Serendipity lies in a cool, dark place and rots beneath our tongues like dust. Water is the air that we, in our arrogance, have forgotten how to breathe. Instead it waits, in our blood and in our bones and escapes from our eyes when we remember how much we truly have forgotten.
Welcome to Mologa.
Good evening, listeners. To begin our programme this evening, it has been requested that I issue to you the following notices:
The City Council has announced the reopening of the St. Nicholas Monastery, across from the Kalyazin old town. They would like to remind all citizens that monks are not allowed in the monastery. People are not allowed in the monastery.
It is possible you will see hooded figures with rusted brass censers entering the monastery.
Do not approach them. Do not approach the monastery. The belfry is prone to howling void and extremely naughty Lichtenburg figures and is highly dangerous. Try not to look at the monastery and do not look, for any period of time, upon the hooded figures.
Remember that we have eaten God and believe in nothing but the sanctity of the glorious misery in which we all share.
And now…ah yes, the news.
Babushka Katenka, who lives not too far away from the hydroelectric plant, reports that Angels revealed themselves to her. They are, her note says, at least three metres tall, blindingly luminous, and one—ah. One of them was clearly Tamil. She says they have assisted her with various chores. One of them bound a new besom from birch for her banya. She is offering to sell the old besom, which has been touched by an Angel. It was the Tamil Angel, if that matters to any of our listeners. If you are interested, contact Babushka Katenka through blood sacrifice via your state-issued conch shell; you know the old dear has gotten rather hard of hearing.
We have a new guest in our fair burg today, Mologa.
Who is he? What does he want from us? Why does he smell of cheap aftershave and cooking grease? Why his perfect and beautiful haircut? Why his perfect and beautiful coat? Brotherhood of the Peacekeepers, please be lenient for this first offense. The coat is not at fault and should be given a fair trial and re-allocated appropriately.
He says he is a scientist. Have not we all been scientists in our collective lifetimes? Are we not still logical men and women and entities otherwise of rationality and logic?
The more appropriate question is this, dear listeners: Why now? And why here? And just what, precisely, does he plan to do with all of those breakers and electrical equipment in that lab he has been assigned—right beside Fédor's Chebureki.
Remember: Everyone does cheburek like Fédor. Or else.
As a reminder to all of the town's parents and grandparents and other guardian figures: let us discuss the safety of the children when taking them out to play in petrified field or coal wastes. You need to ensure they are properly hydrated, given adequate shade from the light disk overhead, and that a watchful eye is placed on submarine colors.
Are the unmarked submarines circling the area black with—well. They're all black. Pay attention to the shape of the hull and remember: if the submarine is approaching you faster than you can run away from it, do not pray.
If you have the ability to outrun the submarine, return to your home and lock the doors until a Brother of the Peace leaves a queueing card on your doorstep. You may pick up your child at the crematorium daycare between the hours of 9 AM and 2 PM. Children left in the care of the crematorium for over a week will have their ashes scattered over the empty diamond mine. Those parents will be charged a state-mandated penalty of having one's mother-in-law spend a week in their home.
And who wants to pay such a fee for childcare, really?
A domestic grade steamer was spotted in local waters today, circling slowly around the Kalyazin belfry, causing a major upset in the Hooded Figures' bi-weekly shuffleboard game outside the monastery.
—what's that? Oh.
A correction, dear listeners.
There is no bi-weekly shuffleboard match at the monastery. Do not think about nor enter the monastery.
Continuing on, the steamer continued its circuit of the belfry (causing a major upset to a certain game played by a certain group of entities in front of a—
[STATIC]
Our new arrival, it has become known, is named Alfred F. Jones. No, listeners. Nobody quite understands the absurdity of his name, least of all this Jones himself, I believe. After all, what kind of father could a man named simply F be?
Our condolences to the unfortunate childhood of Alfred…Fevich Jones.
The scientist—Mr. Jones—has, against municipal policy, called a town meeting. The man himself has a strong jaw but weak chin, glasses that do not suit his face at all, and the rank stench of self-entitlement in one glossy-smiled package. His hair is perfect, and we all hate, and despair, and envy that perfect hair in equal measure.
