Scientia potentia est, says the wise man. And he is indeed wise, for there is no knowledge which is not power. Terrible, awful, earthshaking power.
Welcome… to Night Vale.
Listeners, I am receiving reports from many sources that strangers have entered our small, lonely little town via a rip in space-time. This is an exciting event, so you are advised to forgo the traditional welcome of such visitors and instead place aside your pitchforks and torches for the coming of the Almighty and Sacred Scarecrow, which is scheduled to happen in two weeks. It may, however, be brought forward a few days due to time travel difficulties. Stay tuned for updates delivered by dirigible in the dead of the night- they will come without warning. You must be ready. You must be.
The visitors have been described by onlookers as two. That is to say, there are two of them, not that they resemble the number two- because as we all know, that most disgusting and foul of numbers has been banned from Night Vale in its entirety. Anybody found mentioning it or using it in any form of math equations will be visited at midnight by the Sheriff's Secret Police and taken for a pleasant drive in the countryside, where they will be summarily educated and possibly executed as well – the rules aren't very clear on that; the paper was smudged.
Oh dear. Intern Maggie has just passed me a slip of paper from the Sheriff's Secret Police informing me that I need to report to their secret headquarters, located beneath the abandoned candy shop on Old Musk Road, accessible through the hidden lever behind the gumball machine, directly after this broadcast has concluded.
The pair of visitors- one man, one woman- apparently faded into existence in the middle of the town square with a smell like burning strawberries and the simultaneous creation and destruction of an entire parallel universe filled and run entirely by squirrels. The woman is tall, blonde, and wearing a dress that appears to be made out of some sort of material that you can only obtain once you have reached her levels of absolute elegance and grace. Because she has, says Old Woman Josie, who called us up several minutes ago in order to deliver this report to us. She has achieved the epitome of elegance and grace and she is so very elegant and graceful that she could put the angels- which the government continually and aggressively informs us do not exist- to shame.
Intern Maggie just viewed a picture of this wonderful woman that had been sent to our studio, and immediately muttered something to the effect of 'holy shit I'm gay' and stumbled off into the break room in order to take time to compose herself.
The man, in comparison, has decent-looking hair, a near-permanent scowl on his features, and is wearing a suit that looks like it's been out of fashion for years. For shame, mysterious visitor, for shame. If you are to hang out with your wonderful and elegant female friend, then you might as well have the decency to match her in haute-couture.
After a quick exchange of telepathic words, the two gave each other approving or possibly furious looks that only lasted a brief second and were enough to scare everybody considering approaching them enough to retreat back several blocks and remake their plan of confronting them. The only person brave enough to spy on their progress throughout Night Vale has reported that they are currently in the process of heading directly towards our humble studio.
More on this story as it unfolds.
If the owner of a large, menacing, black hearse bearing the licence plate number 'TORMENT666' is listening to this broadcast, the City Council would like to inform you that you are breaking several basic car regulations, including the questionable use of demonic sigils all over the top and back of your transport vehicle, the double-power flamethrowers welded to the sides, and the small pair of fluffy dice tied to the rear-view mirror. Those dice are very distracting whilst driving, TORMENT666. Please report to the City Council immediately to avoid a tragic accident.
This has been… traffic.
Here's an interesting development, listeners! Just a few seconds ago, the two visitors broke into the room where I am broadcasting this from! They are currently looking at me with cool, intense stares, making me feel as if I am some sort of insect that exists only to be studied. It is a very unnerving feeling, listeners.
And I am pleased to report that, yes, the woman's dress is just as wonderfully designed in real life as was described in the reports. It almost hurts my eyes to look at. It is wonderfully fabulous. She is currently nodding in agreement at my words, pleased at the compliment.
-what's this?
Listeners, it appears that she and her companion wish to speak to me! Well, who am I to disagree? They look friendly enough, and they may have something interesting to tell us. Perhaps fashion tips? Or how to arrive mysteriously in the middle of town, bypassing all sensors, methods of detection, and known laws of physics?
Oh?
They want me to turn off the microphone.
Well, I suppose that wouldn't be too much of a problem…
While I and our mysterious visitors talk- a word from our sponsors.
The night is dark, and the stars are even darker. The flickering, dim lights of civilization burn ephemeral spots of blinding lights into your eyelids, which have been sewn shut to protect you from the horrors of reality and what exists beyond. You are alone, utterly alone, with no hope of rescue and no hope of reprieve. But fear not, for there is a solution. The Elder Gods are indeed merciful. If you join with us, we will pray to them so they may grant you the slightest bit of mercy, whatever amounts of it exist in their foul, black hearts. We shall beseech Klogoth, Dark Lord of the Creeping Darkness, Mouth from Whence the Unfathomable Cry Emerges, He Whose Eyes are Blind Yet All Do They See, that you may be eaten last.
