Episode 79 - Lost in the Mail
We brought something back with us,
something we cannot escape: memories of a great vacation to deepest
space! And, the merciless Distant Prince.
Welcome to Night Vale.
Listeners, it is a solemn day here in
Night Vale. Even more solemn than last year’s Solemnity Fest, during
which three people were overcome and had to be revived with party
hats and whoopee cushions.
Today is Remembrance Day, that
special day once per year when we interrupt our routines to reflect
upon those who probably sacrificed their lives for us in the endless
Blood Space War. We’re not sure whether they are alive or dead,
because there is a thousand-year difference between our time and
those who fight for us on the vast intergalactic battlefields where
time converges.
But, we assume that they are all
heroes.
On this day, we put aside our
political differences – even deeply bitter, divisive differences,
like the belief or disbelief in mountains – and we all come
together to remember those who will die thousands of years from now,
and hope that the impossibility of victory is less impossible than
before.
Like any deeply painful and serious
subject, it is best remembered through the medium of a civic parade.
Looking out of the studio I can see
the parade route is packed with onlookers, and everything is getting
underway. The symbolic dead lead the procession, each of them wearing
the mask of one of those who went into the distance of time and can
never return.
Behind them is a float depicting the
enormous serpent whose mouth contains the universe, a playful
reminder to us all that even the stars must someday be swallowed.
Following that apparition comes our
mayor, and my friend, Dana Cardinal, in her ceremonial mayor’s
coffin.
Behind her are the Citizens for a
Blood Space War, still over 600 million dollars left to hit the
fund-raising goal for their bomb that may destroy reality as we
understand it. Get those cookies in the oven for the next bake sale!
A brief departure now from the parade
in progress.
All this week, we have been reaching
out to you, the listeners, and asking for stories about how the Blood
Space War has affected your lives. You heard from the Black Dauphin on
how to grow a victory garden inside your body, and Sarah Bismuth
shared the story of her Etsy store where she sells dolls that
represent individual soldiers in the Blood Space War, showing the
actual wounds they will someday suffer.
And now, today, in her own words, I
bring you the story of a girl whose father volunteered to fight.
Let’s listen together.
[Sound of a tape player being
started]
Basimah:
Uh, I’m Basimah Bishara and I am a junior at Night Vale High. My
father, Faqir Bishara, left to join the Blood Space War when I was
six.
I
remember the glowing doorway he stepped through when the tall,
silver-skinned recruiter came to our house, and the sound of it,
like, a slide whistle going up, but the most tragic slide whistle
I’ve ever heard. My dad was gone forever…but also, he isn’t gone at
all.
I
think I’m a regular student…whatever that means. I haven’t grown
wings like the cheerleaders, but I fit in. I’m bad at math. I mean, I
used to be good at it, but I think I stopped paying attention. It
seems like it was pointing toward a truth I didn’t want to learn.
I’m
really good at science and English. I used to be in marching band;
now I prefer guitar. Me and my friends formed an all-girl thrash
group. We’re called The Misfits.
I
guess how it works is that, once a year for the first hundred years
of Dad’s journey, they’re going to wake him up and allow him to send
a message back to Earth. I have a big family, so it’s not like I
don’t feel loved.
Sometimes
I feel like it would be easier if my dad couldn’t get in touch with
me at all.
No,
I don’t wish that. I love him!
I
wish he never left.
The
messages show up on my night stand in these gelatinous gashapon
capsules. They are warm and soft in my hands. The words are printed
on a tiny roll of plastic inside.
He
only gets to send one every year, and he always sends it to me right
around my birthday, but not exactly on
my birthday. I don’t know whether he’s getting it wrong or they are.
Or, maybe, it’s just time being weird again. I like to believe it’s
that.
To
my dad, he left 11 days ago but to me, it’s most of my lifetime. I’ll
be an old woman and he’ll still be on his way to the war sending
letters to a me that
he remembers from just a few weeks before.
It’s
stupid.
It’s
not stupid, I guess.
It
is stupid, though. It is.
[Sound of a tape player being
stopped]
Cecil:
More from Basimah in a bit, but we need to update you on the parade.
Aah,
here comes The Emissary, listeners! It wouldn’t be Remembrance day
without a visit from the only entity to ever return from the war. It
has been hauled up from the pit, and yes, here it comes!
