01/06/2015 13:01:47 ¶ ●

## Episode 69 - Fashion Week

But don’t you see? You never needed anything else. The weird was within you the whole time.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Hello listeners. Later, News, capital N. But forget about that. First news, lower case N.

It’s Fashion Week in Night Vale, that exciting time of year in which we all get to decide what is fashionable and what is not. To use the charming colloquialism, we decide what is “in the sphere” and what is “spared from the sphere”. This is Night Vale’s hippest event, and everyone is there, because it is required by law. So everyone is there, and scared, and it is hip as heck.

Michelle Nguyen is the only one who doesn’t look scared. This is her favorite holiday, and she is wearing a vintage summoning cloak and a dog catcher’s cap, and has two tiny neon signs attached to her face indicating her eyes. She is the most fashionable person in town, and certain to be spared from the sphere.

Others are less lucky. Town clerk, Veronica Rothschild, is running around saying “oh no, oh no”, and adjusting her unfashionably distressed eyeglasses, casting glances backward at the sphere which is moving implacably to devour the unhip and absorb the outdated. Soon she will stumble, and then the sphere will be upon her. It’s like that popular joke: why did the hipster burn her mouth? Because she survived the sphere and was able to eat her pizza before it was cool. And sure enough, Michelle Nguyen, pizza in hand, is cackling madly watching the chaos and listening intently to headphones that are plugged into nothing at all.

The Sheriff’s Secret Police are seeking any leads or witnesses in the case of the disappearances at the housing development of the Shambling Orphan. Over the last several weeks, at least twelve people have vanished without a trace. Except for our memories of their previous existence which, according to a roving gang of pedantic philosophers, who has been interrupting Secret Police press conferences, does in fact count as a trace. “Memories are as real as any of our constructed experiences of the world,” said one philosopher, without invitation, interrupting important information about the missing persons. “I bet you think reality is a thing,” he continued, much to the delight of his fellow philosophers, and not a single other person in attendance.

The philosophers were last seen high-fiving each other while drinking cheap, but locally made canned beer. The missing persons were last seen at home, and on the street, about town, about their lives, just normally living, until suddenly and unaccountably, they no longer were seen anywhere at all. Residents of the Shambling Orphan and the nearby development, the Desert Pines, express mild concern over their strong fears about their abject terror.

More on the story as we grasp at narrative threads that can assuage our helplessness in the face of inexplicable tragedy.

Listeners, last week I had my niece Janice over while her parents were taking a romantic long weekend in the kingdom of the Deros, deep within the hollow earth. Which is of course easily accessed by ordering any item from the Arby’s market fresh menu. Yeah, it was really nice to get some time alone with Janice. She’s getting older, you know, and is moving from a child, which is something of an abstract concept, to a person with adult ideas and thoughts and feelings, a human being who you can relate to and with, which is also an abstract concept. We talked, and watched movies. She let me put on Cat Ballou five times in a row, because that was Carlos and I’s movie night thing and I had been missing that. We ate popcorn. I asked her about any girls or boys she might be interested in, and she diverted me politely but awkwardly to other subjects. I let her. It’s not for me to pry, that’s the government’s job. And if I’m ever curious, I can look at the public registry of middle school crushes, which is constantly being updated via mind scanning satellite.

Janice gave me a feeling of family. I rarely feel anymore. Eh, it was a good feeling. I hope I will be able to visit Janice regularly.

In an earlier program, we brought you this week’s Community Calendar. However, it appears that there were a few errors in our reporting, so we would like to offer some corrections to our previous calendar.

Monday we said was free hot chocolate day at the Moonlite All-Nite Diner. In actuality, Monday will be the day that a great craft crashes down from the heavens, and we all will surround the ominous bulk of it, still glowing hot and smoking from the impact, whispering and wondering, helpless to act.

Tuesday we said was sign-up day for the Night Vale adult kickball league in Mission Grove Park. We were right about an event taking place in the park, but it appears that this event will instead be a creature emerging from the craft, towering over us and, in a language we should not understand and yet, and yet we do understand, demanding that we worship it.

Wednesday we described as being just a nice day to go outside and take a walk. Just a really nice day for it, we said. Stretch those gams, we said. We said the word “gams” over and over, seemingly unable to say anything else. As it turns out, Wednesday is actually the day we will stage a brief but ultimately unsuccessful resistance against the horde of slimy, many-appendaged alien warriors pouring out from the landing craft.

Thursday we said would be the day that beings from another world fully defeat us. And we will line the roads and avenues on our knees, heads bowed in recognition of our new masters, our new gods. Turns out we were 100 per cent right on that one, so we didn’t completely get the week schedule wrong.

