Mostly Void, Partially Stars: Welcome to Night Vale Episodes, Volume 1

by Joseph Fink

  And now a word from our sponsor.

  Listeners, are you lost? Don’t know where to turn? Might I recommend THE BROWN STONE SPIRE? Do you need cash? Cast your eyes to THE BROWN STONE SPIRE. Alone? Drowning in back taxes and legal problems? Look at THE BROWN STONE SPIRE.

  Night Vale’s newest spire, built in the night several weeks ago by unknown agents or aliens or animals or just our collective imagination, the BROWN STONE SPIRE offers itself to all those who are down on their luck or destitute or simply being crushed by the consequences of their own malfeasance. THE BROWN STONE SPIRE DOES NOT CARE! THE BROWN STONE SPIRE DOES NOT DISCRIMINATE BASED ON PETTY MORALS.

  Divorce? Out of work? GIVE YOURSELF TO THE BROWN STONE SPIRE.

  You may be asking how much does it cost to receive help from THE BROWN STONE SPIRE? I can assure you it does not cost money. It costs other things, but if you’re concerned about what those costs are then you are not in enough trouble for THE BROWN STONE SPIRE. You just need a lawyer. But if you are filled with glass shards of regret . . . THE BROWN STONE SPIRE . . . or screaming impotently at an indifferent moon . . . then no need to look . . . THE BROWN STONE SPIRE WILL FIND YOU.

  THE BROWN STONE SPIRE has a slogan. It cannot be pronounced.

  This message brought to you by Wendy’s.

  During the commercial break, listeners, we received several calls from drivers, saying that they saw the Apache Tracker in a black sedan but that the mayor was not with him. He and his driver, who they couldn’t describe, were standing outside the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex still, unmoving, a swirl of dust and smoke spiraling slowly about them. A soft rumble below the sand and the visceral tension of something about to burst. So much bad news with those two men, Night Vale. Stay away from the Fun Complex if you can. Not only these men, but there is also that secret civilization living under lane five that is planning a great war against us.

  On the other hand, tonight is dollar beers and free jukebox tokens.

  Listen. You do what you want. It’s your choice. But I’m just saying that Apache Tracker, or whatever he likes being called . . . I mean, if you knew someone who was always affecting a derogatory accent or told racist jokes, you wouldn’t be friends with them, right? So who would hang around this guy? What a jerk.

  Still nothing on the mayor, dear listeners. The City Council has even become upset over this. They have been on the steps of city hall pacing and howling in unison, like elephants in mourning.

  Listeners, I know we don’t always agree with the mayor, and that sometimes we just despise our elected officials because of the artifice of political parties, or because they don’t represent every one of our very specific interests, or because they are a different species or have frightening supernatural powers and threaten violence against innocent citizens. I understand all of this. No politician is perfect, Night Vale.

  But Mayor Winchell has overseen some great moments in our town’s recent history. She increased funding for the cancer ward at Night Vale Hospital, and now anyone who wants cancer can get cancer, whether or not they have health care or a reason to live. She regularly visits Night Vale Elementary School classes to promote youth literacy by reading children’s classics like Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle or any number of Cormac McCarthy’s novels.

  She has been controversial, to be sure, but she is our leader. Our parent. She cares very much about us, Night Vale, and when she jails or tortures someone without just cause or due process, it is because she loves this town so much. Let us find our mayor, Night Vale. But first, let us go to the weather.

  WEATHER: “Biblical Violence” by Hella

  Listeners, moments ago, Mayor Winchell was found! She was holding an impromptu press conference. The press had to stay at least five hundred feet away from her, as she was standing at the edge of the Dog Park, and no one except city officials and hooded figures are allowed that close.

  Mayor Winchell apparently set up a podium and quietly delivered a prepared statement without a microphone, and no one could hear what she had to say. Two hooded figures were standing behind her.

  But listeners, oh listeners, do we ever have a scoop. Former Intern Dana, who I thought had been lost forever after she was swallowed up by the Dog Park two months ago, well, she texted me just now from whatever plane of existence she’s on. Dana is still alive and in the Dog Park, and she heard the mayor’s speech. And it turns out Mayor Pamela Winchell is stepping down by year’s end.

