Goodnight moon. Goodnight shadows consuming the moon. Goodnight light and the black balloon. Goodnight stars. Good night air. Goodnight people everywhere.
This is Night Vale at Night.
Hi there, Night Vale. I know, I know, you're used to hearing a much deeper, much smoother voice than mine—or at least one that's a little less wobbly. It's true, I'm no Cecil Gershwin Palmer. Not even close. Instead, it's just me, Steve Carlsberg. Welcome to my new podcast. Pretty neat, huh?
I'm calling it Night Vale at Night. I know, it is not a great name. Is it? Do you like it?
I've actually wanted to host a discussion of all of the weird goings-on here in our little town for a long time. The problem is that Cecil will not let me on the show, and he definitely will not let me use any of his equipment. Trust me, I have asked. In fact, the only time I asked, all he could do was howl my name over and over again, and gnash his teeth, and furrow his brow, and tremble so intensely—so violently—that I had to leave the room before hurt himself. I worry about the guy sometimes.
But I am still very dedicated to this idea. So I snuck into the studio after hours—that is why I am calling it Night Vale at Night, get it?—and settled in behind Cecil's desk. I'm going to use Night Vale Community Radio's equipment to record the podcast. I'm sure studio management won't mind, right?
Anyways, let's talk about our first topic: Free Donut Day a couple weeks ago, hosted by the Night Vale City Council, who were notably absent from the event.
I still shudder when I think of that terrifying day.
See, the City Council decided to celebrate Free Donut Day by hosting this big shindig in Mission Grove Park and inviting everyone in Night Vale to take a free donut. It sounded like a fun social outing—the kind we used to do in Night Vale back in the day—though I did find their marketing tactics a bit...unconventional. For what it's worth, I don't think the announcement was tattoo'd in the traditional sense, since mine appears to be fading.
Either way, it was a nice event at first. Colorful decorations hung from between the amethyst canopy of sycamores that bowed overhead. A DJ spun the best hits from today and yesterday, including a favorite of Cecil's—a traditional blood dirge called "Mortui Vivos Docent (New Phone Who Dis)." And boxes of donuts stacked in a towering wall behind a modest table. I remember thinking, Dang, that's a lot of donuts.
Personally, I am not much of a donut guy, myself; I've been on a diet lately. I have had my good days as well as moment of weakness, as anyone would. But I was feeling pretty determined that morning. And good thing too, because, after everyone picked up their donut (distributed by a man I don't remember too well, but I think he wore a tan jacket) and crammed it into their mouth, they all collapsed into the ground instantly—fell one by one like so many graves in a grave yard. In fact, I was the only one who didn't.
As if that wasn't strange enough, I watched group of hooded figures slowly emerge from the surrounding forest and—get this—start rifling through everyone's pockets! Their spindly fingers emerged from the depths of their tangled, filthy robes; reached into Old Woman Josie's purse; puledl out a wad of tissue, a jade cross, two peppermints, and six speckled cowrie shells; and put them into a white wicker basket they were passing around. One of them noticed me watching and shrugged before sticking his skeletal hand into former mayor Pamela Winchell's pocket and pulling out an Arby's receipt and several curly fries.
Well, as you would imagine, I was pretty upset. But I was more upset when everyone woke up from this hellish scene with feeling refreshed and energized—and having no memory of what has just happened. When I tried to tell them...well, they all just boo'd. And Cecil...
[Releases a lingering sigh]
Anyways, that is about it for our first topic. I sent a strongly worded email to the City Council about the whole ordeal, but they did not respond—not via email at least. I did receive a package from them a day later. Inside the parcel was a what looked like the tail of a huge mouse or rat wrapped in orchid petals and some sort of homemade paper; there was a blood-stained note too that said: "Dead men tell no tails." Honestly, I didn't know what to think of it.
Hey, this is a bit of a digression, but what do you really think of the name of the podcast? Is it okay? It's stupid, isn't it? Do you think it's stupid? Well, if you have any more ideas for the name of this show, you can let us know on Facebook or Twitter, by whispering your suggestion into an anthill, or through any other social media platform.
Listeners, I fear I am sharing too much by introducing the next topic. After all, when I joined the Night Vale PTA, I swore to maintain some level of student confidentiality—and later took a blood oath not to interfere with the School Board President's agenda (oh—eh, ALL HAIL). But, at our most recent PTA meeting, I witnessed something particularly disturbing.
Did you know that I'm the secretary of the PTA? Well, I am. It's not a glamorous job by any means, but I take it very seriously. It feels good to be contributing to my community. Plus, being on the PTA gives me some stake in my step-daughter Janice's education. In a town where so much feels out of our control—where it sometimes seems that too many arcane, berobed government agencies are vying for control over our lives—this little bit goes a long way, believe it or not.
