[LISTEN]

A friendly desert community, where the sun is still hot, the moon still beautiful, and mysterious lights still pass overhead while we all pretend to sleep. Welcome to Night Vale.

Word is in about a disturbance at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. There has been the sound of chanting and machinery from under the pin retrieval area of lane five, and Teddy Williams has changed all the bowlers’ names on the electronic scorecards to “THEY ARE HERE”. This is causing some confusion and has completely ruined Jeremy Godfrey's 50th birthday party, which had rented out a few lanes for the afternoon. Jeremy was last seen drinking a light beer out of a plastic cup, shaking his head sadly as he swished the liquid around and looking out the window at the sky, mostly void, partially stars. Teddy Williams was last seen howling, commanding his militia to surround the pin retrieval area and prepare for an attack. And Carlos, sweet Carlos, brave Carlos, was last seen approaching the entrance to the underground city, saying he was going to get to the bottom of this, that someone had to, and that Teddy Williams was deranged. Teddy Williams was then last seen saying “Oh yeah? Oh yeah? Say that to my face, big shot.” but Carlos, my poor Carlos, was already gone. I fear, Night Vale. I fear for what we know. I fear for what we don't know. I fear for what we don't yet know that we don't know.

The Apache Tracker stood outside of the bowling alley, glowering at the entrance and shaking his head. I remind you that this is the white guy who likes to dress in a cartoonish approximation of a Native American and claims to have mystical powers. He's a real racist jerk and no one likes him. And the fact that he recently disappeared and reappeared as an actual Native American changes nothing, and neither does the fact that he can now only speak Russian. He is still the same embarrassment to our town he always was. Anyway, he's glowering at the entrance, arms crossed, wearing one of his stupid, plastic, feather headdresses.

But back to Carlos. Carlos the scientist, perfect of stature and bearing, perfect of tone and taut, and, time having fixed what the barbarous barber Telly so treacherously snipped away, perfect of hair.

One year. One year later. Listeners. Listeners! One single year since two major events in our town’s history. First, the opening of our lovely, state of the art dog park, which is forbidden, and which I will not mention again. Second, and more important, it is one year since the arrival in Night Vale of our most beloved and singular citizen.

He came to us to investigate our town, because he said it was scientifically extraordinary, and downright bizarre. We had no idea what he was talking about, but with his golden voice ringing out from the bell of his mouth, who among us could argue with the content of such perfect speech?

Ah, just one short year ago.

I had arranged a small ceremony to mark this occasion, and invited Carlos to attend. However, it looks like he will be delayed.

But I am not worried. I am not upset. I know that Carlos will be here for the ceremony. I have the trophy here in my hand. I am holding the trophy and I am not upset. Carlos will be here. He will. I am holding the trophy.

In other news, a commercial airliner appeared today inside the home of surprised Night Vale citizen Becky Canterbury, who said she was about to get in the shower when it roared down her hallway and then disappeared, as suddenly as it had arrived. There is no conclusive evidence that this is the same airliner last seen in the Night Vale Elementary gym one year ago, but we have jumped to that conclusion and will defend it against all naysayers, violently and without mercy. Our truths may or may not be true, but they are ours, and we stand by them, even as the experts and skeptics hold aloft clipboards and intone to us about snow and mountains. Becky added that she would like to take that shower now, and that she has no idea how we managed to arrive for an interview mere seconds after the incident occurred. “My doors are locked.” she said. “My windows too. I’ve had my eyes shut for years. How did you get in here?”

The local chapter of the NRA has begun market testing some possible new slogans. These include:

“Guns don't kill people. Blood loss and organ damage does.”

“Guns don't kill people. People kill guns.”

“A list of things that kill people: 1. Conceivably anything. 2. Not guns.”

“Guns don't kill people. We are all immortal souls living temporarily in shelters of earth and meat.”

and

“If you say guns kill people one more time I will shoot you with a gun and you will, coincidentally, die.”

To vote on the new slogan, simply fire a gun at the object or person that best represents your choice.

Parents: Let’s talk about safety when taking your children to play out in the scrub lands and the sand wastes. All children in Night Vale are missing this week, so there’s no current safety issues. Hope we find them!

Oh happy day! I have just received word that Carlos returned from the entrance to the city, gesturing to everyone around and asking them to follow him. He led them into the pin retrieval area, which is not an easy place for a crowd, so there was a lot of crouching and saying “excuse me”. But soon enough they were all arrayed on the clifftop overlooking that dreaded subterranean metropolis. Teddy Williams, and his militia, and the folks who had come for Jeremy’s birthday party, and Jeremy himself, still holding his plastic cup of beer and leaning morosely against the wall, pointedly refusing to look where everyone else was.

This was the first time most of them had seen the city. It seemed so distant below them, its strange spires small and far away, the windows in the buildings, alight with the fire of hostile life, were tiny dots from where they stood. They could hear the footsteps of the approaching army, the chanting. Many of them quaked with fear. But not Carlos. My brave Carlos stepped out into the pit, climbing down the slope. At first onlookers were horrified at his lunatic descent. Then they were confused, as he got to the city much faster than they expected, and then there was panic, as their eyes told them a story they could not understand, let alone believe.