Babushka Katenka brought pelmeni, which were decent but slightly bland for want of salt. She said that the Angels had taken her salt for a holy mission and the next ration card had not yet arrived.
Mr. Jones, in heinously accented Russian, told us that we are by far the most interesting community in Russia and that he had come to study precisely "what was going on here".
I might've thanked him for the compliment more if he would've taken that ridiculous breathing apparatus out of his mouth. It seems common courtesy is less common than I thought! Parents and guardians of children and exceptional goats, take note: good manners never go out of fashion.
But then he grinned, and everything about him was absurdly, surreally perfect, and I loathed him instantly.
Government brothers from a stringently-outlined-but-vaguely-documented agency were in the back, watching. I find myself curious. I find myself…I find myself…
I find…myself—
[STATIC]
And now, the weather.
[Interlude]
I salute your return, beloved listeners.
The light disk overheard, which Jones and his team rather confusingly call the Son (despite gentle reminders from municipal authorities that we do not mention such things here), disappeared at the wrong time. Or so says this report! …which has been handed to me inside of a teacup.
Without any tea in it.
…hm.
I asked the scientists if they had any relevant explanations but they offered very little, opting instead to stand around a clock and murmur to each quite excitedly about how the…the, ah, Son disappeared from its place overhead ten minutes too early.
Still, we must be grateful that we have our light disk overhead glimmering hazily down at us at all, listeners. Even if it is being temperamental. It's at that age, you know…
But the next time the light disk appears overhead, give it some municipally-approved encouragement—but not too much.
What's this? Oh…ah yes, I see. Thank you.
Intern Yildiz has just given me this note…yes.
The City Council would like to remind all brother citizens about the tiered heavens and the hierarchy of Angels.
The reminder is that we have eaten God and you should know nothing about this.
The structure of Heaven and the organizational chart are privileged information, known only to selective City Council members. Please do not speak to nor make any acknowledgement of any Angels you may encounter or that may reveal themselves to you while you are out shopping in Sennaya Square.
Report all Angel sightings to the City Council for treatment. Do not pray.
And now, a brief public service announcement.
Radiation. The new microdermabrasion of the future or simple Western hysterics?
Yes.
On a more personal note, I would like to state the perhaps clichéd opinion that beauty is only skin deep.
Shed your skin and become what lies beyond the entanglement of your flesh and sinews.
Speaking of beauty being only skin deep…
Jones, annoyingly beautiful and perfect (if one has a preference for such obnoxious traits), stopped by the broadcast station this evening during the break. He declined to stay for an interview, citing a previous engagement, but he did have a box covered with tubes and wires with him, saying he was testing for "materials".
I have no idea what he meant by "materials", but I found it incredibly rude; the radio station is notoriously self-conscious about its appearance.
When he placed it near the microphone, it sounded like…hm. The sound is a bit inexplicable without gratuitous use of onomatopoeias, so I present to you a list of sounds:
An old music box that has gone out of tune.
Your mother's high heels, probably older than you are, on a wooden floor.
Fingernails scratching against fabric.
An angle-grinder on sheet metal.
Old brakes on an older bicycle.
The crackle of ice you thought was frozen breaking under your feet as you stand in the center of the lake.
Jones looked nervous; I was absolutely delighted by this circumstance. He left in a hurry, without drinking his tea, shouting something about evacuating the building and saving us all.
But then who would be here, Mologa, to speak a collection of noises and sounds organized into an empirical order to imply a meaningful definition to each utterance—thus we crafted words, thus words crafted sentences, and thus sentences crafted me, Mologa, just for you.
I digress, my apologies.
Tonight looks to be clear, so if you had been making plans with that special someone, tonight might be the night to talk over that ritual bloodletting you didn't want her to know you were considering.
You're going to make each other very happy, and then immensely sad, and then reminiscent for these most bittersweet of days.
So it is my wish, Mologa, that you have someone with you tonight to remind you of the days before. Or at least memories of when you did.
Goodnight, listeners. Goodnight.
Today's proverb: They pat you on the back to congratulate you. They're also looking for a soft place to put the knife.