Anyways, during the last meeting, a representative from StrexCorp Synergists Incorporated—I think her name was Laura or Lauren—requested our approval to bring all fourth graders on what she called a "corporate sponsored outing." Her presentation was compelling, full of all sorts of charts and graphs and holograms referring to twelve years old as the "optimal age," or something like that. The representative invited these students on a field trip to the sand wastes for a day of ecological exploration sponsored by StrexCorp, which I thought sounded fascinating, though at least one time she used the term "reprogramming" to describe the purpose of the field trip. I asked her about this, and she said, "No! No, I said 'regrowgramming.' Now, please save any additional questions until the end of the presentation." Then I watched a small line of blood drip from somewhere beneath her scalp.
Apparently, School Board President the Glow Cloud (ALL HAIL), had already approved the trip during a recent School Board meeting on the condition that the PTA also approved it. He said that it wouldn't feel right unless the parents had some say in the decision. Now, me and the Glow Cloud (ALL HAIL) have had our differences over the years, but I really respected this decision. I really did.
Something still didn't seem right to me, though. But, as the secretary, my job is to record the meeting's proceedings, not contribute to them, so I didn't speak up. I should have, but didn't, and now I regret it.
It was hard to watch my fellow parents vote to approve this field trip. As the PTA president called roll, each parent cast their affirmative vote by whistling the opening guitar lick of "Sweet Child O' Mine." I was the only parent who dissented. In response, the StrexCorp representative nodded a thank you while pushing two "thumbs up" out in front of her, then skipped out of the board room, her Heidi-like pigtails and actual pig tail bouncing behind her as she exited.
Well, the kids (Janice included) attended the field trip on Friday and, I have to say, they seemed to have a great time. I suppose my hunch was wrong. They came back late at night—much later than the end of the school day, in fact, though I suppose we were expecting that. Janice couldn't stop talking about how much fun she had. She walked in wearing an StrexCorp shirt and carrying what she called a "Swag Bag" made of soft meats. In fact, she was so amped up after the field trip that I don't think she went to bed that night.
In fact...it's actually become a bit of a problem. See, my wife Abby and I have been talking and neither of us think that Janice has slept since the trip—and it's been four days since the field trip. Whenever we ask Janice about it, she just smiles and say, "I'm fine! Just trying to be more productive." I'm not satisfied with this answer, though, and, as a parent, I have to go with my gut. The other night, I stayed up late and put my head to her bedroom door to hear what she was up to, but all I could hear was typing and hammering and the sibilant roar of a blow torch blasting through thick steel, so nothing too unusual—it was a weekend, after all. But I'll keep checking, and I'll report my findings in the next episode.
I think I have a new idea for the name of the podcast, and I wanted to run it past you listeners. How about Night Vale After Dark. Too spooky? Just spooky enough? Ugh, this has been the hardest part of doing this podcast. But I appreciate your patience, Night Vale. We'll get this name right.
Before we get into our final topic for this episode—about who (or what) has been stealing my socks from the dryer and why I keep finding rotten, sprouting tubers shoved into the toes of those left behind—I thought I wouldd do something more in the tradition of Welcome to Night Vale. It looks like Cecil left tomorrow's weather out on his desk, which, I must say, speaks volumes about his professionalism and preparation. In fact, it's pretty interesting to look, "behind the curtain," so to speak to "see how the sausage is made," if you know what I mean. It's fascinating to enter a radio station and see how Cecil "slits the pigs throats" and "drains their blood on the killing floor" each night, how he revels in the "gurgling screams" and "tangy copper smell" of the whole ordeal. It's neat.
But I digress. Without further ado, I give you—
CECIL: Don't you dare, Steve Carlsberg!
STEVE CARLSBURG: Oh, uh, hi Cecil. How are—
CECIL: Get out! No, no, no, no, no! You are not welcome here—not now, not ever!
STEVE CARLSBURG: But the sign on the front door said, "Night Vale Community Radio, where everyone in the community is always welcome, no exceptions."
CECIL: You know very well that the sign reads "Except Steve Carlsburg!" beneath those words. Let's not play these games.
STEVE CARLSBURG: Oh, well, if it's okay with you—
CECIL: No!
STEVE CARLSBURG: But—
CECIL: No! No, no, no, no, no! Out!
STEVE CARLSBURG: But Cecil—
CECIL: That is it! I am going to tell management about this. You better hope that they are not caffeinated at this hour, or there will be blood.
[Footsteps, then a door closes]
Well, I suppose that's it, Night Vale. This is the end of the first—and last—episode of Night Vale at Night. Or did we decide on Night Vale After Hours? Eh, I will check my Twitter poll after I leave.
Boy, Cecil sure sounds mad. You'd think that, after all these years, he would be able to open his heart to me a little more. After all, we are brothers-in-law, and we both think the world of Janice and Abby. We are both proud of Night Vale, and we are both eager to get to the bottom of its mysteries—though I know that Cecil would never admit it.
We have far more in common than we do difference, although I suppose that's true for all people, is it not?
[Low, deep growl reverberates in the background, punctuated by a tenticular slap on the booth's window]
Anyways, thanks for listening to my attempt at putting together a podcast. It sounds like I better go now before things get...well, even messier. Oh, and be sure to listen to Cecil's broadcast in a few hours—the weather looks like it's going to be beautiful.