#welcome to night vale transcirpts

[cecilspeaks]

176 - The Autumn Specter

Lips are the toes of the face. Welcome to Night Vale.

[spooky theme song]

It’s Halloween again, Night Vale, my favorite day of the year. As a kid, my mother used to dress my sister Abby and I in homemade costumes and take us door to door, vaguely threatening our neighbors until they gave us candy. When I was a teenager, I got a little old for trick-or-treating, so I started going to haunted houses with my friends. A lot of those haunted houses were kind of predictable with all their chain saw killers and Victorian ghost children singing nursery rhymes, who would follow you home and sing by your bed for months afterwards, but they always got to me. I loved the emotional rush of being scared. I still do. Of course, I don’t go out much to haunted houses, but I still love good old fashioned scary stories. I thought today would be a great day to share some of my favorites with you. I had my new intern, James, put together a few spooky tales that are perfect for putting you into Halloween mood.

But first, let’s have a look at the Community Calendar. This Saturday night at the New Old Night Vale Opera House, is the annual costume gala. This event is the Opera House’s largest fundraiser and one of the most prestigious costume contests in the region. A panel of judges will be on hand to determine the best costume at the ball. Last year’s winners were Joel Eisenberg and his partner Danny Jimenez, who dressed in a tandem outfit of a stegosaurus. I was there, listeners, and it was impressive! The creature was so realistic-looking. The craftsmanship of the costume was top notch, but listen, I have to confess I’m always more into high concept creativity rather than realistic details when it comes to costumes. Like I remember the 2015 gala, when Amal Shamun came dressed up as the concept of ennui. She made herself 12 feet tall, dressed in a taupe long coat, and created a constant drizzling rain inside the ball room. Anyone who looked at her got super sad and wanted a hug. But Joel and Danny’s stegosaurus was fine.

Sunday afternoon is the fall craft sale in Old Town Night Vale. An inscrutable maze of stalls showcasing the finest products from our town’s artisans. There will be cultural events for children, like finger painting classes, puppet shows, and a visit from the Autumn Specter. The Autumn Specter returns. It comes to collect its crops, with its great and sharp sickle. [creepily] It will harvest every ripe soul in Night Vale, the Autumn Specter is hungryyyy! It is Octoberr and it is timme to feeeeeee-duh.

Hey James, this Community Calendar doesn’t seem right, it’s just a bunch of stuff about the Autumn Specter. Also this font size, what-what is this 32 point? That’s just much too large. And it’s printed in red ink and that is a waste of our color toner, James. Eww, eww! This red ink is still really damp. OK, plus there’s nothing about start and end times of the craft fair, or anything about the food trucks, like if the Autumn Specter is hungry, surely it wants some falafel or Korean barbeque or tacos. James, could you just redo this story? James? James? [clears throat] Well, listeners, I don’t know where James went. Um, I can hear him breathing, but I don’t see him anywhere. Yeah, it’s fine, let’s just get onto our first spooky story.

[static, old-fashioned music] One quiet moonless night, not long ago and not so far away, a teenage girl sat in a house that was not her own. It was the home of Tony and Sheila McDowell. The girl was their babysitter, and she had just put the two young McDowell children down to sleep. The girl watched TV alone in the dark living room, only the bluish flicker of a scary movie illuminating her face. The phone rang abrupt and loud, startling her. She raised the receiver to her ear. “Hello?” she said with a slight quiver. “Have you checked on the children?” came a raspy voice. The babysitter ran quickly upstairs, opening the door of the kids’ bedroom. She flicked on the light, and there they were, fast asleep. She went back to her movie, but the phone rang again. “Haave youuu checked on the childrennn?” came the same voice, only more sinister. The babysitter again hurried upstairs, opened the door, turned on the light, and saw the children still asleep. The caller called again and again and again. “Have you checked on the children?” The babysitter, so scared, barely able to move, hung up the phone before the voice could finish its repeated query. When the phone rang once again, she answered and shouted: “Stop calling me!” But this time, it was a different voice. The person on this occasion said: “Ma’am, this is the police. We’ve traced the call. The call is coming from inside the house. Get out, get out!” The babysitter panicked and started to run, but then she remembered: she never called the police! How would they know to even trace the call? So she crept fearfully upstairs to the children’s room, and the phone was ringing again, the clamoring bell igniting her fright. And she cracked open the door and she saw- She saw the young McDowell boy and his little brother hunched over a phone and giggling! They were pranking her, and she felt relieved but embarrassed. And she told them to stop fooling around and go to sleep. And they all shared a good laugh.