  Other reports indicated the mayor concluded by lighting the podium on fire, kicking it over, and climbing the twelve-feet-high smooth, obsidian walls quickly, gracefully, like a salamander and then shouting several things that sounded like Russian vulgarities. The hooded figures stayed outside the Dog Park and stared down reporters, who grew gray and hunched with melancholy. Many began wailing and clutching their eyes.

  Listeners, first of all, it was so nice to hear from Dana. We miss her so. I tried e-mailing her back, but my thumbs began to burn and blacken and blood began trickling from my nose as I wrote, so I had to stop. Hopefully we will see Dana again. Time is weird. So is space. I hope ours match again someday.

  As for the mayor. Well, this is surprising. Did the Secret Police force her hand? Some vague, yet menacing, government agency? Would this have anything to do with the Poetry Week incident, where actual Night Vale citizens, like Dana, got inside the forbidden Dog Park?

  Or maybe it was simply the mayor’s choice. It’s actually a good way to go out. The last six mayors were all executed quite publicly and creatively. (Remember that many junior high students still learn about the skeletal system from the late Mayor Tom Garmin himself!)

  So to get to announce your own retirement is pretty excellent. Maybe Mayor Winchell needed to spend more time with her family. Or maybe she has been exiled to the Dog Park, for sins yet unknown. Or maybe she plans to grow into a tree by joining the collective life force and single, shared soul of the Whispering Forest, which has become a very popular lifestyle choice these days.

  All I know, Night Vale, is that we should all be so lucky to set our own futures. Dana did not. I don’t know that I will. Each day the sun rises and sets. The moon pulls the tides. Our hearts beat. Our loved ones love us back. And we share our inhales and exhales with the great organism that is our tiny planet.

  But as you watch the sun rise again tomorrow morning, think to yourself: “Past performance is not a predictor of future results.” And then force a smile, drink another cup of coffee, and try not to look down as you walk across the soil that will eventually fill your lifeless lungs and repurpose your corpse. Each day that is . . . is a blessing, Night Vale.

  And now . . . Stay tuned next for the popular radio game show Wait Wait Don’t. No Don’t. Please Don’t.

  Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

  PROVERB: The most dangerous game is Man. The most entertaining game is Broadway Puppy Ball. The most weird game is Esoteric Bear.

  EPISODE 25:

  “ONE YEAR LATER”

  JUNE 15, 2013

  IMAGINE THAT A FRIEND INVITES YOU TO A DINNER PARTY. LET’S GIVE THIS friend a name: Cheryl. You don’t know anyone who will be there. Let’s give you a name: Dylan Marron. You love Cheryl, so you’re sure you’ll love her friends. Also, you love dinner—the concept and the experience of consuming it—and Cheryl is a great cook. So you e-mail her back and say “Cher-bot!” (You’ve been friends for a while now and nicknames are a thing). “Of course! Count me in!” But then Cheryl really hypes you up to her friends. “Oh, jeez,” Cheryl group-texts her other guests, “you are going to just LOVE my friend Dylan. He is the absolute funniest.” Upon learning this you become nervous, almost cripplingly so. Nothing you say or do at this dinner party will live up to your fellow guests’ preconceived notions of what “funny” means to them. One guest, for example, loves dry comedy. Another? More of a pun master. And we all know that Cheryl owns The Definitive Gilda Radner Box Set. You obsess over this for a bit. “Diff
erent strokes for different folks,” you recite to yourself in the mirror as you get ready to leave your apartment. You’re nervous as you knock on the door, practicing the one-liners you’ll deliver and the pratfalls you’ll stage. But then Cheryl answers the door and hugs you. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she’ll whisper, and she’ll mean it. Cher-bot always knows just what to say. The other guests are excited to meet you. They smile when you speak, happy to finally put a face to a name. You ease into the night, and so you ease into yourself. You realize that you can’t live up to the hypothetical standards of others, that superlatives are subjective, and that by being yourself people will adapt their standards to you. Everyone is happy to be there. And the meal? Oh man, the meal is the absolute best.

  This is a parable of my experience being cast as “Perfect” Carlos.