Friday we said would be the day that your citizen renewal packets are due, you know, the reams and reams of paperwork probing every personal detail that you have to fill out in order to remain a citizen of Night Vale. Well, it’s still the day to do that, but instead of turning it in to the City Council, who will at that point be locked in a hyperdimensional prison by the occupying extraterrestrials, you will instead turn it in to the supervisor of your assigned human pod, so that they can gauge how much energy can be extracted from your body.

Saturday we said was Caturday. We didn’t mean anything by this, we just thought it would be funny. People didn’t find it funny. They wrote and called the station, demanding an explanation. Janice Rio from down the street seemed especially disturbed. “What do you mean it’s Caturday? Will we be attacked by giant cats? Will the giant cats build huge black cubes all over town? Will I be forced to enter a strange black cube that will absorb my essence until there’s nothing left of me? I am allergic to cats!” Janice cried.

Well no, Janice, and I’m sorry for causing a panic. Saturday will actually be the day the invading aliens start feeding on us, so don’t worry, no cats that day. Caturday is just a fun day to say. Caturday!

And Sunday, well, we were right about Sunday, so there you go. Just as we said, Sunday will be the day that Tamika Flynn and the beings who claim to be angels team up to lead a dramatic attack against the occupying force with the help of every Night Vale citizen, driving away our new masters and reinstating our old masters, who are brutal and awful, but who at least are a brutal and awful we know and understand.

This has been Corrections. Or, the Community Calendar. Um, Community Corrections? I don’t know. This has been what it was.

Fashion Week continues, and the sphere is huge and pulsing. Everyone is screaming and running and looking just as fashionable as they ever have in their soon-to-be-ended lives. Director of emergency press conferences, Pamela Winchell, is ostentatiously using decorated cigarette holders of ludicrous length, despite the fact that she does not actually smoke. She’s not holding them delicately between her first two fingers, but instead gripping hundreds of cigarette holders in her fist, like a quiver of arrows. “See how hip,” she is saying in a booming voice, levitating quite fashionably three feet off the ground. “See how absolutely of the time I am!” The sphere hums next to her for a moment, and then rolls by, leaving her be. So it seems like this year, holding a quiver of cigarette holders is very “spared from the sphere” indeed.

Good survival tip there.

Old Woman Josie, speaking from the headquarters of Strex Operatic Limited, said that the New Old Night Vale Opera House is complete, and that rehearsals are under full swing for opening night, on June 15, of a brand new opera written, composed, directed, by and starring legendary screen actor Lee Marvin, who will also form the entirety of the cast and will be selling concessions during intermission. Josie said that Night Vale citizens should expect some of the usual disruptions resulting from rehearsal of any kind of live performance. Namely, stop and go traffic in a several block radius around thetheater, a wake of buzzards circling over the city, and a slight uptick in the number of patients at the emergency room.

So it sounds like this opera, whatever opera means and whatever it is, will be a blast!

And now, Traffic.

A man came and went. He was here before and now isn’t. How briefly the moment of is before the endless was. He was not a serious man, but then this is not a serious life. We all heard him speak, did we not? We still do. He is speaking still, even though he is not anything else at all. How comforting the continuation of communication past that point. He was our tour guide through the cosmos, he would say, and then apologize for saying it. He was not a serious man. But then, this is not a serious life. A man came and went. He was here before, and now isn’t. We miss him.

This has been Traffic.

The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home made a public statement that she will not wait any longer. She will destroy Mayor Dana Cardinal once and for all, and claim the mayorship for herself. In her statement, which was stitched into the inside lining of my jacket this morning, she said: “You want opera? You want grand performance? On opening night, you will see a spectacle indeed. A spectacle indeed.”

Meanwhile, still no word from Hiram McDaniels, the literal five-headed dragon and the Faceless Old Woman’s previous partner in crime. According to local normal citizen, Frank Chen, Hiram left town weeks ago and won’t be seen around here again. Frank’s other four heads agreed, except the purple head, which had a bag over it and was mumbling, “Please don’t include me in your foolish schemes ever again! If it were up to me, things would be very different! Things are different every time it is up to me!”

The other heads hushed the head with the bag over it and reiterated that they are just a regular guy, like you or me or anyone else who identifies as a regular guy, with things like a pick-up and pieces of denim clothing, and enjoyment of certain types of music, and being completely wingless, despite how powerless this must feel.

Oh, hear that? Listeners, the time has come. The sphere has arrived at the station. It hums, looming; it considers,humming; it looms, the sphere will decide whether the station and the souls within it are hip enough to be spared. I tell you now that I… did not prepare for the sphere. It’s not that I forgot, i-it is that I do not care, and I’m not afraid. I don’t know. I wear leather pants and a Hawaiian shirt and a baseball hat made of honeycomb. I just wore the same thing I slept in last night. If I get ingested by a fashion-conscious sphere for wearing comfy casual clothes, then that’ll just be what happened to me. I don’t write the story of my life, I only live it.