Let’s have a look now at traffic. [papers rustling] Um.. OK, well I don’t seem to have a traffic report from intern James. Also James isn’t here right now, because I sent him out to go pick up lunch a few m- Oh, hey James, James, James, James – wait, why are you standing in the control booth? You were supposed to go get lunch and also I’ve asked you a couple of times not to wear that burlap bag over your head. I mean yes it looks great, with the Jack o’ Lantern face drawn onto it, I mean the mouth is a bit lopsided and the eyes are a tad uneven,  you know kinda flat and emotionless, but all in all it’s a cool look, but it’s decidedly not allowed in Station Management’s dress code. Oh, you’re holing a knife, too! So did you get- did you already get that lunch then? Well if that- if that’s the case, you don’t need to cut my sandwich in half, I’ll-I’ll take it whole. And also I need that traffic report, thanks. James? What are you waiting for, the Autumn Specter to do it for you? [chuckles] Hop to it! James?

[clears throat] Well, while James is working on that, let’s get back to my favorite spooky Halloween stories. This one isn’t a story so much as a fun Halloween game. The legend of Bloody Mary.

According to the lore, if you turn off all the lights, and stare into a mirror, repeating “Bloody Mary” three times in a row, she will appear and tear your face off! I’ve never tried this because I don’t own any mirrors, but my husband Carlos conducted this very experiment in his science lab. He said he darkened the room and repeated the name and nothing happened for a long time. But then a figure of a woman appeared, silvery gray and shimmering, and she approached Carlos slowly, her hollow white eyes never blinking. She brought her face only inches from Carlos and said: “Are you for real?” And Carlos said yes, he was indeed – real. And Bloody Mary said: “OK because this time of year, I just get a bunch of giggling, screaming teenagers, and I’m really tired of ripping off their faces for no pay whatsoever!” And Carlos gave her some resources for starting a union and she thanked him and she offered to tear his face off in exchange for the consulting, but Carlos said no, he liked his face, and wisher her luck. Night Vale, pay your malevolent spirits! They’re overworked especially around Halloween. And a 20 per cent gratuity for poltergeists, phantasms, revenants, and ghosts is standard.

And now for t- what the, oh you- [papers rustling] Wait, OK. You know, I thought intern James had handed the traffic report to me, but this is just a piece of parchment with a 9-pointed star seemingly drawn by a finger dripped in blood. And then there are a series of ancient runes scrawled around the outer edges. Now I took runic in college. I mean, most of my friends took Spanish as their language, but I thought living here in the American Southwest, it would be more useful to study ancient Scandinavian and Germanic alphabets. And from what I can make out, these are a message about the return of the Autumn Specter. Ugh, alright. OK. I love that intern James loooves Halloween and whatever this the Autumn Specter is. In fact, James is still in the break room right now construction a sacred totem out of ash tree branches and twine. He’s been muttering to himself all day in a language that I don’t recognize, and the only words I can understand are “Autumn Specter”. But I still have neither my traffic report nor my lunch! Wait, do you think James is… Naah, put it out or you mind, Cecil.

Let’s tell another spooky Halloween story. There once was a beautiful young woman who wore a green ribbon around her neck. She won the affection of a handsome young man. They fell in love and one day the boy asked the girl why she always wore a green ribbon around her neck. She would not tell him. One day the man and the woman were to become husband and wife. In her white bridal dress, the woman still wore her green ribbon. The man asked her on their wedding night if he could untie the green ribbon, but even on the  most intimate of evenings, she said no, and he respected her answer. But he longed to know what she was hiding behind the ribbon. Through the years, the man asked the wife again about the ribbon, but she never removed it, nor answered his questions about it. She only warned him that he would not like what he saw if she were to remove it. He asked less and less, but his curiosity grew and grew. And they became old, very old, and they knew their time left was short. The man asked one more time: “My dearest wife, love of my life, tell me that I may remove the green ribbon from around your neck.” And the old woman said: “My adoring groom, here in our room after all these many years, yes you may. But I caution you, as I have many times before, that you shall not like what your eyes behold.” The man hesitated, but finally reached his weakened, wrinkled fingers to the green bow along her nape. And he tentatively pulled the ribbon, and suddenly it unfurled, falling from her neck, and the man gasped. Upon her neck was a series of ornate letters spelling out “GOTH LIFE”. The woman said: “I got this tattoo in high school but kind of outgrew it and it’s super embarrassing.” And the man replied: “It is for sure weird, but also pretty cool. I like it.” And she never wore the green ribbon again.

