You know that old adage? The one that goes 'A blind deer owes you money, but you best not take it'? Yes? Well, that has never been more true...
I am your host, Q.
Welcome to Night Vale.
Oh, listeners it's wonderful!
When I last spoke to you that dreaded Raoul Silva had shot my poor sweet innocent James as he had tried to destroy the terrifying computers that had been causing these time stream issues. I thought he was dead, listeners, we all did. But now- now it seems that James the spy is not dead at all! It seems that the Apache Tracker ran in, shoving awkwardly through the crowd in the post office and shouting "Наконец, мое время пришло!"
He leapt at Silva, trailing his offensive feather headdress, and heaved James up in a might bear hug, carrying him out of the way while being attacked viciously by a now weaponless Silva.
Even John Peters, you know, the farmer? who was upset still about seeing the computers, couldn't help but cheer as the formerly false, now real, Native American laid James safely on the linoleum floor.
Teddy Williams, who of course is also a licensed doctor -as all bowling alley owners are required to be- checked his wounds and indicated through a series of rhythmic hoots that James will be, in fact, okay!
He's okay.
Never before in my career as a broadcaster have I gone through such a roller coaster of emotion and fear! To think, that I had lost that most precious thing to me, the presence of James in my life, and then to have it brought back, so that I could appreciate it all the more.
Oh, James! All the words I would never have said to you...
And the news that the Night Vale Post Office was being used as an evil villain lair for Raoul Silva to ruin our time streams… well, that was startling as well. But it appears that all is well! And so I say to you, with a heart singing its way from heavy to light, here's a word from our sponsors!
FedEx can deliver a SACK OF TARANTULAS overnight! FedEx can deliver a SACK OF TARANTULAS even if that's not what you shipped! FedEx.
Oh no. I have just been handed a note.
Oh. This is not good news.
Ladies and gentlemen, in his valiant rescue of our beloved James the spy, the Apache Tracker was mortally wounded by Silva. He is bleeding profusely and it is getting all over his fake feather headdress, and he says that even his ancient Indian magics will not help him –which, of course, they won't, because they're not real.
Listeners, how could I have been so wrong about this man? A racist embarrassment to our town? Maybe. A real jerk? Yes. But he also was a man with Night Vale's best interests at heart, who worked closely with the Angels and the mysterious Man in the Tan Jacket to protect us from the changing time streams. And he, at the cost of his own life, saved James.
James breathes and soon... soon the Apache Tracker will not.
Tell me nothing else, and still I will tell you: here is a good man. Here is a good man dying. Here it is, the end of a good man's life. The Apache Tracker spoke, not in a hoarse whisper, but with a clear, ringing voice, addressing the sky hidden behind the styrofoam panels of the ceiling:
"Ладно, ладно. Я знал, это случится. Ты можешь взять мою машину."
He said this, and then he died. The Apache Tracker is dead, Teddy Williams confirmed.
Goodnight, brave Tracker. Goodnight. I thought you were one thing and you were another. It is likely I will learn nothing from this.
It was at this moment that James, dear beautiful James with his perfect hair and teeth, groaned and got to his feet, the gun in his hand still pointed at Silva when he fired.
It didn't hurt him, of course, because guns don't kill people.
But it served as a great distraction.
Silva lunged for him, trying to wrestle the gun from his grasp, and James let him, using the man's momentary confusion to tackle him to the ground. They struggled, dear listeners, but James came out on top, pulling an old combat knife from a holster on his ankle and stabbing Silva in the back.
Guns don't kill people. But knives do.
What a fitting end for our resident traitor, being literally stabbed in the back just as he metaphorically did the same to us.
James stood up, panting and bruised and bloody, and I can only imagine how beautiful he must have looked in that moment. He dropped the reddened knife at his feet, yanks the power cords from all the computers in the room, and then stumbled his way outside, pulling out his phone and muttering about need to-
Oh. My phone just dinged.
James texted.
He said he wants me to meet him at the post office parking lot, listeners. Um… I am not sure what scientific exploration now needs the services of my radio audience, but I will dutifully go, dutifully meet him.
And as I go, let us all go. Go now, to the weather.
She knows a thing or two about me
She didn't learn in passing
She knows I'm scared of the dark
She knows I'll bleed on command
She knows I'll shut my mouth
If she'll take my hand
And just how cruel I can be
She knows a thing or two about me.
Where could she go
That I would not follow
Leaving my sorrow behind?
I arrived at the parking lot to find James perched on the hood of his silver Aston Martin DB5 in his blood-stained white shirt and suit trousers, his perfect hair mussed, his perfect teeth hidden.
"What is it?" I said, "What- What danger are we in? What mystery needs to be explored?"
He shook his head. "Nothing" He said, "After everything that happened…I just wanted to see you".
My heart leapt. My heart soared! My heart metaphorically performed a number of aerial activities and literally it began to beat hard.
"Oh?" I said, my voice more tremble than word.
James looked at the setting sun. "I used to think it was setting at the wrong time" He said "but then I realised that time doesn't work in Night Vale, and that none of the clocks are real. Sometimes things seem so strange... and then you find that, underneath, it was something else altogether. Something pure, and innocent".
"I know what you mean" I replied.
Somewhere, a Man in a Tan Jacket is whispering into the ears of our mayor, and we do not know what agenda they pursue. Somewhere, the body of the Apache Tracker lies cold and still, never to speak of ancient Indian magics again. Somewhere, this all happens.
But not here.
Here, James and I sat on the hood of that car, his car, looking together at the lights up in the sky above the Post office… they were beautiful in the hushed twilight, shimmering in a night sky already coming alive with bits of the universe.
"I'm not a scientist, Q" He said, "And I wasn't sent here to do science".
My heart started beating faster.
He turned to me. "I'm a spy, working for Her Majesty's Secret Service. I have a licence to kill".
Which, I mean, we all do, so I wasn't quite sure why he mentioned that part…
"I was sent here to investigate the time stream issues" James said quietly, "Intelligence Agencies all over the world were getting nervous, and MI6 drew the short straw. So they sent me... I lied to you, Q".
"No, you didn't" I replied, just as softly, "Because I already knew. We all did".
It was quite adorable how his face scrunched up in confusion at that.
"You did?" He asked.
"Yea" I said.
"Oh" He replied.
He put his hand on my knee and said nothing more. And I knew what he meant. I felt the same. I leaned my head on his shoulder.
"I don't want to leave Night Vale" He whispered suddenly, "I quite like it here. I quite like you, Q".
I felt myself flush, dear listeners, and buried my face in his neck to prevent him from seeing.
"I quite like you too, James" I said in response.
His arm came up to wrap around my shoulder, "I'll have to return soon. Now that the job is done... But I'll come back. I swear to you I'll come back. Trust me".
I sighed. No one ever returns after they leave Night Vale, after all, we all know that.
"I have a mortgage and five cats to feed" I said, "I can't hang around, waiting for you to keep your promise".
"Well then I suggest you trust me" He replied, smiling, "For the sake of the cats".
James just left, dear listeners. He says he's returning to a place called England, but that he'll come back to me. To Night Vale. For now, I can only hope. Hope and dream of the sun, the moon, of being with James with again. Of a world that is not anything at all…
Perhaps, a dream of things yet to come.
Goodnight, Night Vale, Goodnight