So, while the sphere does whatever it will do next, I take you all - well, all of you hip enough to still remain, to the weather.

[ “Evelyn” by Kim Tillman & Silent Films (thekimtillman.com & silent films) ]

Back from the weather, still here! The sphere moved on and is now out in the scrublands and sand wastes, deciding which cacti and cottontail rabbits are of the now, and which must be assimilated into the pulsating dark innards of the sphere.

Of course, radio is always hip! Radio is timeless! Community radio exists outside of time and space and so is the most fashionable thing of all. Of course. We all know this. So it’s good that our station was spared and that I will continue doing radio for the foreseeable future.

I’m not stopping radio broadcasting. I won’t be doing it here, but I’ll be continuing to do it. Right.

So I guess it’s time then. Um, at the start of all this, I promised News, capital N. Here is the News.

My next broadcast as host of Night Vale Community Radio - will be my last, in Night Vale. I am moving to the Desert Otherworld to spend more time with sweet, talented Carlos and the community he has built out there in that vast, sandy alternate dimension. There is a radio station there built by Kevin, who.. seems to have himself pretty under control, and his studio only has a little bit of blood, so I should be able to continue doing what I’m doing just fine. I won’t be doing it in a way that you will be able to hear. But that, too, is just fine.

I’ve missed Carlos greatly, and I’ve also grown weary of a mayor that can’t protect herself, of a town that fears outsiders. Of a Faceless Old Woman who secretly lives in my home and publicly wants to do me harm. And I think of a Desert Otherworld where it’s always sunny, and mountains are real. There is a helpful masked army that can build anything, and your cell phone battery never dies, even if reception is 4G at best.

There is the question: is Night Vale worth it? Is Night Vale good? Is it a good town?

Well… I will, for the first time in my long life, live somewhere other than Night Vale. But, as a poet once said, “no matter where you end up, you’re still from your home town.”

I’ll be back to visit from time to time, of course. I need to see Janice and my old friend Josie, and many others besides. I am not gone, but I am going. I’m going to live somewhere I can feel good about, somewhere newer and better for me.

[sighs] Stay tuned next, eventually, for me reporting on the opening of the Opera House, and then not reporting on anything else here, ever again.

Penultimately, good night, Night Vale. Good night.

Guest post by Maisie-Whimsie. Many thanks to tiikerikani for proofreading.

15/06/2015 14:05:21 ¶ ●

## Episode 70A - Taking Off

Kevin: We all have to start somewhere. We all have to end somewhere, too, but let’s concentrate on the other thing.

Welcome to…well, hmm. Welcome to the Desert Otherworld.

We should come up with a better name for this place. Names are, after all, extremely important.

Hi, I’m your radio host Kevin. I’m speaking to you from our brand new station! And this is our inaugural broadcast. I’m so excited to be back on the air! I’m not sure we have any listeners yet, but we will. We will!

Later in the show, we’ll be talking to Doug and Alisha, leaders of the army of masked giants who roam this desert, and who have been instrumental in building our new city. They’ve been so welcoming to us outsiders! Not all outsiders, though. They are, after all, a violent and territorial army. But some outsiders. People like me and like my friend Carlos. He’s a scientist. He’s a beautiful man who does beautiful things.

I have Carlos on the phone with us right now with some breaking news. Carlos! Tell everyone about the huge project you’ve been working on this past year.

Carlos: Hi, Kevin! Thanks for having me on the show.

So, first off, Doug and Alisha are here in my kitchen. Alisha built a refrigerator from some cactus pads, twine, and three different kinds of birds, and now they’re making a bunch of pasta salad for lunch this week! They’ll save some for you if you’d like.

Kevin: How delightful! I’m…totally disgusted by pasta salad. Can’t stand the taste or the smell. In fact, to look at it causes me to heave. But thank you, that’s so kind!

Carlos: …Right.

So, this new experiment – and I have to tell you, I am really excited about it. You know how our cell phones always work in this desert otherworld, even though there are no towers, and how they never seem to run out of battery?

Kevin: Yes! I love taking these facts for granted!

Carlos: Well, I’m on the verge of uncovering what’s causing that. Here in my laboratory, which Doug and Alisha and one of the other soldiers whose name is [ten seconds of guttural throat noise] built for me, I’ve been hard at work pacing about in front of a row of conical flasks, beakers, and Y-tubes, furiously writing Greek letters and Arabic numbers and I think, later today, I will make an enormous breakthrough.

Kevin: What did you find out?

Carlos: I can’t say yet. I’m just waiting on my computer to finish calculating the–

Kevin: …Everything okay?

Carlos: I don’t know. Alisha and Doug look really agitated. They’re jumping up and down by the window. The other giant soldiers are running into formation outside. I need to see what’s wrong.

Kevin: While Carlos checks on our favorite soldiers, let’s get an update now on the roller coaster inhabitants!