You know, listeners, I’d love to bring you that traffic report, but right now, um, I’m facing something much more urgent and more dire. My studio door has opened on its own, and as I turned around, I could see down the long faintly lit corridor of our offices. And at the end of the hallway stands a figure, and he wears a Jack o’ Lantern mask, his head crooked to one side like a dog asking a question or like a hanged man, or both. And it is intern James, and he holds a long knife and he walks, he walks slowly toward me. And he is speaking at first in a mutter, but now louder, a strange shout in an obscure tongue like a magician casting a wicked spell, and he is moving much faster toward me, like a limping run, and his blade is raised high, and James is not an intern, Night Vale, bu the Autumn Specter itself come to reap my soul!

But before he does that, Let me take you to the weather.

[“Welterweight” by Nels Andrews. https://nelsandrews.bandcamp.com/]

So. During the weather, I went to human resources and requested a file on intern James. Oh I’m fine, by the way, and James is not the Autumn Specter, but I’ll get to that. So I found a copy of James’ résumé and cover letter for the position of radio station intern. His application was originally submitted in 1845. “That’s almost two centuries ago!” I exclaimed, but according to HR, they’re pretty backlogged on the intern apps. “What are you gonna do, we get to them when we get to them,” they said from the bottom of their abandoned well. Paperclipped to James’ application was a wrinkled and yellowed news clipping from the Night Vale °Daily Journal, and the article says that James died on Halloween night in 1849 when he was hit by a train. I then went to the hall of public records and found that our radio station was built in 1950, atop the very train tracks where James met hi send. James’ soul has been wandering the halls and offices of our radio station ever since. For all James ever wanted was to be a radio intern. To serve the listening community, to lift high the voice of journalistic truth. And it was his death that led to the shutdown of those train tracks and the eventual construction of a new station home, and the building we still use now. So I was wrong about James. He was an intern, after all, and not a malevolent Halloween spirit.

But I was right that the Autumn Specter had come for me. For when I turned to see James running down the hill, I did not notice the Autumn Specter behind me, with its bony hands and scarecrow mouth, and I did not notice its soul reaping sickle, which it had raised high above its oversized head and stick thin body. And James had given his life for the building of our radio station, and in death, gave his soul for the very same cause. And James threw himself upon the Autumn Specter, and he tried to stab the Specter’s neck and chest, but it-it- it did nothing. And the Spectre pushed James aside and then turned its black coal eyes upon me. And it raised its curved blade once again and swung! I tried to duck, but was too slow. And just as the sickle’s edge reached my face, James dove in front of it and vanished in a burst of white flame, as he was struck. And the room was empty and the Autumn Specter was gone too.

To the family and friends of intern James, he was… an OK intern. Not always on  top of his writing deadlines, but he literally sacrificed his soul for our radio station. I can’t bring you a traffic report today, but I will live to bring you one tomorrow.  If we find a new intern. And HR tells me that we have hundreds of candidates, although  most of them are not yet aware that they are candidates.

Stay tuned next for our new cooking competition show, “Flay Bobby Flay”.

And as always, Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: The road to hell is paved with cobblestone. It’s super bumpy, not at all comfortable, and really bad for your car’s suspension.

[cecilspeaks]

136 - The Mudstone Abyss Part 2

Kevin: Age is just a number that counts quickly upward to an ending point.

Welcome to Desert Bluffs.

Hello, Desert Bluffs! Let’s start there. Let’s start with a greeting, a simple hello and of course, a huge smile. Then let’s move right into the good news, the happy news.

