broadcastingbartender

[broadcastingbartender]

[Transcript File Name: "Appꙮ)|-<ear"]

[Date Recorded: "=/%/=*"]

[Prerequisitional Notes: Research into the 'golden fluid' has lead to a high amount of seratonin and endorphins. If this is truly a liquid created by the broadcaster, further research must be done. Prying is of high risk, and yet...]

[Begin Transcript]

Broadcaster: A wonderful mornight to all of you lovelies obeying their respective law enforcement by listening in to this broadcast, and a special greeting to those here in attendance at the bar today. Typically I only allow special patrons within my charming, only partly existant facility, but... Those that believe they are above me and 'run the show' have told me to keep my doors open no matter what I happen to see past the orange stained glass windows of my establishment.

DiscJockey: Kinda weird for them to be open about anything, or to make anything open in general. Guess they're just trying to get a bit more outta you, huh?

Broadcaster: Oddly enough, that is precisely what most of our little auditory show is here to bring the audience today. From here on, they are even allowing for external input from those within the town to personally offer me questions rather than having me speak for our occasionally literally stunning- paralyzing- town of our's. Although... I suppose becoming closer to the townsfolk would be incredibly useful for one reason or another...

DiscJockey: So... What, do you have some kinda list of questions written down for you? Do you just telepathically know what questions are going to be asked? Like-

Broadcaster: You were going to complete your sentence with "-some sort of paranormal, anomalous being", correct?

DiscJockey: Uh... Yea, actually. A bit wordier than how I would've said it, but wow. I guess the customer is always right, huh? Haha-

Broadcaster: You've never bought a drink here legitimately in your life. [His voice is oddly deadpan. To most who listened, they became frozen just by the tone alone.] You always found a way to swoon someone else into paying for your drink so you could keep your riches as most monopolizers and rich individuals who dare not make any form of dent in their large pile of valueable paper and metallic coins do. By this standing, you have been incorrect for the entirety of your living life. Thankfully, you are no longer a part of that, as your corporeal form was so covered in grime and greed-fueled intentions it could not withstand itself.

[DiscJockey is left absolutely speechless for the time being, they can only puff out a breath of air they aren't even able to process in their spectral form before the Broadcaster breaks into laughter. The laughter echos, not by means of the bar and the fellow speaker laughing with him, but it seems his own voice seems to have multiplied itself for just the momentary abatement of seriousness instilled into the air.]

Broadcaster: Pay it no mind, it was a simple joke. Now, onto the business at hand, as our banter has cut into our precious time to speak. More than likely we will not have time to the weather, is that quite alright with you, oh musical being who vanished into the sky?

DiscJockey: I... I... Uh... [Rather than speaking, the "trusted partner" only ends up sputtering. This sputtering slowly fades out, more than likely growing distance from the microphone.]

Broadcaster: Abstaining from an answer is an automatic rejection, just as with marriage and consent. Understood. Let us have... Three questions? I suppose that should suffice for the mornight section. Others will be recieved later on, I am certain of that.

Now, let us see... My scent of curiosity asks me the first question "Are you making these broadcasts out of seriousness or clownery?" Intriguing... That implies I would dare ever make a fool of myself while broadcasting on purpose. That also implies that I would never take any joy in any form of practical or immature joke upon air. I am making these broadcasts out of the kindness of my heart, and my fateful resurgence from the gates of blessed-cursed chance. The dazzling lights have chosen this vessel to allow me to commune with others, and I will be the only one doing this for quite some time.

Next question, next question... Ah, my mind gives the prediction that-

DiscJockey: How common are uncommon occurances?

Broadcaster: Ah, what a wonderful sight it is to see you back in all of your partly transparent nature. If that is the question I must answer, then so be it.

[DiscJockey can be heard mumbling, but it is unfortunately inaudible. From this, there is a small tinge of annoyance that hangs in the Broadcaster's voice that quickly shifts to chipper. It is much akin to a toddler having their toy tugged away, only to relish in another's toy moments later. Children... Are too easy to appease, in some moments.]

Broadcaster: Commonality is as subjective as likes and dislikes. One may call the occurance of spinach leaves falling from the sky an uncommon occurance, but another may call it just the usual for our little town. For an answer, there is no answer. Or- if there is one- it certainly is as dented and twisted as the sentient satellite figure that flew overhead just a day prior. Apparently it still yielded flesh underneath its outer coating of metallics. It held a scent of fresh greens and the earth before it rotted into a bitter paste of what it once was. Now, would you call that common or not?