No
one knows what The
Emissary is, or why
The Emissary inhabits a cosmonaut’s suit.
Oh!
It’s lifting the visor and giving us a glimpse at the void within the
helmet. And it’s…it’s saying something! Um, I’ll try to interpret.
“All
these things are meaningless. End the war.”
Well,
of course, that’s the whole point,
isn’t it, listeners? If we end the war, it will go on eternally. We
must continue the war
to bring it to an end. It’s why all those brave people enlisted, and
keep enlisting, and will enlist forever.
And
there goes The Emissary, a solemn reminder of why our volunteers
continue to fight in the Blood Space War. Ah. What a brave being!
Soon
we will trap it back in its pit.
Speaking
of those volunteers, the Night Vale Veterans of a Blood Space War
Association is holding a fish fry this Saturday to raise money for a
statue of the unknown soldier, to be built 1,000 years in the future
– by which time we may know who the soldier is. Bring friends,
family, fish, and whatever else you would like fried over to the VFW
Hive located in the space between the walls at the abandoned cannery.
Oh!
Uh, oh no! Uh, while I avert my gaze from the Shriner’s homunculi,
let’s have a word from our sponsors.
Do
you have dry eyes? Red eyes? Goat eyes? Aphid eyes? Any other eyes
you’re not currently using? We want your eyes at Richter’s Eye Glass
Hut!
We
give you money for your unwanted eyes and turn them into glass for
affordable window panes.
How?
Don’t ask questions.
Come
on down to Richter’s Eye Glass Hut, located conveniently off the
highway helix in the shadow of the immense precarious rock.
No
longer accepting potato eyes or the eye of a storm. Not responsible
for our windows watching you while you sleep.
And
now, let’s return to Basimah’s story.
[Sound of a tape player being
started]
Basimah:
“The ship is so big,
it makes me think of big things, Basi.”
That’s
what he calls me. It was my nickname when I was six.
I’m
not six.
It
all comes out of him at a jumble.
“They
say what we are going to fight is an idea like a color or pride, but
it can kill us. If the idea gets inside you, then it’s over. Basi, do
you remember the song we used to sing you to put you to sleep? Paula
Abdul, Rush
Rush.”
And
then he wrote the whole song out, but he got a bunch of the lyrics
wrong. I guess he was doing it from memory.
I
got a capsule two months ago telling me he wants me to be a doctor so
I can cure one of the big diseases like cancer. “Like cancer,”
there is nothing like
cancer. There is just cancer.
Sure,
I’ll cure that, space-dad. No pressure, right?
Most
of the messages my father sends me are lists of ways I need to live
my life, things I should do and shouldn’t do, you know? He told me to
pray every day, and obey my mother. When I was nine he warned me not
to kiss a boy until I was 16, which…well, I guess good news for him
there!
Divergence
started with little things. He said I should get a puppy for my
eighth birthday, but I got a snail. When I was 15, he wanted to make
sure I had started wearing my hijab. Mom said I should make my own
choices, so sometimes I wear it, and sometimes I don’t. Like, always
at mosque, but not that often at school. That sort of thing.
My
father is talking to a person who isn’t me, to a person that doesn’t
exist. He has imagined my entire childhood and young adulthood. He
brings up obvious milestones, like starting high school or that first
kiss, but…he doesn’t know about that car accident I spent most of
my 14th year recovering from. I can’t tell him about the poems I
write, or about the fact that I have a girlfriend, not a boyfriend.
He’s
a ghost to me and my mom. Or, maybe, since he’s going to be around
long after I’m gone, I’m the one who’s a ghost to him.
I
take some comfort knowing my dad got paid a lot
of money for joining the Blood Space War. Enough to take care of me
and Mom for a long time and, really, having a space-dad is just
another way to have a family. Everyone’s got their own thing, you
know?
Like,
all of The Misfits. Clara is in a nuclear family straight from the
1950s but, like, literally
from the 1950s, even as she lives her life in 2015. Neesha has a
council of fathers. Jacqueline’s mom is a spider. So long as you are
loved, it doesn’t matter.
So
my dad’s a space ghost. I can deal. I just wish Dad loved me,
not the me
who I was 11 years ago.
Or
maybe I’m not OK with it. Maybe I wish he would come back. I wish he
would be a dad to me, not to the ghost of me that haunts him.
[Sound
of a tape player being stopped]
Cecil:
More with Basimah coming up, but first, the weather.