Charles and I went on our first date many weeks back, and it was magical! I met up with him in the new town square, which is a sand dune with a cow skull on it. I was wearing my best rabbit fur coveralls and rainbow-striped head band. He was wearing a rose gold lame cravat and soccer shin guards. We went to eat at Desert Bluffs’ newest restaurant, Vermillion, which specializes in lip meat. We shared a bottle of Cabernet and talked comfortably about all the things you shouldn’t talk about on a first date. Politics – we’re both theocrats -, religion – we were both raised in the arborial faith -, sex – we both have had it – and banking. We had some polite disagreements here. Later we went back to my house next to the Temple of Joy. It had been a long time since either of us had had - [chuckling] well, I don’t wanna share too much. So I’ll skip to the next morning, where over coffee we talked about our dreams, or rather dream. It was that same shared dream that all Desert Bluffs citizens have every night with the birds flying in seemingly random directions over the cornfield before crashing their bodies into the ground. Charles, being new in town, had a lot of questions about this dream. But I said that the dream is nothing more than a simple pleasure we all share as a community. It’s fun to know that the whole time sometimes wakes up at the exact same time, sweating and screaming for joy!

After enriching conversation and strong coffee, he said he had to go meet someone. When I asked who, he said, “We’ll talk about it later, it’s not a big deal.” He kissed me and I smiled like I have not smiled in years. I smiled so hard that every glass object in my kitchen exploded all at once. A lacerating confetti of joy.

An update on the construction of the new Mudstone Abyss. Mayor Lauren Mallard reported today that the dig is behind schedule. She sighted a shortage of workers. She had planned for a larger turnout of labor, but this simply has not manifested. I’m disappointed to hear this, Desert Bluffs, but it’s certainly understandable. We all have jobs and responsibilities, and making time to contribute to the building of this great monument can be difficult. Desert Bluffs is a place of hope, of renewal, of refuge for those in need and above all, of joy. The Mudstone Abyss is a celebration of all those things, and I tell you now that the reward will be great. Not just the reward of being devoured by the Smiling God, but the reward of your eternal impact on your town. Think of the Rapa Nui people who built the Moai, or the proud union workers who erected that deco masterpiece, the Chrysler Building. Or the time traveling street artist collective known as Banksy, who built Stonehenge.

Every great monument is built by human hands, and those hands leave their artistry for generations to enjoy, discover, and study. The Mudstone Abyss will be a triumph of Desert Bluffs citizens, and later a tourist attraction, and later a historical landmark, and eventually a curious and misunderstood artefact of a long dead civilization. You can be part of this.

Mayor Mallard and I put our heads together and agreed that the solution here is to set up communes and camps along the dig site to make your commutes easier. Schools and businesses will go on half day schedules so that everyone can make time for the monument. Mayor Mallard, and I support her brilliant idea 100 per cent – believes this is the only task we should be focused on as a town. The Smiling God deserves a physical manifestation of our penitence and devotion. Desert Bluffs deserves a notable landmark, and best of all, if we all worked and lived together, we would get to know each other’s interests, cultures, languages, histories. If we worked together, we could become so much – closer.

And now a word from our sponsors. When we talk apocalypse, we talk fires and spires of smoke and screams and wars and horrid clouds of ash and floods. And this is a comforting vision, because it supposes we’re all in it together. But death is mostly something you keep to yourself. In all reality, the apocalypse is likely going to just be you alone in a room with the flu. Bed, Bath and Beyond: you’re going to need some new sheets.

So after my first date with Charles, we went out again the following week. I showed him around Desert Bluffs, I took him to the Sandy Blossom Bowling Alley and Arcade Joy Compound. We bowled that afternoon and played a few old video games like Ms. Pac-Man, Sleepytime Spider Swallower, and Horse Carcass, all the classics from our youth. We then went for a romantic walk along the beach. Charles thought it shouldn’t be called a beach because there was no body of water, but I pointed out that it was sand, and that there was water somewhere. How close the water is is all a matter of faith. He laughed, and I squeezed his hand. Then we went to the food truck park. He bought some cheese pirogues from the Odessa Dumplings truck, while I went to the Tex-Mex truck and got a burrito filled with fibreglass insulation and refried beans.

The food trucks weren’t nearly as classy as Vermillion, but food is only as good as the company you enjoy it with. And I really enjoyed my time with Charles. It’s hard to intimately connect to people especially as you get older, but my time with Charles made dating seem easy. Why would anyone choose to be single when they could just walk up to the perfect man and say “Let’s know each other”? When life is good, it’s hard to understand how it could have ever been bad.