DiscJockey: I dunno... Uncommon? Common-uncommon? I haven't been dead long enough to form a proper opinion, y'know?

Broadcaster: It was rhetorical, but of course you would say such, as it is subjective. This is why we counteract such by attempting to speak of things as common-uncommon, or another such case, local-unlocal. The 'un' portion can be placed in whatever section, first or scond, as long as it is present. Such is the language of vaguality.

And for the final question of this section, ah... [There is a hum. A thoughtful one. The one similar to when you wish to say something positive to a friend about their creation, yet cannot find anything specific about it to compliment, so you only give a general remark. Although the answer, by only partly legal and only partly metaphorical bindings, it must be more than cut and dry.] ..."How many dimensions is he aware of?", it seems.

...Limitless amounts. [Rather than a dry answer, the lack of moisture shifted into the air... And the speaker's voice, no doubt.] They accumulate by the second, and dissipate millimoments later. To describe the true number in any sensical means would shatter the fabric of your mind as if it were stitched to break like glass. Millions of shards interwoven with fabric, even the simplest of understandings would wound an individual beyond comprehension. It is with this answer that you are to take caution when questioning the true feats of a glimmering light.

Stay tuned, dear listeners, for our evenight broadcast. Our existential adventure will never seem to end, but there will be a casket closed very soon if one does not follow our instruction. Please, do take caution. And respect the glitters.

[End Transcript]

[Postrequisitional Notes: Conflicting reactions are ridden throughout the questioning. It is unclear if the questionee approves of being pried into, as those who approached the establishment did not see a moment where "$£@=()*.:" was unhappy, yet his tone signified otherwise, albeit strained to attain something more chipper.]

[broadcastingbartender]

[Transcript File Name: "ᵇᵉᵃᵘᵗ△▼"]

[Date Recorded: "=/×/=*"]

[Prerequisitional Notes: Patrons that were at the 'talking-head''s bar after the previous broadcasting day are exiting the establishment far more disallusioned and positive towards life than most other days. This swell in lack of positivity is abnormal.]

[Begin Transcript]

Broadcaster: Welcome back, lovely listeners! My formal apologies to whatever had occured. I simply felt a surge of joy, and it must have manifested itself into a physical form of expelled fluid most found vile. It is an incredibly strange occurance, but nevertheless, I have put such a fluid to a positive use. But pay no mind to its use, we are here to discuss the knowledge that I have been permitted to tell you by are adoring, dominating legal system that keeps us all in check from the shadows.

DiscJockey: Yea! We got a whole lot of news for you guys today! We have an update on Carrot, (y'know, the farmer?), the establishment of a new facility in the outskirts of town, a new piece of the weather by your's truly, and even-

[There was a gentle hush, and the DiscJockey's speech stopped abruptly. A hush sounded off like millions of tiny pillows being placed around one's body, and acting like the most drowsy-inducing marshmallow fabric one could conceive.]

[The DiscJockey's speech is notably soft from this point forward, as if speaking to a resting child who just spent the equivalent of 8 hours attempting to disect the meaning of life, and mentally scarring themself for such a wild prospect that holds no meaning and no conclusion.]

Broadcaster: Now now, aquaintence of mine... No need to spoil the surprises, hmm?

DiscJockey: I... Guess so... Ahaha, I'm sorry dear $£@=()*.:... I don't know what I'm talking about, anyways...

Broadcaster: Oh, none of us do. Even if one expects that they have knowledge of the topic, one will always be corrected and wronged and all of the above and below... Even deities aren't free from spreading accidental fallacies. Nonetheless, we speak with confidence- as if there's no untruth in the first place.

Nevertheless, the news is always considered to be the truth. And today's truthful knowledge of typically unknowable proportions is the heightened sales of Carrot's (you know, the farmer?) mysteriously grown veggies. Seems there's a new red food that certainly is all the rage. She has claimed that her ended rivalry with Beet has- quote- 'Certainly taught her some new intracacies in the possibilities of intercropping with dough'.

Carrot (you know, the farmer?) has found herself with so much profit that her criminal record has been scrapped clean. Bystandards suspect that there will be new crimes to add to that scrubbed up list. I, for one, expect manslaughter to be the first upon that soon to be long list. Others suspect that thievery or breaking and entering...

DiscJockey: I say thievery. Haha, 'cause she's always stealing people's tastebuds with her food... Though, I think Miss Mala does that with mustard bastards. Ha...!

