"Dear Listeners,
It is with utmost urgency that I deliver this message to you from our local government sponsors. You know the ones, their red and white polka-dot ties and the penchant for letting out an exalting cry at the smell of company barbecues. It seems as if the new law on state taxes has changed, my friends- I fear that it is not the IRS' secret groundhog agents we must quiver in utter terror from each year now. As I understand it, ah- just a moment," Cecil cooed, a soft rustling of the papers fluttering beneath skilled fingers.
All for show, of course, just ensuring that by hearing the noise of his undoubtedly important documents shifting in front of him, the citizens would realize the gravity of the legal record in his current grip.
With a heavy sigh- one bespeaking of an exasperated impatience, he continued. Now, however, the blond had leaned in towards the microphone, his lips just grazing the metal grating of his key to the world- the very thing that gave him his power. Breathy wisps of air exhaled from between his parted lips to send shivers down some spines, disgustingly amused by the building anticipation. None of the listeners were in the room with him- not physically, of course, but perhaps telepathically. That happened from time to time.
Indeed, it was entirely troublesome.
"It seems, Night Vale, that the fine for not cooperating with the government by paying said fees and taxes on time, is now death." Silence. Cecil allowed a pause here now, chortling at his own morbid little joke. "Only kidding! As we all know, death is only a mandatory penalty when one tries to use the ten items or less lane at the local grocer's, when you clearly have more than the allotted amount. Yes, Samantha, we all know you have three children and a three-legged chinchilla at home to feed, but ten items is ten items. Some of us have better ways to spend our time than moseying about behind you and your twelve cans of creamed corn. Don't think I didn't count it- I mostly certainly did. Alas…"
Oh, there was that nasty little habit of his peeking in again. Tangents. "Poor, poor Samantha… Leaving that rodent all alone to care for her three children. Truly, it is touching. A heart-warming end indeed for the Meyer family. Ah."
A sideways glance over towards the useless clock on the wall yielded no help. The hands turned, but only when they felt like it. It seemed as if his aforementioned tangent had stretched on for nearly two hours and forty-three minutes thus far, and he'd yet to inform the devout audience who craved his attention and guidance about the new law that had been passed by none other than: Mayor Pamela Winchell.
"I do apologize, Listeners, a man can get carried away from time to time when dealing with tragic matters of the heart. As this paper states, the penalty for unpaid debts will cause gore and viscera to rain down upon your head until said payment is made. The carnage in question will not only be accompanied by a steady flow of blood raining down from the heavens like a stormy night in Frankfurt, Germany. No, Listeners, it will contain the half-eaten entrails of your passed loved ones, even your beloved family pets… Do note that the pets will be just fine, just perhaps a bit lighter after losing most of their innards. They suggest to remedy the problem by feeding your pet twice their weight in food. That should more than make up for all the extra room they'll be having after their intestines magically disappear, only later to be falling upon your head.
It will not stop, Listeners. It will rain day in and day out, like the end of days, and no cover will protect you… Nor will it protect you from staining the sheets, or that new couch you've purchased second-hand from the thrift shop that is famous for their 'gently-used' cheese. Consider it to be your own personal, little bubble. Just for you and your family, above your head and your head only. Once your fines are paid and the taxes are filed, it will take three to four business days for said carnage to halt completely. Now, I think I speak for all of us when I say that, once again, Pamela Winchell has simply outdone herself. An environmentally friendly way to encourage our citizens to take responsibility and do the right thing. A gentle encouragement is all we need here in Night Vale. We're a kind, warm…Loving town. Tax-evasion certainly isn't a crime we'd commit here, would we, Listeners?"
In that moment, Cecil tiled his head back just in time for a wet, squelching organ to flop down against his face, before a cooling, yet warm drizzle began tickling his skin. Cecil allowed himself a moment to grin and bask, before reaching over ever so slowly to let his index finger hover above the "off" switch on his microphone. "With that, it looks like I will need to go feed Khoshekh. Speaking of, does anyone remember his exact weight, or can preform the ancient, long-lost art of multiplication? No matter, I'm sure beautiful Carlos could use that big brain of his to give me hand. Remember, citizens, the due date for your tax filing was approximately three weeks ago. Goodnight, Listeners. Goodnight."