After dinner, I suggested we could go get a drink together. Unfortunately Desert Bluffs doesn’t have any bars. Not for religious reasons, I explained to him. It’s just that no one’s been able to open one yet. The state places some pretty high taxes on hard liquor transported across dimensional rifts. So I offered to have him back over to my place for some more wine. But he said he had to be going. I protested. Charles said, “Kevin. You fill me with such joy, and I don’t wanna keep secrets. I should tell you I have a son. His name is Donovan and he’s five. He’s a sweet kid.” Charles said he moved here because Donovan starts school next year, and he wanted to raise his boy in a community based in happiness and positivity. But Charles is concerned about bringing dates home with him until he knows they will stay around for a while. “Kevin,” he said, touching my face along the socket of my left eye. “I think you would be great around Donovan.” My smile disappeared from my face. Not because I didn’t feel happy, but because I felt – so many things. My lips couldn’t express them all. He said, “I’m not suggesting we have to be serious right now, we have to figure that out with time.” He then said we should go back to his place, but on the way, he needed to pick up Donovan from Grandma Josephine, who has been babysitting. We spent the rest of the evening drinking sodas at his home. I wanted to touch Charles, to put my hand against his chest again, to kiss him with real passion. But instead we watched Donovan play with toy airplanes and Charles talked about the things parents talk about.

Donovan was nice, but I had to concentrate hard to keep my smile.

[long pause] An update on the construction of the Mudstone Abyss. Nearly everyone in town is now at the dig site, setting into their lean-to’s and pop tents and gathering up the appropriate tools for the physical labor ahead. Mayor Lauren Mallard said she is heartened by the outpouring of support in the past hour. We have made huge strides, already marking out our mile-wide parameter and deepening the pit to almost 1,000 feet. Some stone workers have even begun carving sacred texts from the Book of Devouring. I’m getting reports from the construction area that some of those etchings have begun to glow bright white, as the earth trembles beneath them. Wow! I’m getting chills just thinking about this!

There have been some scuffles among the workers, miscommunication and arguments that devolved into small fights. The Desert Bluffs police department sent two officers, who are also friends of mine from the Temple of Joy, Keon and Kelton, to break up some of these skirmishes. But more fights and arguments happened than they could control. Officers Keon and Kelton reported that parties involved in fights were shouting nonsense at each other. They initially thought some were non-English speakers, but they could not identify the languages. Then they saw young Ryan Nichols, who was an English major at Ala-bay-, Al-bama, at his former university, spouting absolute gibberish at another person. Keon and Kelton reported that sometimes people’s words sounded like normal English, but without any context or meaning, and at other times like unconventional noises that are not common to any human language. But everyone speaks passionately and personally, thinking they’re communicating what they mean, even though they were not. Apparently the fighting became pervasive enough that Mayor Mallard had to make a public address. Here’s a transcript of what she said.

“Desert Bluffs, please do not fight. Remember to take time to smile and relate to one another. If someone says something you do not understand or do not appreciate, simply cauliflower. Roomba starlight rice tank ship. Stallion the ballisters right on through, until balloons.” And then she repeated “until balloons” over and over, with complete conviction and passion. And eventually the fighting stopped, not because of the speech but because of sheer confusion and exhaustion.

As the fighting stopped, so did the construction. No one knew what anyone was saying, longtime friends could not find their words and so resorted to physical gestures. But even Jerry Kramer and his daughter Morgan, who communicate mostly through sign language, found that they could no longer comprehend any of the phrases.

More on this developing situation, but first a look at traffic. Near the dig site for the Mudstone Abyss, several hazy dark shadows, vaguely human-shaped, have begun to appear. They are drifting along city streets, which has caused nearly a dozen minor traffic.. uh.. a-ci-des. Ac-dicent. Acci..dents. There is a ten minute backup entering downtown along sci-fi novel. Al-along rhubarb. Ugh, I can’t oak tree, can’t sparrow modem. Spar-row mmodem. Sparrowmodem. That’s not right. I have to condensate. Ugh. Have to con-den-sate. Yellow refrigerator shelves.

I’m trying to say – crab grass to the petroleum!

[“She Left Without A Goodbye.” by Cerah https://soundcloud.com/cerahmusic]

Machine: First unheard message.

Charles: Kevin. Sorry to bother you, it’s Charles. I need you to get the word out that language doesn’t work right in Desert Bluffs. I haven’t found a single dictionary that expresses normal word structure, I’ve been recording and re-recording this message for the past hour and each time it comes out like alphabet soup. No syntax, no identifiable verbs, no words that even appear to fit together. But I did finally manage to find an old text you wrote about the souls of unpure, those whom the Smiling God cannot clean even upon devour. There’s a certain style of hat you described that can keep your thoughts and ideas pure. I-I drove over to your house, because I remember you had one just like this you told me you wore during sermons. Sorry for going through your stuff, but the hat seems to be working for now.

