The sun has risen. You are awake. This symmetry is not without meaning. Welcome to Night Vale.

Listeners, I’m receiving word from the Sheriff's Secret Police that Mayor Pamela Winchell has gone missing. After this morning’s press conference where she updated the media on standard mayoral news – stuff like her favorite kinds of rocks and a demonstration on hatchet-sharpening – she walked to her office and then disappeared.

Trish Hidge, one of Winchell’s staffers, said “Mayors can disappear. It’s not a big deal. She disappears all the time. She can fly and turn into a horse, too. It’s perfectly within her rights as a mayor to turn invisible, to disintegrate into a thin cloud of imperceptible existence.” Hidge continued, “In fact I can disappear if I want to. Because I work for the mayor I have all of the mayor’s powers. I just don’t use them all the time. Out of respect for the Mayor.”

When pressed by reporters to show her powers, Hidge reluctantly agreed, saying “Just this once,” and then standing in place, visibly straining, eyes bulging, cheeks reddening. There was a long, uncomfortable silence before Hidge said “well I can’t do it with everyone watching. Turn around, okay?” But then, before anyone could turn around she vanished leaving behind only a light, white puff, like baby powder, a faint smell of olives, and an echoing voice that said “no wait. I got it. See?”

If anyone has any information on the Mayor's whereabouts, please contact the Sheriff's Secret Police or just speak into any phone. They are all bugged, of course.

The Night Vale Community Theater is proud to announce the opening of their long awaited production of Once On This Island. The location and cast are a secret. Curtain is promptly at 8 o’clock, and those seeking autographs of cast members after the show should ask themselves why signatures are valuable and what that particular kind of transaction even means. The Night Vale Daily Journal has indicated their intention to review the musical, as soon as they can find out where the performances are taking place, They are interrogating anyone who might provide them the necessary information.

I am, myself, an aficionado of the theater, having once played the role of Pippin in a high school production. The musical being produced was actually South Pacific, but our director had a real flair for experimental theater and felt the addition of characters from other famous plays would spice things up. He also hid dangerous traps all throughout the set, in order to keep us on our toes. Oh, it was a wonderful couple months, preparing for and performing in front of parents and friends, and those of us who were left at the end of it felt like we had truly been through something, something we would never forget, not even in the middle of the night, staring blankly into the darkness, sweaty, pallid, trembling.

Students and seniors receive a 10% discount on all tickets to the hit musical.

Here’s a public service message to all the children in our audience.

Children, the night sky may seem like a scary thing sometimes. And it is. It’s a very scary thing. Look at the stars, twinkling silently. They are so far away that none of us will ever get to even the closest one. They are dead-eyed sigils of our own failures against distance and mortality. And behind them just the void, that nothingness that is everything, that everything that is nothing. Even the blinking light of an airplane streaking across it does not seem to assuage the tiniest bit of its blackness, like throwing a single stray ember into the depths of a vast Arctic ocean. And what if the void is not as void as we thought? What could be coming towards us out of the distance? Insentient asteroid with a chance trajectory? Sentient beings with a malicious trajectory? What good could come of this? What good, children, could come of any of this? Fear the night sky, children. And sleep tight in your beds, and the inadequate shelters of blankets and parental love. Sleep sound, children.

This has been our Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner.

More on our missing mayor. Listeners, this might be worse than I could have imagined. I’m receiving word that Old Woman Josie and a gentleman that may or may not be an angel friend of hers (depending on whether or not angels are real, or if they are real but aren't really friends with Josie, or not real but suddenly became real because Josie willed them into existence.) However it is, Josie and her exceptionally tall, winged friend saw Mayor Winchell earlier this morning near the Moonlite All-Nite Diner talking to a man in an offensively cartoonish Native American headdress.

Listeners, that is most certainly the Apache Tracker. And, look, I don’t know what he is up to, but everywhere he goes, nothing good happens. For instance, last time he went to the post office they had to spend months cleaning the blood off the walls and hire who knows what kind of specialists to stop the disembodied screaming coming from every darkened corner. I mean, what kind of contractor even specializes in removing screams (besides Shriektronics, of course, but they moved their offices to several miles deep underground and mostly just generate earthquakes for the government these days).

The point is that the Apache Tracker, despite his recent, unexplained transformation into a real Native American, is not who he claims to be and is not a trustworthy individual. I can only fear the worst for Mayor Winchell. Old Woman Josie said she saw the two in a heated discussion that culminated in the Apache Tracker opening a leather briefcase, which in turn released a thick cloud of black flies, more than you would think could fit into a normal-sized fly briefcase.

The man with the insensitively-feathered headdress then got into the backseat of a black sedan. Josie said she saw the driver clearly and recognized him but could no longer remember any details about his face. Josie did not see where the mayor went though, as her possible angel friend was spending a lot of time explaining why an unassisted triple play in baseball is so rare and she got distracted because it seemed like a really important story and she didn’t want to seem rude.