[Drowsy laughter, one that grew distant for the moment, as if the DiscJockey were leaning back in whatever chair they happened to have. However, leaning against an object is impossible for a ghost on their current ring of aftermath reality. Explanation: They're Tired and Unstable.]

Broadcaster: No matter the crime, it bares no semblance or meaning upon our next announcement. Upon the edge of our fine little town, last evenight, a facility made entirely of mushrooms had sprouted from the ground. Apparently, the owner and self-proclaimed mycologist that had sprouted up with the building itself claimed he held an ancient, arcane knowledge to spread. Utterly preposterous, I say. The way he shambled along to the streets to the townhall for his business to be recognized, how the mushrooms that spouted from every orafice wobbled and bobbed like eyeballs hanging from the sockets by the pink chords behind them alone...

That is the figure of a man who spent too much time under a different type of drug. The one that gives you falsified truths by ascending to the plain of liars where fairies and fae strip your organic material away in favor for some magical powder that will eat you away from the inside out. The only type of drug you all should be partaking in is liquid forgetmenot. After all, if there is something scarring that occurs within this town... It is best to forget, so you no longer have to forgive, and smile in ignorance.

[There is a quiet 'mhm', obviously from the other broadcast participant who seemed far too out of it to actual participate at all. Too exhausted.]

DiscJockey: Can we move on to my tuuunes? It's a reaaaal good one, I promise.

Broadcaster: Well... I suppose it is about that time, hmm? Then let us play it. No harm in playing a little late...

[Today's weather consists of... Absolute silence. Ah, but not entirely- A single ringing bell, chiming in E Minor. It chimes, again and again. No other sound or tone is heard. Nothing but a singlular, repetative chime is heard over and over between bits of void and null. When the audio of the broadcast returns, silence remains momentarily, though white noise comes through as the mics attempt to make up for lost sound.]

DiscJockey: That... Wasn't my tunes, but aight. I can vibe with that, I guess.

Broadcaster: How odd... Hopefully the Mistress of the 73rd dimension isn't upset by this abrupt change in music. Nevertheless, we must swiftly move on to our next story. A tale that I personally find myself overjoyed to read.

[There is the clearing of the throat, much akin to those of graduates speaking to the subjects before them. No one actually cares, but everyone listens and has the possibility of spacing out of due to the fact that it was very much mandatory and simply rude to ignore.]

Our favorite little mechanic, Hero, has finally gotten over his attraction to mustard! He paid another visit to the local restaurant, and passed on such a despicable condiment! Not only that, but he has finally found a stable place of residency. Granted, the housing itself typically becomes unstable and phases into serveral different plains of existances with the chime of some underground society's gilded bell.

This beautiful man, glowing with all the grace of a star student before they are inevitably picked up and tossed into the desert much like any other too highly educated citizen... Although he will be lacking the desert treatment... Oh, how the joy of him adapting for his own survival fills my lungs with honey-laced tar. It is utterly euphoric to think of such a man, though imperfect, being so utterly perfect all the same. Watching him, too, is another layer to this state of utter bliss. All because this mechanic, this twig of a marshmallow-y man...

[Due to the rambling nature at what is supposed to be the end of the broadcast, the audio mixing turns DiscJockey up, and the lovestuck broadcaster down. The broadcaster seems cognizant of this, yet continues anyways.]

DiscJockey: Yeaaa... This is gonna take a while. We're pretty much out of time, so like. See you later, listeners. Remember to come down to the bar later and drink up... And maybe chill with me, huh? Heheh...

[End Transcript]

[Postrequisitional Notes: The chimes of the weather were not randomized. Investigation shows that the single tone was used in some form of morse code, but an unfamiliar type of it. 'E', 'T', and 'P' were able to deciphered, but this is not finalised in any manner. Continued research is required.]

[broadcastingbartender]

[Transcript File Name: "†HЯΣΣ"]

[Date Recorded: "÷/÷+/=*"]

[Prerequisitional Notes: Pets have been acting antsy as of late. Without the weather, they have become quite hostile. The 'talking-head''s lack of attention to his own pet brings about a mystery to be scrutinized.]

[Begin Transcript]

Broadcaster: Again, and again, and again... Listeners, you are welcomed into this broadcast with open arms and an organ manifested to temporarily take the place of the heart so this metaphor may bring you warmth and comfort. A delightfully golden era it appears to be out there, gilding the local pet market over for the time that evenight lasts.