Anyway, based on my research, I think this dig is (loosing) those spirits back into the world and they’re causing… [whispers] There’s something at my door, Kevin. I-I need to go, OK? Call you back in well, I don’t know.

Machine: End of message.

Charles: [whispering] There’s a hazy dark shadow hovering about my front door, Kevin. It’s not knocking, it’s just hovering in front of my house. I can’t make out a face, I’m peering through a crack in the living room blinds to get a better look. Oh no, I think it saw me!

Machine: End of message.

Charles: OK, it’s gone I think. This giant yellow hat is really remarkable. Anyway, I wanted you to get the word out on your radio show about the dig and let your friend Lauren know as well. If we can fully (stop) this giant (pit), I think we can stem the return of these unpure souls, who I think are dismantling our language.

Also… I haven’t heard from you in a while. I hope bringing Donny around didn’t scare you off. If it did, please just tell me now, OK, I won’t be hurt. That’s a lie. I would definitely be hurt if you stopped seeing me because I have a child, but I won’t be bitter. That’s really it. I won’t be bitter if you tell me now. Now that I think of it, that’s not true either. I’ll be less bitter, less hurt, less angry if you tell me now.

Or maybe you’re busy. I know the Mudstone Abyss has all your attention these days and what with communication failing us, I’m sure it’s hard to think about having dinner or even, I dunno, like a family date. You and me and Donny, maybe a trip to the amusement park or… We were thinking about adopting a cat, is there an animal shelter in Desert Bluffs? That could be a really fun day together.

Either day, when you have a chance, just let me know you got this. I don’t wanna stop seeing you, but I’d rather know sooner than aquifer. Aquifer. What? I mean platter.

Kevin, that shadow is back. He’s not at my window anymore, he’s inside graft huts. No I mean – grant first, grapple wigs grapple wigs, Kevin I – handlebar cereal, OK? Handlebar cereal.

Machine: End of new message.

Today’s proverb: Girl, did you fall from heaven? ‘Cause there’s a giant crater where you landed and radiation levels are spiking.

[cecilspeaks]

156 - The Trouble with Time

‘tis better to have loved and lost Than to be slowly eaten whilst still alive. There are, on the whole, Many things worse than having loved and lost. Welcome to Night Vale.

Well, listeners, we have all been grappling with the same problem. Time has become normal in Night Vale, or as normal as time ever is. Time is pretty weird everywhere. As a result of this shift in our experience of time, none of us are remaining the same age for centuries anymore. We are aging one year per year, one month per month, one second per precious second. Every moment that passes our skin is less supple. Our mind is less pliant. Our joints ache just a little more.

The entire town is in an uproar, as we are all coming to terms with the idea of getting older. Gym memberships have soared. Everyone is talking at the same time and they’re all recommending green juice diets to each other. The City Council has tried to make ageing illegal, but it turns out this would be unconstitutional as the Supreme Court decided that slow deterioration of the mind and body is an American right.

I myself am not immune to these worries. When I think about what my life would be like after Carlos or, what his life would be like after me… These are the kinds of fears that can’t be shaken off by the light of day. That linger, even after all the shadows of evening have faded. Is love a gift in a finite world? I’d like to think so, but oh, my stomach is in knots. I’m sure your sis too.

And now a word from our sponsors. Afraid of ageing? Terrified of the tides of time? Spooked by the sequential nature of existence? Stop looking at the calendar and moaning. Sure, it may be cathartic to start every morning by picking up your alarm clock and shouting: “You are a murderer! Your numbers are murder weapons! I am the murder victim!” But it’s not helping you out. Instead, try lotion. Just lotion those limbs. Lotion that face. Got any other parts? Lotion them too. Rubbing lotion on yourself won’t stop time. It won’t end the inevitability of death. But when you die, you will be silky smooth, and folks will whispers: “Why, it doesn’t look like they’ve aged a single day.” Buy lotion now and we will send you a box of other things that will not stop you from dying, but will make you feel a little better on your way out the door. Such as fish oil pills, a pair of running shoes, and books with titles like “Get Happy Now, or Else”. Lotion – you can’t stop ageing, so settle on mitigating the surface appearance of ageing. And this has been ma word from our sponsors.