Listeners, we have contacted the Sheriff’s Secret Police. If you see this black sedan, the mayor, or have any other information, including light and citrus-y dessert recipes for our upcoming special on fresh summer cuisine, please contact us immediately.

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This message brought to you by Wendy's.

During the commercial break, listeners, we received several calls from drivers, saying that they saw the Apache Tracker in a black sedan but that the Mayor was not with him. He and his driver, who they couldn’t describe, were standing outside the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex still, unmoving, a swirl of dust and smoke spiraling slowly about them. A soft rumble below the sand and the visceral tension of something about to burst. So much bad news with those two men, Night Vale. Stay away from the Fun Complex if you can. Not only these men, but there is also that secret civilization living under lane five that is planning a great war against us.

On the other hand, tonight is dollar beers and free jukebox tokens.

Listen. You do what you want. It's your choice. But I'm just saying that Apache Tracker, or whatever he likes being called... I mean, if you knew someone who was always affecting a derogatory accent or told racist jokes, you wouldn’t be friends with them, right? So who would hang around this guy? What a jerk.

Still nothing on the mayor, dear listeners. The City Council has even become upset over this. They have been on the steps of City Hall pacing and howling in unison, like elephants in mourning.

Listeners, I know we don’t always agree with the mayor, and that sometimes we just despise our elected officials because of the artifice of political parties, or because they don’t represent every one of our very specific interests, or because they are a different species or have frightening supernatural powers and threaten violence against innocent citizens. I understand all of this. No politician is perfect, Night Vale.

But Mayor Winchell has overseen some great moments in our town's recent history. She increased funding for the cancer ward at Night Vale Hospital, and now anyone who wants cancer can get cancer, whether or not they have healthcare or a reason to live. She regularly visits Night Vale Elementary School classes to promote youth literacy by reading children’s classics like Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle or any number of Cormac McCarthy’s novels.

She has been controversial, to be sure, but she is our leader. Our parent. She cares very much about us, Night Vale, and when she jails or tortures someone without just cause or due process, it is because she loves this town so much. Let us find our mayor, Night Vale. But first, let us go to the weather.

[WEATHER: "Biblical Violence" by Hella. hella.bandcamp.com]

Listeners, moments ago, Mayor Winchell was found! She was holding an impromptu press conference. The press had to stay at least 500 feet away from her, as she was standing at the edge of the Dog Park, and no one except city officials and hooded figures are allowed that close.

Mayor Winchell apparently set up a podium and quietly delivered a prepared statement without a microphone, and no one could hear what she had to say. Two hooded figures were standing behind her.

But listeners, oh listeners, do we ever have a scoop. Former intern Dana, who I thought had been lost forever after she was swallowed up by the Dog Park two months ago, well, she texted me just now from whatever plane of existence she’s on. Dana is still alive and in the dog park, and she heard the mayor's speech. And it turns out Mayor Pamela Winchell is stepping down by year's end.

Other reports indicated the Mayor concluded by lighting the podium on fire, kicking it over and climbing the 12-feet high smooth, obsidian walls, quickly, gracefully, like a salamander and then shouting several things that sounded like Russian vulgarities. The hooded figures stayed outside the dog park and stared down reporters, who grew gray and hunched with melancholy. Many began wailing and clutching their eyes.

Listeners, first of all, it was so nice to hear from Dana. We miss her so. I tried emailing her back, but my thumbs began to burn and blacken and blood began trickling from my nose as I wrote, so I had to stop. Hopefully we will see Dana again. Time is weird. So is space. I hope ours match again someday.

As for the mayor. Well, this is surprising. Did the Secret Police force her hand? Some vague, yet menacing, government agency? Would this have anything to do with the Poetry Week incident, where actual Night Vale citizens, like Dana, got inside the forbidden Dog Park?

Or maybe it was simply the Mayor’s choice. It’s actually a good way to go out. The last 6 mayors were all executed quite publicly and creatively. (Remember that many junior high students still learn about the skeletal system from the late Mayor Tom Garmin himself!)

So to get to announce your own retirement is pretty excellent. Maybe Mayor Winchell needed to spend more time with her family. Or maybe she has been exiled to the Dog Park, for sins yet unknown. Or maybe she plans to grow into a tree by joining the collective lifeforce and single, shared soul of the Whispering Forest, which has become a very popular lifestyle choice these days.

All I know, Night Vale, is that we should all be so lucky to set our own futures. Dana did not. I don’t know that I will. Each day the sun rises and sets. The moon pulls the tides. Our hearts beat. Our loved ones love us back. And we share our inhales and exhales with the great organism that is our tiny planet.

But as you watch the sun rise again tomorrow morning, think to yourself: “past performance is not a predictor of future results.” And then force a smile, drink another cup of coffee, and try not to look down as you walk across the soil that will eventually fill your lifeless lungs and repurpose your corpse. Each day that is... is a blessing, Night Vale.

And now... Stay tuned next for the popular radio game show: Wait Wait Don't. No Don't. Please Don't.

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.

Proverb: The most dangerous game is Man. The most entertaining game is Broadway Puppy Ball. The most weird game is Esoteric Bear.