I’m referring to the roller coaster Doug and Alisha built for our new town months ago. It looks terribly fun! It has a tall first hill, and a 90º drop off that is almost 600 feet, I’m told, and then, it goes into a series of loops and turns and figure 8s and then some spirals, where the riders go upside down several times! Per second! And then, there’s a sheet of flames that, as you approach, it looks like you’re about to go right through the fire, but at the last second, the track spirals again and you go through the fire upside down!

Ohh! Anyway, it’s an exciting-looking ride. I haven’t been on it yet. That’s because after they started it on its first trip, they haven’t been able to stop it. They didn’t invent brakes, so…that’s an issue!

And even though they cut the power to the ride, it’s still going, with the same passengers, caught in an interminable cycle of fun!

Ohh! We have Carlos back on the line again! Carlos?

Carlos: Doug and Alisha are gone. It turns out that the commotion was over another army marching along the horizon. Doug and Alisha ran screaming around the house and through the kitchen, overturning my cutting board and grabbing their weapons. Alisha took my chef’s knife, and Doug made a makeshift slughorn out of one of my large funnels so that he could call their army to action.

Kevin: Good for them, protecting our community!

Carlos: No, but…I– I– I was trying to explain that the other army was marching perpendicular to us, they were not marching towards us. This desert is filled with small armies, always marching in different directions. We– we can’t attack them all for no reason!

And now my kitchen counter is demolished.

Kevin: Oh, it’ll grow back.

So? I’m so excited to learn more about your research into the strange properties of this region. I think you once called this desert otherworld “the most scientifically interesting community in the U.S.”

Carlos: Well…no, my exact words were–

Kevin: So…when do you expect the results? Sounds like whatever you come up with could possibly be a monumental shift in how we perceive thermodynamic laws.

Carlos: Well, I’m at my lab right now, hunched over my computer, waiting for it to complete its final report, then comparing its results to my thousands of hand-written notes from the past year. I believe I can pinpoint the exact source of this desert’s energy. It shouldn’t be long. Please don’t rush me.

Kevin: Great! Let us know soon, though!

While Carlos does that, perhaps I can tell you all a little bit about our new radio station. Take you on an audio tour, if you will.

We have a tall broadcast tower made of stones and adobe. Those zig-zaggy electrical bolts visibly shooting outward from the top of the tower? Those are actual radio waves!

Inside the building itself, we have a small broadcast booth with a couple of new mics. Some of the members of the masked army of giants helped me decorate my studio, too! It was so empty and bloodless before. It required a lot of lizards and rodents, but…it’s finally starting to feel like home!

I’ve got a producer’s booth just off to my right. I can see my old intern Vanessa in there, hi Vanessa!! We’re a bit understaffed, so Vanessa has been having to act as my producer as well as head of sales and marketing, and even answering phones! Good thing she has a doppelgänger to help out. Most people kill their double, but…that’s such a waste of a good opportunity! The more the merrier, the more productive, I say!

Oh! And we’re hiring right now! If you have experience in any of the following areas: ad sales, graphic design, office management, entomology, Fortran programming, falconry, or sports law, please send your resume to Radio Station, Care of Kevin.

We have no postal service in the desert otherworld, nor any mailboxes, so it’s important that you carefully re-read The Secret by Rhonda Byrne in order to wish your resume into my office.

Sounds like Carlos is back on the line now! Did you get the results from your…

Carlos: Doug and Alisha are back.

Kevin: Oh, good! So wonderful to have dear friends around to be a part of your brilliant achievement.

Carlos: Yeah, but they’re in no condition to celebrate the great strides of scientific study right now. Most of the army returned from fighting, but there are more than a dozen who did not. Alisha lost two fingers, and Doug is bleeding quite badly because of a compound fracture in his forearm. Everyone who returned is in treatable condition. I believe they’ll be fine. But they’re wounded, and need lots of rest.

[Carlos’ voice turns away from the phone] And no more fighting for a long time!

[Carlos again speaks directly into the phone] It’s a mess over here.

Kevin: Good thing they have such a good and helpful friend in you.

So, tell us about your study on the strange energy here in the desert.

Carlos: Ugh. I– I c– I can’t yet. The army came in so quickly, dropping their weapons everywhere, along with some detached limbs that I don’t even think belong to them, and all of my journals, which I had left out and open on my desk, have been rendered unusable. There are broken beakers and blood-soaked composition notebooks everywhere. I don’t even know where to begin cleaning up all of this blood!

Kevin, faintly: Ohhh. Ohhh!

Carlos: I’m sorry, did you just say something?

Kevin: Nnnnnnnnnno? I…just…like your story. Carry on.

Carlos: [Carlos’ voice turns away from the phone] Doug? Doug? Come back!

[Carlos again speaks directly into the phone] Kevin, I have to go. Doug just constructed a makeshift splint out of rocks and snakes. He just grabbed his axe and ran out the back door.