In a new press release, Night Vale resident Leah Shapiro announces the Mariam McDonald memoriam fund. This fund, in honor of the recently deceased Mariam, will be used to finally fulfil Mariam’s lifelong dream, a dream she did not live long enough to see come to fruition: the removal of all sand from the Sand Wastes.  Mariam hated the sand, thought it looked frightfully untidy, and that it made a bad first impression for folks just coming to town. She could often be seen when she was alive out with her broom, dutifully sweeping the dunes into her dustpan, and depositing the result into a black trashbag. Obviously, this was slow going, but Leah has vowed to continue Mariam’s quest. “It’s a stupid wish, a real dumb one,” said Leah. “I hate it! I hate it so much, but I don’t know, it’s what Mariam wanted. And so I feel obligated for some reason to keep after it. God, this sucks!” Leah concluded. According to the press release, the Mariam McDonald Memorial Fund currently contains 3 dollars, and is not taking donations. Well, isn’t that the feelgood story of the year? Good luck, Leah. I do hope you get rid of all that sand. Mariam was right, sand is very untidy.

And now for the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner. So today, we will be discussing how to tell whether something is a person. Here are simple tests that can be done at home with whatever you find in your parents’ cabinets when they don’t know you’re looking. Does it grow? It’s a person. Does it bend? It’s a person. Is it square or similar to a square? That’s a person. Nodes or nodules? Person. A frank and enticing laugh? Person. Can it hold liquid? Person. Is it a dog? Yup, that’s a person too. That ooze at the back of your closet? Not a person. We don’t know what hat is, best not to touch it, best not to think on it. Perhaps it is the thinking that gives it its power. This has been the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner.

In response to the current “time is normal” crisis, many companies are moving in to offer services to alleviate ageing. Arby’s is suggesting that a regular diet of roast beef has been shown to extend life expectancy by up to 20 years. When they were asked who showed that and how they did so, Arby’s kind of mumbled and sad that they would have those sources for us soon, but in the meantime, come on down and buy yourself a meal. 

A number of new gyms have opened up in town, promising advanced workouts that will keep the body and mind tiptop. There is an LA Fitness, also a 26 Hour Fitness, which promises workouts at any time day or night, plus two bonus hours every day that are only experienced by members. And local legend Louie Blasko has started what he calls a Crossfit gym, but it appears to be just the burned out remains of his old music store, untouched since the night of the fire. “Oh yeah,” Louie said. “You can really get a good workout in here, believe me.” His eyes flicked back and forth nervously.

A different angle is being taken by newcomer to town, Casper Rhodes. Casper says that he has conquered the ultimate obstacle: death itself. He does this by freezing the brain upon death until it can be resuscitated by advanced technologies of the future. “Cryogenics means never having to say ‘I’m dead’,” Casper declared, whirling around the red cape he wears and wiggling his eyebrows. “Oh yes, this is a completely real technology. Once you die, we simply and safely remove your bran and freeze it in here.” He indicated the disused grain silo on the edge of town. “That thing is full of brains,” he said. “And each of those brains will be reanimated to a bright and beautiful future hundreds of years from now, and you can too, for a mere 10,000 dollars. Payable upfront, no refunds offered.”

Suspicious journalists asked if they could take a peek in the grain silo and see if it was actually full of brains. But Mr. Rhodes blocked the door with his body. “Uh oh uh,” he said. “Opening the door would mess up the, uh, freezing process. Uh, wouldn’t want that to happen. You just have to trust us.” Hmmmmm.

And now traffic. It’s looking pretty clear on the roads right now. There isn’t a single car to be seen. The parking lots are barren, the highways are mere doodles of the gods without the roaring machines that give them purpose. Where did every car disappear to? We wonder this as we walk to work. Walk to school. Learning the limits and the capacity of our own legs, magnificent machines attached to our own bodies that we had long ago discounted, but now can only propel ourselves by the length of them. And then again and again, one after another. The hours pass and we gradually pass through them, and where are the cars? Did they ever exist? The factories where cars once were built are now full of robots with no purpose, arms ending in specialized tools and drills, all designed to construct a thing that no longer is there to be constructed. And so they bob and weave for nothing. In this way, perhaps, it could be said that they are dancing. To take purpose from a movement is to suggest the possibility of art within it, that perhaps the movement could have meaning merely for itself, but I ask again: where are the cars? Where did they go? Every other form of transportation still exists. Planes still claw their way into the stratosphere, while boats wobble on churning seas. Motorcycles even, given the compete freedom of the highway, tearing into the turns and straightaways at dangerous speeds, but no cars. Was it something we did? Is this our fault? At least there’s no traffic, I guess, and we’re all getting a little more time outdoors which is nice and, oh – Nevermind. The cars are back, all of them. Aaaall at once, driverless and speeding. Well, it’s nice to have them back. This has been traffic.

