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The desert stretches before you. Your past stretches behind. You know that you cannot look back unless you wish to risk being ensnared there forever, but the past is the only true tether you have, and neither can you let it go. Probably there are things you could do rather than just stand there on the border where the sand begins, waiting for a sign, and trying to ignore the sense that someone is standing behind your back, watching you, but at the moment you cannot think of what those things might be. That’s alright. Perhaps they will come to you, if you just wait a little longer. All you have to do is wait.
Welcome to Night Vale.
Listeners, after the end of yesterday’s broadcast, I met the sniper who has been following our town’s new resident scientist around. He was waiting for me in the darkness of the parking lot, leaning against my car, and when I got close enough, he threatened me with a knife.
“Who tipped you off?” he asked. “Was it the CIA, Interpol?”
Now, listeners, you know me — I’m just a simple, small-town radio host, and you can imagine how flattered I was to be mistaken for a shady underworld denizen with corrupt governmental contacts. “I’m Jonny,” I told him. “It’s nice to meet you!”
“I don’t have any quarrel with you,” he said, which I thought was a very considerate way to introduce himself, “But I came here with a job to do, and I can’t do it if you’re going to keep publicizing my movements.”
Professionalism is something I can understand, Night Vale. Here at Night Vale Community Radio, we value professional conduct more highly than almost anything. In fact, the only thing we value more highly than our journalistic integrity is probably our civic duty to this glorious metropolis we call home. That and those little ice cream bars, you know, the ones with the mint chip? But other than that, journalistic integrity is right at the top.
Unfortunately, this meant that, as much as I wanted to tell the beautiful assassin holding the knife to my throat what he wanted to hear, I was forced instead to tell him that I would have to continue to make his life harder. “I report the news,” I told him. “It’s what I do, it is my purpose. And you are very new here.”
Listeners, you know I’m not one to kiss and tell, but I’m not sure what would have happened after that — that knife-blade was still held steadily to my throat, after all, and you know what that means — but a sheriff’s secret police car happened to do a sweep through our neighborhood at just that moment, and the flashing lights must have spooked my new favorite lustrous-locked sniper. I turned to wave to my friendly local balaclava-clad secret police officer, as is mandated in the city by-laws, and when I turned back, he was gone as if he had never been there, except for the delicate line of blood along the curve of my throat.
This has been the headlines. Next, let’s turn our attention to traffic.
There is a blue car on the horizon. Although you know that it is moving, it never seems to grow any closer, or any farther away. When you squint your eyes, you think you can see someone in the driver’s seat, but you are too far away to make out any details.
You had a blue car, once. It was your first car, and it was going to take you places. It was in poor repair, but you loved it, and it gave you a freedom you had never known before. You had so many plans for where you would go in that car, but then life got in the way — yours — and, following that, death got in the way — your car’s. The car on the horizon is too far away for you to see who is in the driver’s seat, and this is a gift, because it means that, when you squint your eyes, you can imagine that the face of the blurred figure in the driver’s seat is a familiar one, and that the car which you know is moving but which does not seem to get either closer or farther away is going places.
This has been traffic.
Drumbot Brian — you know, the necromancer? — has walked out into the desert, either to die or to start a new religion. I asked him which, but he wasn’t listening, so I’ve decided that I’m going to tell you it’s to start a religion in hope that maybe he’ll call in to correct me if I’m wrong. You know how Drumbot Brian feels about the truth.
Now, listeners, you know what I always say: this is America, and the right to practice any form of vaguely christianity is our secularly god-given right as citizens. That’s still true, so I’m not going to say anything judgmental about Brian’s cult, but don’t you think there are getting to be kind of a lot of micro-religions around here? I’m not going to call them cults because that’s not really respectful, but when a church like the Nova-Baptist church, which has done such good work in the community, starts bleeding followers for little scandals like that thing someone found in the basement last year, it really makes you think.
If you like our show, or the other wonderful shows like it on our station, like Maintenance Hour, when Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna from my bowling team works on our equipment in the station in silence, sometimes breathing quietly into the mic, for exactly one hour every two weeks, or those times when the Toy Soldier breaks into the station when it is closed and hijacks the microphone, please consider pledging your support in the form of a one time gift or small monthly donation. If you call now and pledge as little as twelve dollars a month, we’ll offer you a commemorative 8-track recording of one of our most popular, classic episodes, and a card signed in blood by everyone here at the station, sharing our appreciation.
Speaking of blood, listeners, I’m sorry to have to inform you that we sent intern Snow out this morning to investigate the strange mirage shaped like a gaping maw on the east side of town, and it appears to have eaten her. We are still not sure whether this is another part of the mirage, or whether she walked into an actual gaping maw, but, just to be safe, we’re not sending anyone else out to investigate. To intern Snow’s family, in the event that she doesn’t come back, or comes back changed in an ominous but indefinable way that leaves you feeling uneasy about being alone in the same room as her ever again, we want you to know that we appreciate her sacrifice, and we salute you.
With the mayoral election fast approaching, I’d like to take this moment to remind everyone to make sure that your voter registration is still valid and up to date. We all know that voter rolls, which are recorded on ancient papyrus as is traditional, are delicate and volatile. No conclusions should be drawn about the demographics whose names seem to crumble from the rolls on a more frequent basis. They’re very old papyrus, after all. Some day, they will crumble entirely, and will have to be replaced with a new medium which will come with its own quirks and failings. And until then, if it isn’t broken, don’t fix it, right?
In legal news, Nastya, our station’s own Maintenance Hour host Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna from my bowling team has applied to the city council for permission to enter a legal civil partnership with the angel who hovers above her house as a spaceship in the night. Well, it’s a big step in a whirlwind romance, but love is love, after all. Since Nastya and the angel intend to share a home and a life, I don’t see any reason why they shouldn’t have a share in the tax benefits which come with that form of commitment, do you? Nastya says she expects to hear from the City Council about their application any day now.
And thank you for joining me tonight, listeners! Remember: when you’re standing on the edge of the desert with the past staring at you so hard it feels impossible not to turn and look back at it, sometimes the answer is to step deeper into the desert, and leave the hungering past behind.
Good night, Night Vale. Good night.