[“Sharon”
by Good
San Juan]
The
parade has ended. Most of the onlookers have ceased to look on, and
the wind is gathering up the paper Remembrance Day masks, and
depositing them in a random scattering across our sidewalks and
streets.
A
lone dog I recognize from a recurring dream is staring at me from a
block away. A dark van rumbles past. Everything is calm and quiet
once again and…
[Cecil
is interrupted by a sound not unlike several flutes]
Oh!
Oh, my!
Oh!
You startled me.
Uh,
listeners, The Emissary has appeared in the studio without
warning…without even opening a door. It is sitting in the chair
next to me and slowly rotating. Its visor is open, and I’m being
forced to stare at the ineffable darkness within The Emissary’s
helmet.
[The
sound not unlike several flutes again]
Uh,
I believe it is asking if I understand the nature of unreality.
Um,
Emissary, I understand dreams, and fantasies, and this gooey
sometimes-incredible sometimes-painful world that surrounds us, but I
can only experience it with my seven senses.
[The
sound not unlike several flutes again]
Listeners,
The Emissary is saying that the nature of unreality is that
experience and reality are linked, but separate. What is experienced
may not be real. What is real may never be experienced.
Well,
so far this is just basic geometry, like we all learn in the third
grade. Where is The Emissary going with this?
[The
sound not unlike several flutes again]
The
Emissary is saying…in a thousand years, we will turn the vastness
of space red for no reason. There was never a purpose to this war we
made.
But…if
Remembrance Day has taught me anything, under strict order of the
Sheriff’s Secret Police, it is that war is a purpose unto itself.
[The
sound not unlike several flutes again]
Um,
The Emissary is asking me to…end the conflict.
[The
sound not unlike several flutes again]
But…
I’m
sorry, Emissary, I– I– I do not have the power to end the Blood
Space War. After all the blood that has been spilled in space, or
will
be spilled, or…may
be spilled at some theoretical point in the future, I– I’m just a
humble radio host. And you
are a sentient nothingness inhabiting the suit of a dead cosmonaut.
How could the two of us hope to stop a war? I don’t know!
I
just don’t know.
The
Emissary is gone, as though it was never here. Maybe it wasn’t. After
all, this moment was only something I experienced, not something I
know is real.
Let’s
hear the rest of Basimah’s tape.
[Sound
of a tape player being started]
Basimah:
People always say to me, “You must be proud of your father going
off to fight in the Blood Space War.” I used to say yes to that.
Not anymore. I don’t care if it makes me selfish or ungrateful, my
dad made the wrong choice and I want him back.
He
wrote down the lyrics all wrong.
“You’re
going to see, I’m gonna run, I’m gonna fly, I’m gonna bring this love
back to you…”
[The
sound not unlike several flutes again]
Ah!
How did you get in my room?
[The
sound not unlike several flutes continues]
What
are you?
What
are
you?
…Daddy?
Is
that you, Daddy?
[Basimah
laughs]
Daddy!
Daddy!
[Sound
of a tape player being stopped]
Cecil:
Listeners, I don’t know how The Emissary ended up in this taped
recording dropped off at the studio three days ago, given that The
Emissary was only released from its pit this morning.
But
then, I don’t know how my favorite type of pie is made, but when I
order it, there it is, steaming and delicious! I don’t know how the
mail gets delivered, but every day, like clockwork, it doesn’t! I
don’t know how lost pets end up on the moon! But they do. And they
have built an extensive city up there.
The
clock claims it is now 12:01. Remembrance Day is over. We can all
return to our lives, and to forgetting that the Blood Space War is
going on. Or…will
go on. Maybe. 1,000 years from now.
And
maybe, in 1,000 years, plus a day or two, those brave volunteers we
sent to fight in a war none of us understand will allow the most
dangerous idea of all into their heads:
They
will turn back, and return home, to us, against all laws of time and
space.
Paraphrasing
the half-remembered words of an ancient prophet, perhaps they will
bring this love back to us.
Or,
maybe, they already have.
Stay
tuned next for events that will or will not happen in the order that
they may or may not occur.
And
from the present, as I am currently experiencing it, goodnight Night
Vale. Goodnight.
Today’s
proverb: Ever wondered how a plane flies? Well, the answer is that no
one knows. Pilots are scared to ask. If we ask, maybe it’ll stop
working.
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.