Ugh. And there goes Alisha.

[Carlos’ voice turns away from the phone] Stop going to war! You need rest!

[Carlos again speaks directly into the phone] Call you back, Kevin. They can’t go on like this.

Kevin: Oh, listeners, I’m getting word of strong winds out of the east, stirring up dust devils and hurling plant debris and weak-willed animals through the air. This is a rare sunless day for our otherworld desert.

While Carlos tries to get his notes un-bloodied, let’s have a closer look at the weather.

[“Pyramid” by Jason Webley]

Kevin: Wow! That weather report was informative! I had no idea how dangerous a storm that was until I heard that report.

To be a radio broadcaster who gets to tell stories about things that make us unhappy thrills me to my bones! Because by telling people about all that can make us unhappy, I prepare them to truly enjoy those happy moments when they come.

Once, my hometown of Desert Bluffs had a deadly outbreak of throat spiders. Hundreds were diagnosed with this usually-treatable disease, but it was a particularly virulent strain, and many people died, or were left without voices and lower jaws when it was all over. Almost a day wouldn’t go by where you didn’t hear a fit of strenuous coughing, punctuated by a muffled *pop* only to turn around and see a cascade of tiny spiders pouring over the craggy ledge that used to be a person’s lower teeth.

Each day I got to report these upsetting stories, but the best part about it was when Desert Bluffs residents eventually stopped losing part of their faces to throat spiders, and we all rejoiced in our newly-healthy and happy lives.

As the saying goes, “it’s always dawn.”

Oh! And speaking of sunshine, Carlos just arrived here, live in the studio with me! Carlos? Did you go out in this weather? You’re covered in dust, and those look like friction burns in the shape of lab goggles on your face. Are you okay? Did Doug and Alisha make it back?

Carlos: Not yet. They…

What is this all over your studio? Is that barbecue sauce?

Kevin: Oh, that? That’s just blood! And some old bones, and loose teeth, and beaks and things. I finally decorated, thanks for noticing! And I just notice you have a piece of paper in your hand! That must be your final report! Look at how we both notice things about each other! I love that!

Carlos: I…I, um…

Kevin: Well, you sound sad. Which is great news, because it means you’ll be happy again eventually! It’s a tough day, what with all the weather and the wars and the blood. But you’re boyfriend will soon be moving from Night Vale to come live here with you!

Carlos: Well, um…about that…

Kevin: And? And? You finally have the scientific results of your hard scientific work!

Carlos: I don’t. I don’t have results, Kevin! When the army marched out again I went back to trying to recover my notes. I had just gotten the lab desktops clean when Alisha’s large dog bounded through the lab and out the front door, sending every glass tube and jar crashing onto the floor. When I bent over to see the damage, I saw my computer there too, just on the tiles, snapped nearly in half, a tuft of white fur covering the keyboard, singed slightly by the smoke streaking out of the broken monitor.

I lost it all, Kevin. My entire year of study is gone.

Kevin: What’s the paper, then? Did you at least learn some of your results?

Carlos: This is nothing. It’s, um, just a letter I wrote to, uh…a friend.

Kevin: Oh? I love letters! Letters are so fun to receive!

Carlos: Mmm, not this one. It’s a sad letter. A letter about regrets, about mistakes.

You know how sometimes you spend a lot of time with someone, and you think that the someone makes you happy, but then suddenly one day you realize…maybe you weren’t happy at all. Maybe both would be better off doing what you love in different places. Without each other. Maybe neither of you were as happy as either of you thought.

Kevin: That is a sad-sounding letter. I don’t understand or like that at all.

Carlos: I have spent the last year all wrong.

Kevin: I believe in you, Carlos! Don’t let destruction, blood, and war hold you back! You’re a brilliant scientist!

Carlos: I realize I need to just start everything over, rededicate myself. I need to do it right this time. No more distractions. I can’t spend another year like this one.

So…it pains me to carry this letter, but…I wrote it to set my boundaries.

Kevin: So you know, there’s no postal service here yet.

Carlos: I know. Um, that’s why I’m hand-delivering it.

Kevin: Oh. Remember, no one should ever be sad. Choose not to be sad, Carlos. In fact, choose to be happy! Perhaps your letter is the first step to choosing happiness, even while it makes someone else sad.

Carlos: I understand. Listen, um, I should go. I’m headed to Night Vale one final time. I need to talk to Cecil about…well, about some changes. Thanks for everything, Kevin. You’ve been so kind to me in this difficult year.

Kevin: Goodbye, Carlos!

Well, it’s a shame that our huge scientific breakthrough didn’t quite happen today. As the old phrase goes, “the best-laid plans of mice and men are completely different kinds of plans altogether. Very different creatures, those two.”