How beautiful every little object appears when coated in gold... Perhaps one day we will see Hero plated in such shining grace- though it would certainly ruin his desaturated look, and those ever-rounded pupils of his... Ah... [The clink of two Empty wine glasses resonate momentarily. It sounds empty, almost yearning in a sense.] It would be a miracle to keep that utopian-dystopian looking fellow the way that he is forever... Perhaps one day advancements in preservation will move past cryogenic cells for famous musicians and animators that create conspiracies with their deaths...

Speaking of musicians! That leads us directly into our very first tale of the day... Famous musician and EDM artist DJ Cookie has found themself in a small amount of trouble with the law. After their last attempt to bring back the weather portion of the broadcast, they have been reported missing... Supposedly. Locals claim that DJ was spotted being scattered through the sky, the various compounds of organic and inorganic colors associated with them staining the sky. Red also stained itself upon the sky. Unfortunate for the janitors of the artificial-natural clouds. Even so, they found the time to send us a song and take refuge in their new spiritual form... Which drastically changes the cookie's state from 'missing' to 'here, but not really'.

In fact, they are currently standing about three feet off the floor in the corner of the studio. Though only certain patrons can see such a figure, who is smiling without a single sign of dissatisfaction within them, all will be able to hear their songs soon enough. After all, thanks to the sacrifice of a life, the holy lady from the 73rd dimension has blessed us with the ability to continue our weather section- as long as we only played songs of the (physically) deceased. So, without further delay, we will switch over to our revitalized Weather Section of the broadcast... As much as I have a distaste to this portion, honoring the only physically and not spiritually dead is a rarity that should be appriciated.

[As expected, music began to play. It was repetative, yet in a way that made any minor change to it far more effective. Lulling the listener into a state of expectancy that would only change a smidge. The lyrics were quite simplistic, yet were aggressively positive in a way that seemed incredibly ominous. "Everybody likes you" played again and again and again, with the occasional "I like you, I like you" through pitch distortion. It feels as though the song was repeated three times over. The voice itself appeared to be a chorus, some strange group of supposedly adolescents.]

["Everybody likes you. Everybody likes you. Everybody lied to you. Everybody likes you. Everybody lied to you. Everbody lied to you. Everybody, everybody- I like you, I like you. Everybody, everybody..."]

DiscJockey: It is a promise to all! Everybody likes you! Especially you, sir. Your work is hefty, especially with all the souls you must have gathered so far, amirite?

Broadcaster: What a bold statement. You certainly know how to bring about a new spin to an old classic. Tell me, what inspired you to make such a tune? Your still-mortal friends are quite literally dying to know. Their lack of knowledge is very slowly killing them... Such poor little lives.

DiscJockey: Oh, a dear hallucination of mine due to a recent electrocution had me spark the idea. You could say he was quite the electrifying inspiration of sorts.

[A hearty laugh was shared between the two, though it was soon followed by a nervous cough from the DJ. The one to point out an obviously noticable aspect that hasn't been noticed for the purpose of comedy or horror.]

Broadcaster: Ah yes, the song has ended, hasn't it? Even as someone who appriciates more classical tunes, and one who is on the side of Miss- [The being is cut by a string of wheezing and hacking. According to the DiscJockey, there was vile, glowing honey-colored fluid with the consistancy of almost-frozen marmalade. The sound was quickly pushed away from the source, panicked.]

DiscJockey: Aha- Haha- Oooooh fuck-? $£@=()*.:? Are you alright? $£@=()*.:? This- this is like the opposite of what's supposed to happen- Uh... Management?! Staff?! Who am I supposed to contact for h-

[The broadcast was then shut down. Advertisements related to prescriptions for unknown diseases and robotic implants played for the rest of the available timeslot. Behind the various ads, a gentle music box played. Whether it was a part of the broadcast that somehow reached through the shut down or apart of an entirely unknown governmental program is yet to be deciphered.]

[End Transcript]

[Postrequisitional Notes: Due to the danger the broadcaster continuously keeps placing himself into, a decision has been made to allow "$£@=()*.:" to have a broadcasting partner. The DiscJockey is the most viable option, relationship and business-wise. They will not leave the studio, either way... And the broadcaster himself appears visually protective of them when removal is attempted.]

[broadcastingbartender]

[Transcript File Name: "(¤)-="]

[Date Recorded: "÷/×*/=*"]

[Prerequisitional Notes: He's been showing more and more interest in ’@=@?÷). The amount of bias he's been showing is concerning. Any reports on ’@=@?÷) are to be treated with a mountain of artificial table salt and a side of mustard. And nobody likes mustard.]