  —Dylan Marron, Voice of Carlos

  A friendly desert community, where the sun is still hot, the moon still beautiful, and mysterious lights still pass overhead while we all pretend to sleep.

  WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE.

  Word is in about a disturbance at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. There has been the sound of chanting and machinery from under the pin retrieval area of lane five, and Teddy Williams has changed all the bowlers’ names on the electronic scorecards to “THEY ARE HERE.” This is causing some confusion and has completely ruined Jeremy Godfrey’s fiftieth birthday party, which had rented out a few lanes for the afternoon. Jeremy was last seen drinking a light beer out of a plastic cup, shaking his head sadly as he swished the liquid around and looking out the window at the sky, mostly void, partially stars. Teddy Williams was last seen howling, commanding his militia to surround the pin retrieval area and prepare for an attack. And Carlos, sweet Carlos, brave Carlos, was last seen approaching the entrance to the underground city, saying he was going to get to the bottom of this, that someone had to, and that Teddy Williams was deranged. Teddy Williams was then last seen saying, “Oh yeah? Oh yeah? Say that to my face, big shot,” but Carlos, my poor Carlos, was already gone. I fear, Night Vale. I fear for what we know. I fear for what we don’t know. I fear for what we don’t yet know that we don’t know.

  The Apache Tracker stood outside of the bowling alley, glowering at the entrance and shaking his head. I remind you that this is the white guy who likes to dress in a cartoonish approximation of a Native American and claims to have mystical powers. He’s a real racist jerk and no one likes him. And the fact that he recently disappeared and reappeared as an actual Native American changes nothing, and neither does the fact that he can now only speak Russian. He is still the same embarrassment to our town he always was. Anyway, he’s glowering at the entrance, arms crossed, wearing one of his stupid, plastic feather headdresses.

  But back to Carlos. Carlos the scientist, perfect of stature and bearing, perfect of tone and taut, and, time having fixed what the barbarous barber Telly so treacherously snipped away, perfect of hair.

  One year. One year later. Listeners. Listeners! One single year since two major events in our town’s history. First, the opening of our lovely, state-of-the-art Dog Park, which is forbidden, and which I will not mention again. Second, and more important, it is one year since the arrival in Night Vale of our most beloved and singular citizen.

  He came to us to investigate our town, because he said it was scientifically extraordinary, and downright bizarre. We had no idea what he was talking about, but with his golden voice ringing out from the bell of his mouth, who among us could argue with the content of such perfect speech?

  Ah, just one short year ago.

  I had arranged a small ceremony to mark this occasion and invited Carlos to attend. However, it looks like he will be delayed.

  But I am not worried. I am not upset. I know that Carlos will be here for the ceremony. I have the trophy here in my hand. I am holding the trophy and I am not upset. Carlos will be here. He will. I am holding the trophy.

  In other news, a commercial airliner appeared today inside the home of surprised Night Vale citizen Becky Canterbury, who said she was about to get in the shower when it roared down her hallway and then disappeared, as suddenly as it had arrived. There is no conclusive evidence that this is the same airliner last seen in the Night Vale Elementary gym one year ago, but we have jumped to that conclusion and will defend it against all naysayers, violently and without mercy. Our truths may or may not be true, but they are ours, and we stand by them, even as the experts and skeptics hold aloft clipboards and intone to us about snow and mountains. Becky added that she would like to take that shower now, and that she has no idea how we managed to arrive for an interview mere seconds after the incident occurred. “My doors are locked,” she said. “My windows too. I’ve had my eyes shut for years. How did you get in here?”

  The local chapter of the NRA has begun market-testing some possible new slogans. These include:

  • “Guns don’t kill people. Blood loss and organ damage do.”

  • “Guns don’t kill people. People kill guns.”

  • “A list of things that kill people: 1. Conceivably anything. 2. Not guns.”

  • “Guns don’t kill people. We are all immortal souls living temporarily in shelters of earth and meat.” And

  • “If you say guns kill people one more time I will shoot you with a gun and you will, coincidentally, die.”

  To vote on the new slogan, simply fire a gun at the object or person that best represents your choice.

