"It’s election season again, and you know what that means! Sheriff’s Secret Police will be coming by to collect certain family members so that everyone votes for the correct council seats and there’s no confusion. These family members will be held in a secure and undisclosed location, which everyone knows is the Abandoned Mine Shaft outside of town.
But, don’t let the name fool you, listeners: it’s been used for years for so many kidnappings and illegal detentions that the Abandoned Mine Shaft outside of town is actually a pretty nice location these days, featuring king-sized beds, free wifi, and HBO. Also torture cubicles, but I don’t think anyone’s going to make the Council use those.
Remember, this is America. Vote correctly, or never see your loved ones again."
"Are the unmarked helicopters circling the area black? Probably World Government. Not a good area for play that day.
Are they blue? That’s the Sheriff’s Secret Police. They’ll keep a good eye on your kids, and hardly ever take one.
Are they painted with complex murals depicting birds of prey diving? No one knows what those helicopters are, or what they want. Do not play in the area. Return to your home and lock the doors until a Sheriff’s Secret Policeman leaves a carnation on your porch to indicate that the danger has passed. Cover your ears to blot out the screams.
Also remember: Gatorade is basically soda, so give your kids plain old water and maybe some orange slices when they play."
You cannot see. You grope around wildly as your footing is also unstable. You feel a thin liquid filling your shoes. It is not water; you can tell.
A pungent smell of brine, or anxiety. Your hands strike something solid. A wall, you think. It is soft, leathery, but also wet. You keep your hands to the surface and it is moving in and out, like it is breathing. No. More like…spasms.
You hear a dull rumble from above; a gurgle from below. You still see nothing.
The walls jerk back, quickly. You lose your balance and slide down to the floor, which is the same surface, but now the liquid is sloshing past you. Something grabs your leg. Something is grabbing your leg! You are being pulled down!
You cannot see which way. Madness!
Which way, madness?
You scream, but no sound comes from your stubborn lips, your impudent throat.
You reach…for what, you do not know. Only that you reach.
A blinding flash, a moment of understanding. You are in an empty storeroom, tied to a chair. There are others, but they are hooded and limp.
You recall this living nightmare. You take comfort in its familiar pain.
You smell fermentation and can hear a dull, unending beeping. Someone shouts in a language you do not know. You love your family. You love them!
Welcome to Red Lobster. Come see what’s fresh today."
"Hello? Hello? Night Vale? What is this studio? What is this damnable studio?
Night Vale? I do not know if you can hear me. This is Cecil, and I do not know where I am. It is clearly a radio studio, but the walls are covered in blood, and instead of dials and buttons on the soundboard, there is just animal viscera, glistening under the green LED lights. I hope this microphone works. Am I in hell?
Dana? Dana, can you hear me?
Listeners, if you can hear the sound of my voice, please contact the Sheriff’s Secret Police. There is so much blood, it is seeping into my shoes! There are — oh, masters of us all, no! — teeth scattered across the floor. The window into the control booth is shattered and there is a swath of skin and a fistful of long clumping hair hanging from a sharp glass point! I do not know if this is even Night Vale.
I know that I can hear the sandstorm raging outside. There is a low buzz and deep hum that might be my own heart ready to tear itself from my chest in horror or grief — I cannot know which.
There is a photo, a single photo of a man on the desk here. He is wearing a tie. He is not tall or short, not thin or fat. His hair and nose are like mine, but his eyes…his eyes are black as obsidian and his smile—
No. It is not a smile!
He must be wicked, this man!
Dear Night Vale, please pray in your bloodstone circle for me and pray, too, that no one should ever have to meet this vicious wretch of a man.
I want to be home, Night Vale! Oh, Cecil, you fool! The vortex…the vortex is still there. But here, it is white.
Okay. Dear listeners, from this vile, vile place, I leave you to your prison, but before I go, because I am a radio professional and it is sitting right here on this blood-spattered desk, I give you the weather."
"The Night Vale Medical Board wants to know, are you heart-healthy? How healthy is your heart? Have you ever checked? Doctors recommend checking your heart at least once a year. Simply separate the skin on your upper chest, and break open the ribs. Here’s a tip: If you don’t have a bone saw handy, just sterilize any old electric saw you might have in your work shed.