[Begin Transcript]

Broadcaster: Once again, I welcome you to our faithful station, dear listeners. Before you fall into the news we have in store, please remember to attatch yourself to some object nearby, or the weekly singularity check can and will dispose of your undesirable bodies. After all, there is no need to live on the 3rd plane if there is no one to claim partnership and eternal devotion to, is there? If you believe you can hold on to some religious figure to save yourself... Make dues with them first.

Figures that are far above you do not appriciate being grabbed at for saving, and you are not the most important to them. In fact, they more than likely do not care for you. I myself would know.

[There is a quiet sigh from the broadcaster, as if he himself knows the strains of being grabbed upon for help in the most useless, fleeting moments of another's life. Pitiful, aren't these other cookies?]

Our sources have brought quite the line of news today. Most pressing of matters is with the beautiful scientist that brought himself to town not so long ago. Wonderful little Hero with his fluffy, cloud-like locks of his... And stunning yellowed-lime orbs. Apparently, he brought himself down to the local restaurant and ordered something utterly abhorent. "It was a normal day," said known home-wrecker and food establishment owner Mala Sauce, "until that scoundrel went and ordered mustard on his burger! How disgusting! Who let this little satanspawn into my restaurant?!"

Thankfully, upon being given a negative look by the owner herself, Hero retracted his statement about the mustard. He instead recieved a burger with extra ketchup, along with some sugar packets. Someone as sweet as him deserves some sugar, but such handing them to him in such a way that signifies that he shouldn't come back or his viens will be filled with glucose until bursting in a sugar-coated mess...

I for one feel as though he should be treated lighter. He's an outsider, after all... Not that this town showed any other residences any mercy. Mustard... It baffles me to think that he would order such a thing... Ah, such is the way of outsiders one would suppose.

[Distant growls are heard, along with a small gasp from the speaker. It sounds... Fearful and apprehensive, rather than simply surprised. It sounds as if one has been called up to speak in front of a class of children, but the children are wielding various weapons that could disassemble your atoms if you do not entertain them enough.]

...Ah. It appears we must move on. Let us listen to the next segment, shall we? [The broadcaster fakes a cough. One would assume it's to clear his throat, but you and I both know he has nothing of the sort to gunk up with something so feeble as phlegm.] According to local unlocal sources, it seems that the "Beetie-Boop" character has found her way into more trouble than with only Carrot (you know, the farmer?)...

Her foods have garnered the attention of the local pet market. And by 'garnered the attention', I mean she was quite literally dogpiled upon. Authorities are still attempting to drag her body out from under the pile of pets that have apparently magnified to the treats she was bringing for donation. Just goes to show that charity gets you nowhere except 6 feet under a pile of dogs. Carrot, (you know, the farmer?), is pleased with this occurance. Too pleased. Suspiciously pleased. So be sure to purchase her carrots at the local unlocal weekly biweekly food market to see how suspicious she truly is!

Weather is still unavailable. Sorry, dear listeners, but the agreement with the fair lady from the 73rd dimension is not faring well. However, this makes up for lost time when speaking of that perfectly imperfect individual so that I may correct myself. Hero, who we spoke of earlier, does not hold the occupation of scientist. Rather, he is a mechanic. He builds robots, in fact. Flawed as they may be, those that gaze upon his creations find some sort of empathy or adoration towards them. What a kind soul... Supposedly mortal, non-literally stunning soul...

[Idle tapping can be heard, sounding like a nail against the side of a glass. An enlongated sigh, one that shows signs of being in some sort of dream-like state. This is followed by the sound of something heavy, more than likely metallic, falling with a thud.]

Ah- Right- Our next story. It is not as important as others, but news is news! Now, let's see... Let's see... Mhm, yes. This is certainly a story. Yes, yes of course. What a story. [There are many other various stutters from the announcer, and the sound a chair being slid out of. Various sounds of an altercation can be heard, mostly sounds of growls and slamming- some clanking mixed in here and there as well. This goes on for an indeterminate amount of time, though the broadcaster finds time to speak in the midst of it.]

It appears our broadcast will have to end early, unfortunately! There appears to be a... Technical issue of sorts. [The sounds of gears grinding overtake the microphone temporarily.] Pardon! My sincerest apologies! To patrons and listeners alike, what you may hear may disturb you. So, I urge you to drink many more liquid forgetmenots after today. Perhaps even take it solidified if your corporeal or noncorporeal forms allow for such. Please, dear listeners, be safe-!

[The broadcast is then taken into sounds that caused at least 3 staff members to go mad attempting to describe. After such, there is nothing left but static.]