  Parents: Let’s talk about safety when taking your children to play out in the scrublands and the sand wastes. All children in Night Vale are missing this week, so there’s no current safety issues. Hope we find them!

  Oh happy day! I have just received word that Carlos returned from the entrance to the city, gesturing to everyone around and asking them to follow him. He led them into the pin retrieval area, which is not an easy place for a crowd, so there was a lot of crouching and saying, “Excuse me.” But soon enough they were all arrayed on the clifftop overlooking that dreaded subterranean metropolis. Teddy Williams, and his militia, and the folks who had come for Jeremy’s birthday party, and Jeremy himself, still holding his plastic cup of beer and leaning morosely against the wall, pointedly refusing to look where everyone else was.

  This was the first time most of them had seen the city. It seemed so distant below them, its strange spires small and far away, the windows in the buildings, alight with the fire of hostile life, were tiny dots from where they stood. They could hear the footsteps of the approaching army, the chanting. Many of them quaked with fear. But not Carlos. My brave Carlos stepped out into the pit, climbing down the slope. At first onlookers were horrified at his lunatic descent. Then they were confused, as he got to the city much faster than they expected, and then there was panic, as their eyes told them a story they could not understand, let alone believe.

  “Behold,” said Carlos, standing in the center of the underground city. “This is not an enormous city miles below the earth. It is a very small city about ten feet below the earth, populated by tiny people who have had to spend a year slowly climbing the ten feet to our world.” He gestured at the spires, which came up approximately to his knees. “We have nothing to fear.” Well, if Carlos says it, I will happily repeat it. We have nothing to fear, and never did.

  The City Council would like to remind you about the tiered heavens and the hierarchy of angels. The reminder is that you still should not know anything about this. The structure of heaven and the angelic organizational chart are still privileged information. Also, angels aren’t real. “I really get tired of having to say this,” a City Council representative said to a group of disgruntled angels. “Angels aren’t real. They just aren’t.” The angels became unruly and were dispersed by a thunderclap from heaven.

  Oh! A truly fearful thing has happened, listeners. Carlos, standing triumphantly in the toy-scaled city, was attacked by tiny people, using projectiles and explosives. He fell back to the side of the
small hole in the pin retrieval area of lane five. Blood welled through his shirt. And here I am, stuck in my booth, useless, only able to narrate, not to help. He staggered, fell to his knees. So much blood. He collapsed completely. Curse this town that saw Carlos die. Curse me. Curse it all.

  Let us take this moment to . . . Let us take this moment . . . Ladies and gentlemen, let us mourn the pass . . . I can’t. I can’t. I am still holding this trophy. I . . . We go now to this prerecorded Public Service Announcement.

  [All grief gone from voice] Scientists, and science in general, would like to remind you that some things exist and some things do not. Usually, you can apply the simple test of seeing if it is there. If it is there, it exists. If not, it probably doesn’t, but it might just be currently existing somewhere else. Existence is tricky, the scientists say. Research shows this. For instance, there is that house in the housing development of Desert Creek out back of the elementary school, the house that doesn’t exist. It seems like it exists. Like it’s just right there when you look at it, and it’s between two other identical houses so it would make more sense for it to be there than not. But it does not exist. They have proved this with science. The scientists still haven’t gotten up the nerve to ring the doorbell and find out what happens. Do you want to do it? They’ll pay you five dollars if you do. Just ring it once, okay? We’ll be watching from back here. You’ll probably be fine.

  Ladies! Gentlemen! How wonderful! Carlos is not dead at all! It seems that the Apache Tracker ran in, crouching awkwardly through the pin retrieval area, and shouting, “Наконец моё время подошло.”

  He leapt into the pit, trailing his offensive feather headdress, and heaved Carlos up in a mighty bear hug, carrying him out of the pit while being attacked viciously by the miniature citizens of the miniature city. Even Jeremy, upset still about his ruined birthday party, couldn’t help but cheer as the formerly false, now real Native American laid Carlos safely on the linoleum floor. Teddy Williams, who of course is also a licensed doctor, as all bowling alley owners are required to be, checked his wounds and indicated through a series of rhythmic hoots that Carlos will in fact be . . . okay.