Or first.
You get to pick!
This message has been brought to you by Dunkin' Donuts. America Runs on Dunkin', Specifically Dunkin' Your Donut, Which Represents Your Mortal Soul, Into The Blackest Cup Of Coffee We Can Find, Which Represents The Endless Void And Everything Incomprehensible Behind It. You Cannot Escape The Truth. You Cannot Escape The Bitter Truth. Which Is Just As Bitter And Hard To Swallow As Your Coffee.
Oh dear, listeners. I'm afraid I have some bad news. During the break, Intern Maggie walked into the conversation between me and our two visitors- who have told me that their names are Sapphire and Steel, respectively. She took one look at Sapphire, made a small, squeaking noise, and stumbled backwards out of the recording studio, landing directly on the pile of extremely flammable documents and debris that we were planning on getting rid of at next week's Conflagration Ceremony Deluxe. She promptly burst into flames- white, glowing flames that hurt the eyes to look at and hurt the mind to consider. Soon she was nothing but a small pile of magnesium oxide and gently wafting green smoke.
Sapphire would like you all to know that this is the first time she's accidentally killed somebody by simply being too attractive for them to bear, although the rest of the interns and staff here at the studio seem to find that intensely hard to believe, and, judging by the expression on his face, so does Steel.
Sapphire would also like to express her commiserations for friends, family, and brief acquaintances of former Intern Maggie. I would like to express an extreme desire for anybody wanting to become an intern here at Night Vale Community Radio to apply immediately and without delay, no experience required, since we seem to be going through them at a frankly alarming rate and I feel it might be best if we have some spares, just in case. Life insurance is not included in our complimentary training package.
Back to the topic at hand. Prior to the tragic inflammation of Maggie's body and soul, Sapphire and Steel had informed me that there was some sort of trigger in our humble studio! How very exciting!
A trigger, Steel says, could be anything, and could bring about such catastrophic events as the destruction of reality, the destruction of just this room, the destruction of the coffee shop just down the road, or possibly the resurrection of former president George W Bush.
Considering how cluttered the studio is at the moment, this could take a while.
While we search fruitlessly for an article possessed by time itself that may or may not actually exist, dear listeners, I believe it's time to bring to you the weather.
...
Welcome back.
After several minutes of frantic searching, our combined efforts managed to unearth a potato peeler, a circular sander engraved with runes dedicated to summoning the Dark Lord Andrew, a bannister- no stairs, just a bannister- an emergency summary chart that we can't quite decipher the purpose of, a small music teacher, the canister of tea that I assumed Steve Carlsberg stole from me last week- because he seems like the person who would be stealing my tea, the utter jerk- a bucket of suspicious-smelling compost, and the very concept of fear itself.
Oh, also a rather fashionable collar that seems to be encrusted with actual diamonds. We've decided to give it to Khoshekh, since we feel that he'd appreciate it more than we would.
The location of the actual time distortion remains to be seen.
Unless-
Oh?
I see. Thank you. We'll be sure to express our utmost condolences to the family and friends of Maggie, as well as apologies that her mortal remains are not to be returned to the resting place to which we all must go, someday- but when, we do not and will not ever truly know.
Goodb-
I see. You're both already gone.
That was actually quite impressive- I wish Carlos could have been there to see it.
The crisis appears to have been averted. As Sapphire just informed me before her flashy and dramatic departure beyond that which my fragile human mind cannot comprehend nor understand,
And yet again, another long day draws to a close in our cozy little settlement. The moons- all three of them- rise into the sky after their obligatory four months' worth of service leave. The completely non-existent angels begin to flock back to Old Woman Josie's house to watch the nightly reruns of British TV shows with awful CGI and wooden acting. The Hooded Figures and the Sheriff's Secret Police patrol the streets in tandem, both steadfastly pretending that the other doesn't exist.
Yes, everything is normal here. But who can really say what 'normal' is, when 'normal' is banned by the mandatory rules set by the government, on pain of a gruesome and undisclosed death? Certainly not me.
Stay tuned next for two straight hours of ominous humming that will work its way just below your consciousness and stay there until your dying day, upon which it will burst out in a radiant cloud of blood and apathy to torment your loved ones for all eternity.
Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.
Since fanfic dot net does not support links- today's weather was The Time Warp by the Rocky Horror Show.
This was more of an experiment than anything, please don't take it seriously! I'm trying to get used to writing Cecil. :)
Today's proverb: All irregularities will be handled by the forces controlling each dimension. Will they? Will they really? Only time will tell. And Time is very good at keeping secrets.