[End Transcript]

[Postrequisitional Notes: Rather than being at his limit, there was only a smidge of horrific ability used against the assailant. Said assailant has not been seen, but we assume it was made of some form of inorganic matter, with a faint scent of mustard. This is why we hate mustard.]

[broadcastingbartender]

[Transcript File Name: "ƸӜƷ"]

[Recording Date: "÷/×÷/=*"]

[Prerequisitional Notes: The faceless "talking head" had an encounter with "☆···･" the mornight prior. Being wary of night bias is imperative to a truthful report.]

[Begin Transcript]

Broadcaster: Good mornight, all of you wondrous cookies out there. I thank you for tuning in to our broadcast of otherwise unknowable knowledge. Take a look to your left, and to your right, above and below... If there are no fleeting sparkles in your vision, then you may continue listening.

Finding sparkles? Please contact your local authorities to remove those pesky parasites, lest those on duty find you and personally expire the new sparkling host. There is only to be one host, after all. Remember: They always know. It's best to tell before they talk. If they speak, the results are indisputably indescribable, yet have a one hundred percent lethality rate.

[Gentle Laughing, like the kind that one would hear upon calming down a Hysteric Figure who had just encountered the event known as "Loss of a Loved One".]

Now, onto the immediate news. [Seconds of Silence pass, sounds of shuffling Papers and clinking Glass is faintly heard.] According to tentative rumors transmuted into truthfulness by the whim of figures far beyond our own comprehension, we will be removing Midnight and Noon from our time. Breakfast brunches are no longer available to any figures on the secondary plain, as funds to remove Midnight and Noon will be extracted from there.

My apologies to Mrs. Blossom and her family, who live off of those brunches as sustenance alone. Perhaps a trip down to the bar would aid you, if not allow you to swallow down your inevitable starvation with liquid forgetmenot.

Speaking of needs that I personally do not require, a new cookie has rolled into town- one bearing a crossbow- claiming to have foods for both cookie and pet alike. Carrot, (you know, the farmer?) finds this utterly preposterous. She came to our studio personally with her gardening tools fused into her back for quick use, as all farmers should have, and spoke in her unknown accent that is hard for even I decipher.

"That there Beetie-Boop looking vermin is trying to run me out of town with lies. If the authorities aren't going to do nothing about this, I'll take matters into my own hands," is what she had said, removing explicitives for the children out there. To this, I reminded her that murder is technically legal if you're able to find the victim dislikable enough by the unlocal-local judges. She left, her dirt-coated feet leaving a trail of dried dirt in the facility the janitors to clean. How uncouth. [Another small pause, followed by a small cough. The type designated for telling your grandparents that you- "truthfully"- are very sick and must stay home to avoid the horrors of forced mental labor.] I have a feeling one of these food vendors will be gone by tomorrow.

Weather, fortunately, has been cancelled due to Miss ☆···･ refusing to allow anymore serenades during this point in the broadcast. The figures behind our scene are working diligently with the beings of the 73rd dimension- Miss ☆···･'s home- in order to find some way to rectify the missing portion of our lovely broadcast. However, I would reccomend against that. There is no need for knowing the weather when it already comes out wrong, and is misconstrued to be wrong even when it is right. Isn't that right, dear listeners?

[A long, drawn out silence. The sound of ambient waves- perhaps of some ocean of static- are heard faintly over the microphone as it attempts to adjust to the lack of sound.]

Now then, listeners. Our broadcast is going to take a detour into dissonant soundoffs- as the authorities wish to indoctrinate those who respond to certain tones in satisfactory ways into their secret service. This new service was brought to our wondrous little town by a perfect little scientist's research in conditioned responses. But until then, allow me to list the reasons why you should listen to this small-statured scientist's ideas, and why not to shy him away for being so imperfectly perfect. After all, even if searching for knowledge is forbidden... Sometimes a scientist can have a smidge of hope to survive in this town, can't they?

[The broadcaster then begins to ramble, listing various features of the new scientist. Fluffy white hair, red and white flannel with the occasional black and white on weekends, thick-rimmed glasses hiding away yellow-green orbs that always kept their shape (an oddity), his scrawny frame hidden by a white overcoat... All the while static and various beeps and tones overlayed until there is no voice left to hear.]

[End Transcript]

[Postrequisitional Notes: Upon later examination, the scientist in question was actually a mechanic. This figure was named "'@=@?÷)", or as the public eye is permitted to call him, "Hero".]