But it’s not a total wash. Our next show should feature spine-tingling adventure stories about today’s desert battles! We have so much to do, us. So much to explore and understand. So much to make here in our great desert otherworld.

Say, we really do need a name for this place. Things without names don’t really exist. So I’m going to call this…well, I’m going to call it Desert Bluffs! Desert Bluffs was the name of my hometown, and by naming it Desert Bluffs, this place becomes my new hometown! We are in my home!! We are in Desert Bluffs, no matter where we are in space or time. What is a town but a name, right?

Until next time, New Desert – Oh. It looks like Carlos left behind that letter he was supposed to hand deliver. I’d better not read it.

Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnno. Better not.

Until next time, New Desert Bluffs. Until next time.

[Sound of Kevin opening the letter]

Oh. Oh no! This is so sad!

No. I don’t like this. I am sad.

Today’s proverb: A rose by any other name is called something else.

15/06/2015 16:12:15 ¶ ●

## Episode 70B - Review

If you love something, set it free. If it doesn’t come back, it probably died of sadness because it thought you loved it.

Welcome to Night Vale.

It’s difficult to say goodbye to your hometown. Difficult indeed. We’ll get to all of that soon, but first we bring you the item of, I’m sure, most interest to all of you: a review of last night’s opera. The inaugural performance of the New Old Night Vale Opera House, a tribute to the building which once stood proudly in this town for decades before succumbing, 20 years ago, to an unchecked puppy infestation.

The New Old Opera House is luxurious and stylish. I had no idea what opera was until last night, so my expectations for the building were pretty low. I mean, I don’t know what you think opera is; I was expecting something like fenced-in yards occupied full of filthy straw, occupied by hundreds of heavily drugged wolves.

But it turns out that opera houses look nothing like petting zoos. This place had a chandelier, and velvet seats, and lush red curtains, and a snack bar, and people wearing just the fanciest clothes you could imagine. Tuxedos, and ball gowns, and balaclavas, and shin guards.

Old Woman Josie and all of her tall winged friends who go by the name Erika and who claim to be angels, were there. They were the driving force behind the building of the New Old Opera House. It was only fitting, then, that before the performance, Josie gave a toast from the stage. She toasted opera, and Night Vale, and all of the donors who made the Opera House possible.

Finally, she toasted old friends. And when she did, she looked at me and grinned.

I blushed, and looked down at my shoes – which were tasteful sponge clogs that matched my tights perfectly.

OK, so, I’m sure you’re asking the same question I’ve been asking for years: what even is opera? I don’t have any training in opera, but I’ll do my best to describe it. Basically, opera is kind of like theater, but they don’t raise the curtain all the way up. So you only can see feet shuffling about while you hear high pitched wailing and combustion engines.

This particular opera was called “Amara.” It was composed and conducted and mostly performed by acting legend Lee Marvin. It was about a young girl who goes on some kind of…adventure? It wasn’t clear, because opera is super-interactive and entirely nonlinear. Sometimes people from the audience throw old fruit at the stage, and then the actors jump into the audience to wrestle these people. Audience members are encouraged to yell out things they think the performers should do, and performers often vocalize their distaste for the audience.

At one point in the first act I shouted, “Sing a song about old love and new horizons, about wanderlust and uncertainty!” and then a member of the chorus spat at me. And moments later I found someone handcuffed me to my armrest. It was super fun!

They did raise the curtain all the way once, revealing a detailed set of a storm-tossed ocean, upon which a great ship lurched skyward atop a curling monstrous wave. The details of the painting and the carpentry were flawless. I’ve never been in such awe of a stage set as I was then. But I think the stage manager recognized the error in allowing the audience to see this, and quickly lowered the curtain to just a couple of feet off the floor.

I didn’t recognize most of the performers because they kept the curtain so low, and the stage lights so dim, but I did note that Frank Chen was in the cast, looking every inch the normal human with – I can only assume – a normal number of heads.

At the start of the second act, I sensed a blurry motion in my periphery. I felt a cold touch on my chained hand.

“Nice handcuffs,” a whisper said. “Looks like you won’t be able to save your friend Dana tonight.”

I was terrified, yes, but like everyone I’m usually terrified. I also felt rage. Rage at the Faceless Old Woman whispering behind me. Had she handcuffed me so that I could not save my former intern, my former friend, my current mayor, Dana Cardinal from whatever evil deeds were coming her way?

I looked up at Mayor Cardinal in her loge box. She was staring straight at the stage, focused and stony. And despite all my anger at my old friend – that she had presumably bought me at a Sheriff’s Secret Police auction last year, and had been using me for the last several months against my will to protect herself against the five-headed dragon Hiram McDaniels and the Faceless Old Woman – despite all that, I looked at Dana’s face, hoping she would see me pleading for her safety.

I want to trust and love my friend, and for that moment, I did. And I was sorry that the Faceless Old Woman had restrained me so that I could not help her…even if, this time, I had wanted to.