“Behold,” said Carlos, standing in the center of the underground city. “This is not an enormous city miles below the earth. It is a very small city about ten feet below the earth, populated by tiny people who have had to spend a year slowly climbing the ten feet to our world.” He gestured at the spires, which came up approximately to his knees. “We have nothing to fear.” Well, if Carlos says it, I will happily repeat it. We have nothing to fear, and never did.

The City Council would like to remind you about the tiered heavens, and the hierarchy of angels. The reminder is that you still should not know anything about this. The structure of heaven and the angelic organizational chart are still privileged information. Also, angels aren’t real. “I really get tired of having to say this,” a City Council representative said to a group of disgruntled angels. “Angels aren’t real. They just aren’t.” The angels became unruly and were dispersed by a thunderclap from heaven.

Oh! A truly fearful thing has happened, listeners. Carlos, standing triumphantly in the toy-scaled city, was attacked by tiny people, using projectiles and explosives. He fell back to the side of the small hole in the pin retrieval area of Lane 5. Blood welled through his shirt. And here I am, stuck in my booth, useless, only able to narrate, not to help. He staggered, fell to his knees. So much blood. He collapsed completely. Curse this town that saw Carlos die. Curse me. Curse it all.

Let us take this moment to… Let us take this moment… Ladies and gentlemen, let us mourn the pass…I can’t. I can’t. I am still holding this trophy. I... We go now to this pre-recorded Public Service Announcement

Scientists, and science in general, would like to remind you that some things exist and some things do not. Usually, you can apply the simple test of seeing if it is there. If it is there, it exists. If not, it probably doesn’t, but it might just be currently existing somewhere else. Existence is tricky, the scientists say. Research shows this. For instance, there is that house in the housing development of Desert Creek out back of the elementary school, the house that doesn’t exist. It seems like it exists. Like it’s just right there when you look at it, and it’s between two other identical houses so it would make more sense for it to be there than not. But it does not exist. They have proved this with science. The scientists still haven’t gotten up the nerve to ring the doorbell and find out what happens. Do you want to do it? They’ll pay you five dollars if you do. Just ring it once ok. We’ll be watching from back here. You’ll probably be fine.

Ladies! Gentlemen! How wonderful! Carlos is not dead at all! It seems that the Apache Tracker ran in, crouching awkwardly through the pin retrieval area, and shouting, ““Nakonets moyo vremya podoshlo.” [TRANSLATION: “At last, my time has come!”] He leapt into the pit, trailing his offensive feather headdress, and heaved Carlos up in a mighty bear hug, carrying him out of the pit while being attacked viciously by the miniature citizens of the miniature city. Even Jeremy, upset still about his ruined birthday party, couldn’t help but cheer as the formerly false, now real, Native American laid Carlos 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 Carlos will in fact be…ok.

He’s ok.

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 Carlos in my life, and then to have it brought back, so that I could appreciate it all the more. Oh Carlos, all the words I would never have said to you.

And the news that the city is in fact only a miniature city ten feet down, 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: Good night, Night Vale. Good-

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 Carlos, the Apache Tracker was mortally wounded. He is bleeding profusely and it is getting all over his fake feather headdress, and he says that even his ancient Indian Magicks 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 miniature city under the bowling alley. And he, at the cost of his own life, saved Carlos. Carlos breathes, and 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.

“Ladno. Ladno. Ya znal, eto sluchitsya. Ti mozhesh vzyat' moyu mashinu.” [TRANSLATION: "It's ok. It's ok. I knew this would happen. You can have my car."]

He said this and then he died. The Apache Tracker is dead. Teddy Williams confirmed. Jeremy is slumped into a folding chair, kicking his feet and saying this is the worst birthday party anyone has ever had.

Goodnight, brave Tracker. Goodnight. I thought you were one thing, and you were another. It is likely I will learn nothing from this.

And, oh, a message on my phone. Carlos wants to see me. He says to meet him at the Arby’s parking lot . 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.

[WEATHER: "Sunday Morning Stasis" by Joseph Fink]

I arrived at the parking lot to find Carlos, perched on the trunk of his car in flannel and jeans, his perfect hair mussed, his perfect teeth hidden.

“What is it?” I said. “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 beat hard.

“Oh?” I said, my voice more tremble than word.

Carlos looked at the setting sun. “I used to think it was setting at the wrong time,” he said. “But then I realized that time doesn’t work in Night Vale and that none of the clocks are real. Sometimes things seem so strange or malevolent, and then you find that, underneath, it was something else altogether, something pure and innocent.

“I know what you mean,” I replied.

Somewhere the tiny people of the city below have arrived in Night Vale, and are beginning their war against us, having already shown themselves capable of murder. 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 Magicks again. This all happens, somewhere else.

But here, Carlos and I sat on the trunk of that car, his car, looking together at the lights up in the sky above the Arby’s. They were beautiful in the hushed twilight, shimmering in a night sky already coming alive with bits of the universe.

One year later. One year since he arrived.

He put his hand on my knee, and said nothing, and I knew what he meant. I felt the same. I leaned my head on his shoulder.

We understand the lights. We understand the lights above the Arby’s. We understand so much. But the sky behind those lights, mostly void, partially stars, that sky reminds us: we don’t understand even more.

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.