And now for corrections. In a previous editorial aired on this station, a reporter indicated his belief that peanut butter is a type of rock. That reporter sincerely believed, based on a half remembered lesson from elementary school that he now realizes might have actually been a cartoon he watched, that peanut butter along with sedimentary, metamorphic, and ignius was in fact one of the main types of rock. This reported harbored no ill intent when he lectured for what may or may not have been two hours about his belief that peanut butter was a type of rock. This well meaning reporter may have ignored several calls from his scientist husband, who was trying to get through to correct this completely understandable mistake. But the reporter was on such a roll that he didn’t even notice the calls coming in. Which could happen to anyone. The reporter may have even printed up posters for local schools showing the types of rock, with peanut butter prominently included. If that is the case, these schools should feel free to return the erroneous posters, or keep them, if they feel it might be in some way educational. In any case, the reporter in question regrets the error and now amidst that maybe, peanut butter isn’t a type of rock. Maybe that’s true. Decide for yourself. This has been corrections.

Casper Rhodes and his Quality Cryogenics Corporation continue to advertise their dubious service all over town. He has bought a billboard next to the Waterfront Recreation Area declaring: “A new life awaits you in the future”, with a picture of a disembodied brain that is somehow both smiling an giving a thumbs up, despite its lack of hands and mouth. The Quality Cryogenics Corporation strung a banner along the top of the disused grain silo on the edge of town saying the name of the company. Except the word “quality” has been misspelled, as has “corporation”. Listeners, I am not one to editorialize, not after the recent peanut butter debacle we’ve heard so much about. But it does not seem to me that this Mr. Rhodes is on the up and up. Nothing about this strikes me as a scientific operation, and trust me, I know from scientific operations. Despite these warning signs, a few people have in fact taken them up on their offer, including weekday shift managers at the Ralphs, Charlie Bear, whose lifetime ambition of becoming a ghost has recently curdled into a frantic fear of death. “I thought we had eternity. Now every minute spent is a minute lost,” Charlie said to me when I asked him if they had any more cilantro. So that was a bummer on my afternoon. I must warn everyone not to buy into this Casper charlatan’s lies. Cryogenically freezing brains is not going to save you. In fact, it is time for me to bust this scam wide open. I will sneak into the disused grain silo, and I will tel you what is inside. Then all of us will know the truth.

As I head over there, Let’s all head over To the weather.

[“Revolution Lover” by Left At London http://leftatlondon.com]

OK, listeners I’m.. hold on. This portable recording rig is just a little heavy. Whoo! I have got to get back to my weight training. I was deadlifting as much as 15 pounds, and now look at me.

OK, I am looking up at the towering disused grain silo on the edge of town. The silo that one Casper Rhodes would claim contains cryogenically frozen brains, destined to be reawakened in the future. Well, I’m sure Mr. Rhodes, but allow me to just check in on it myself. The door to the silo is locked with a padlock and heavy chain. Fortunately, I don’t go anywhere without my Special Reporter’s welding torch. It comes in handy more than you’d think. [welding noises] And off it goes. Another win for the first amendment. Listeners, I am opening the heavy metal doors [creaking], and inside it is dark even in this late afternoon sun. I am stepping in. [voice echoing] My eyes are adjusting and oh my god! Listeners, oh my god! The tanks are full, frozen intact human brains, attached to various support equipment, it is all completely clean and seemingly running well, this – this isn’t a scam! The great Casper Rhodes is telling the truth! Death is now voluntary, aging is meaningless! We will all see the future! We will ALL see the future!

Listeners, I must go, I must talk to my husband. We could be together forever, don’t you see? A new world awaits us in the future! I must talk to Carlos, I must! [equipment drops]

Today’s proverb: On one hand, you have skin. On the other hand, you don’t- oh man, what happened to that hand?!!