I followed the mayor’s gaze toward the stage. The house lights dimmed, and the curtain split open. I saw normal human Frank Chen center stage, each of his heads huffing and snarling, preparing for his aria.

As an aside, I am told this was to be opera’s first-ever quintet aria, but honestly, I don’t know what either of those words even mean.

Actually, only four of Frank’s heads were snarling: the gold, green, gray, and blue ones. But his purple head was looking right at me. And I felt something familiar, but…at the same time, something that I didn’t understand. My hand strained against its chain, but there was nothing I could do.

As the orchestra – led by and comprised entirely of Lee Marvin and a slide whistle – swelled, and Frank Chen continued to belch fire and hiss, we all knew something was wrong. I mean, it’s possible that an aria is just a bunch of roars and flames – I’m no expert – but it didn’t seem likely. Frank Chen then tore off his bow tie, and in doing so revealed he was not five foot, eight inch middle-aged human Frank Chen at all, but Hiram McDaniels, an 18 foot tall five-headed dragon!

Hiram leapt into the air above the orchestra seats. I heard a muffled scream from above. I looked to the mezzanine and saw Trish Hidge, deputy assistant to Mayor Cardinal, trying to quickly escort the mayor away…but it was too late. I caught a brief glimpse of someone I had never seen before. Or, had never seen in my waking life. She was standing just behind Trish and Mayor Cardinal. It was a woman I had once seen in a dream. In my dream she had been underwater, among coral, young and whispering and faceless. And now, in this world, that is very likely not just a dream, I saw this same woman. She was old, and shouting, and faceless.

Hiram flew up, past the chandelier, toward Dana in the mezzanine, all of his heads focused on their target, teeth bared and angry…except the purple head, which was twisted away, as though trying – with just its neck – to deflect the course of its body.

At that moment, I felt myself rising against my will. There I was, lot number 37, being pulled into use once more. I looked up at Dana, but she was not looking back at me at all. She was preparing to defend herself, alone.

And then everything went black.

I saw nothing. Felt nothing. I was nowhere.

I heard a voice. It was…whiny, and panicked. It told me it was sorry to keep using me, that it had bought me at an auction two years back just in case.

“You never know what could happen. Nothing can be trusted.”

The voice told me it especially didn’t trust the other heads it shares a body with, who are always scheming, always making new plans. Plus, it was tired of having to commit violent crimes, and consistently living life on the run.

The voice just wanted to settle down. Maybe start a family.

“Night Vale’s such a nice town, don’t you think?” the voice asked me.

And I asked, “Hiram? Is that you?”

And the voice said, “Not all of Hiram. Most people call me Purple Head, but I prefer Violet.”

“Why me?” I asked.

Violet said, “One head couldn’t work against four. I’ve known that a long time. I needed another body. Lot 37 was put up for sale, and the other heads were distracted by Lot 38 (a normal human disguise), so I bought you.”

Now, I was furious, of course. I told Violet that I thought Dana had been doing this the whole time. I blamed her over and over! “I have lost a friend because of you, Violet,” I said, “and do you have any idea what it’s like, to have you control me in this way?”

“Yes,” Violet said. “I only have one-fifth control over my own body. This is my life all of the time, carried along against my will by the foolish plans of those closest to me, betrayed by my own limbs, by the beating of my own heart. But…I am sorry. I really am.”

“You need to fight your own fights,” I said.

“I will, Cecil,” Violet said. “I am giving you back Lot 37. I transfer ownership back to you. You are yours once again. And whatever else happens tonight, I’m sorry.”

“Well, you should be,” I said.

“But,” Violet said, “don’t blame me for losing your friendship with Dana. You were the one who didn’t trust her. That was you, and only you.”

Then his voice was gone.

I woke up on the floor of the opera house, which was dark and empty. I was still handcuffed to a scorched armrest that had been completely burned off of the chair itself. Most seats and wall sconces had been heavily scorched and destroyed. I wasn’t sure if it was Hiram who did that, or…maybe that’s just the standard aftermath of opera.

I walked outside to the curb, watching the rain in the streetlights. I saw the drops flickering in a puddle below.

I do not like reflections that flicker.

I thought of my mother for the first time in a long time. Missed her. And, same word, different meaning, I missed the opera. And the after party, too. And, same word, both meanings: I miss my friend Dana. I wish I could have…saved her.

She was gone, and I failed her. No one was around to help with the weight of my guilt, or to unchain me from the armrest.

A huge storm was coming through. A rare weather event for the desert. Let’s have a report on that night’s weather now.

[“Align” by Aby Wolf]

The storm passed and I began my walk home – my clothes soaked, my clogs now several sizes larger. The streets were quiet. And I took it all in, knowing these were my final days in Night Vale, certain I had made the right decision.