Right behind your ribs, kind of to the left, is a potato-shaped muscle lump filled with straw and maybe some insects. That’s your heart! Pull that out and sew your chest back up. Wash your heart in warm water, pat dry with a paper towel, and roll flat on a floured surface. Brown both sides in a sauté pan, and eat immediately.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Election Season
But, don’t let the name fool you, listeners: it’s been used for years for so many kidnappings and illegal detentions that the Abandoned Mine Shaft outside of town is actually a pretty nice location these days, featuring king-sized beds, free wifi, and HBO. Also torture cubicles, but I don’t think anyone’s going to make the Council use those.
Remember, this is America. Vote correctly, or never see your loved ones again."
Child Safety
Are they blue? That’s the Sheriff’s Secret Police. They’ll keep a good eye on your kids, and hardly ever take one.
Are they painted with complex murals depicting birds of prey diving? No one knows what those helicopters are, or what they want. Do not play in the area. Return to your home and lock the doors until a Sheriff’s Secret Policeman leaves a carnation on your porch to indicate that the danger has passed. Cover your ears to blot out the screams.
Also remember: Gatorade is basically soda, so give your kids plain old water and maybe some orange slices when they play."
A Familiar Nightmare
You cannot see. You grope around wildly as your footing is also unstable. You feel a thin liquid filling your shoes. It is not water; you can tell.
A pungent smell of brine, or anxiety. Your hands strike something solid. A wall, you think. It is soft, leathery, but also wet. You keep your hands to the surface and it is moving in and out, like it is breathing. No. More like…spasms.
You hear a dull rumble from above; a gurgle from below. You still see nothing.
The walls jerk back, quickly. You lose your balance and slide down to the floor, which is the same surface, but now the liquid is sloshing past you. Something grabs your leg. Something is grabbing your leg! You are being pulled down!
You cannot see which way. Madness!
Which way, madness?
You scream, but no sound comes from your stubborn lips, your impudent throat.
You reach…for what, you do not know. Only that you reach.
A blinding flash, a moment of understanding. You are in an empty storeroom, tied to a chair. There are others, but they are hooded and limp.
You recall this living nightmare. You take comfort in its familiar pain.
You smell fermentation and can hear a dull, unending beeping. Someone shouts in a language you do not know. You love your family. You love them!
Welcome to Red Lobster. Come see what’s fresh today."
What is this damnable studio?
Night Vale? I do not know if you can hear me. This is Cecil, and I do not know where I am. It is clearly a radio studio, but the walls are covered in blood, and instead of dials and buttons on the soundboard, there is just animal viscera, glistening under the green LED lights. I hope this microphone works. Am I in hell?
Dana? Dana, can you hear me?
Listeners, if you can hear the sound of my voice, please contact the Sheriff’s Secret Police. There is so much blood, it is seeping into my shoes! There are — oh, masters of us all, no! — teeth scattered across the floor. The window into the control booth is shattered and there is a swath of skin and a fistful of long clumping hair hanging from a sharp glass point! I do not know if this is even Night Vale.
I know that I can hear the sandstorm raging outside. There is a low buzz and deep hum that might be my own heart ready to tear itself from my chest in horror or grief — I cannot know which.
There is a photo, a single photo of a man on the desk here. He is wearing a tie. He is not tall or short, not thin or fat. His hair and nose are like mine, but his eyes…his eyes are black as obsidian and his smile—
No. It is not a smile!
He must be wicked, this man!
Dear Night Vale, please pray in your bloodstone circle for me and pray, too, that no one should ever have to meet this vicious wretch of a man.
I want to be home, Night Vale! Oh, Cecil, you fool! The vortex…the vortex is still there. But here, it is white.
Okay. Dear listeners, from this vile, vile place, I leave you to your prison, but before I go, because I am a radio professional and it is sitting right here on this blood-spattered desk, I give you the weather."
Heart Health Tips
Right behind your ribs, kind of to the left, is a potato-shaped muscle lump filled with straw and maybe some insects. That’s your heart! Pull that out and sew your chest back up. Wash your heart in warm water, pat dry with a paper towel, and roll flat on a floured surface. Brown both sides in a sauté pan, and eat immediately.
Remember, a healthy heart is a healthy life!"