this is what…

Oh.

[Cecil clears his throat]

Uh, Kareem is now trying to argue with me about the fluidity of vernacular and the constant evolution of language.

Ugh. Okay.

All right, listeners, I need to deal with this.

Stay tuned next for the real life actualization of that dream you had last Tuesday. You’ll make a cute couple, so congratulations!

And as always, goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

Today’s proverb: There are hot singles in your area, and they all died exactly 20 years ago, on a night just like tonight.