Then I smelled the sandy earth, wet from the storm, and saw the buildings of what would soon no longer be my town washed clean by the driven rain, and I wavered in my certainty.

Lost in thought, I failed to hear the car tires on the slick concrete, or see the headlights swinging my shadow across the sidewalk. I heard, “Cecil, get in!” and, like any citizen of Night Vale when ordered to get into an ominous unmarked car, I obeyed without thinking.

Inside the black stretch limo, impossibly large inside, were dozens of opera supporters and local celebrities. Old Woman Josie and her tall winged friends named Erika were there. Waiters passed around hors d'oeuvres and champagne. I hadn’t missed the after party after all.

My sister Abby and her husband Steve and my niece Janice were there.

Janice threw her arms around my waist and said, “Uncle Cecil, I love the opera so much, thanks for the tickets! I love the part where the dragon flew out over the audience like whoosh! and then it started fighting itself, and the purple head starting biting the other heads, and it was really funny! Then, it flew away, out of the theater, and there was a lot of fire, and I thought I saw an old lady with no face ran out too, and– and the mayor was saved, and Mr. Lee Marvin sang a beautiful song about all the animals we can see using mirrors, and then it was over! And everyone cheered! And opera is so cool! Mom said you were moving away. Why are you moving away, Uncle Cecil? Uncle Carlos says you don’t have to move if you don’t want to! Will you still come to my birthday party?”

Janice continued chattering, but…I was dizzy at the name she had just said. I interrupted her.

“Carlos? Janice, did you say Carlos?”

“Duh! He’s right over there, Uncle Cecil!” she said.

I turned, and I saw him. And he was already looking at me.

And I started to say, “…”

And he started to say, “…”

And then we just hugged. So tightly.

And in my ear, Carlos said, “Sorry I missed the opera. I had to let Kevin know I was returning home, and staying there.”

And I jerked my head back and said, “Staying here?”

And Carlos said, “This is your home. You belong here.”

Then he said, “This is also my home. I belong here.”

“Carlos, anywhere we’re together is home,” I said. And I repeated it. And repeated it. And I said, “But Carlos, is Night Vale where we should live? Is Night Vale even worth living in?”

Carlos held my shoulder and said, “Night Vale is just a name, Cecil. Night Vale is just the name for an area where everyone you love lives,” he said. “Don’t worry about the name. Worry about the everyone,” he said.

Over Carlos’ shoulder I saw Dana, my old intern and current mayor in the crowd. She looked at me, but did not smile. I…struggled to meet her eyes, which were wary and gracious. Her deputy Trish Hidge circled behind me and removed the handcuff from my wrist with a small key she had pulled from her jacket pocket.

“Sorry we had to do that,” Trish said, “but we wanted you to be safe, to not have your body willed by some other force into a fight you were very clear you wanted no part in. We had to physically hold you out of the way so that we could fight this fight on our own.”

From across the impossibly large car, Dana winked and finally smiled.

I mouthed, “I’m sorry,” and she did not respond, but, still winking a slow strange wink, she receded into the crowd like a distant walker into mist.

At the end of the night, the car dropped Carlos and me back home and…I don’t think we slept the whole night! Talking about our new old life together, all these memories and plans! We are back together in our home, and I am back with you in my studio.

My final show as host of Night Vale Community Radio was to be a review of an opera. And that’s still true…someday. But it won’t be this opera.

Carlos and I are staying in Night Vale for now. I will be back on the air with you again very soon with more news, and more stories…with more opera.

I think Carlos is right. Night Vale isn’t a single unified thing that can love, or be loved. It’s just the name, slapped onto a set of borders and rules that some old bureaucrats wearing soft meat crowns devised centuries ago. But they don’t live here anymore! We do!

I do.

And I can make it worth it. I can’t just leave it, I have to live it! Live it, and make it better! For myself, for Carlos! For my friends. For Abby, and Steve, and Janice, for Old Woman Josie and all of the Erikas. For Dana. And for you, listeners.

We will, together, celebrate another homecoming game. We will, together, survive another street cleaning. We will, together…well, we will see.

I can’t promise I’ll never leave you. No one can promise that. But until that moment, let’s keep working on this town, this collective idea, this Night Vale. Whatever we want that name to mean, we can always start over if we have to. Rededicate ourselves. Do it right.

To start with, the Secret Police have, once again, jailed Hiram McDaniels for his numerous crimes against his fellow citizens. Although, in recognition of the Violet Head’s valiant struggle against the other heads and his own contested body, they’ve put a small hole in the wall that Violet can stick through and be outside of the jail walls, since technically he is not under arrest.

Stay tuned next for happenstance reconstructed into narrative, and falsely interpreted as having significance.

And as always, goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

Today’s proverb: You say potato, I say potato. Potato. Potato. Potato. Potato. Potato. Yes, this is very good. Let’s keep going. Potato. Potato. Potato.