In just a few days the whole story will be known. This is what happens after. Welcome to Night Vale.

The last couple weeks, as we all know, have been eventful ones. I’m not going to go over everything again. We all know what happened. We are well-read, well-informed people who have paid attention to whole recent “King City” affair. We know about the terrible ordeals that Diane Crayton and Jackie Fierro endured. We know how their troubles all ended up. And we know the truth about the Man in the Tan Jacket. We know all about him now, because of what Diane and Jackie found out.

So I won’t go over all of that.

Instead, I’ll talk about the Barista District, which is experiencing a severe population spike, also as a result of that whole King City thing. There are just so many helpful people, wandering town asking us if we want nonfat or 2%, and if they can get us a blueberry scone with that. You can’t open a hall closet, or tunnel under your own lawn without a barista jumping out at you, asking if you want a tray for all of the coffee they’re going to give you. So much coffee, whether you want it or not. Here it comes, a crushing amount of coffee. Don’t run, you’ll never escape. Do you want a tray with that?

More on this ongoing aftermath in a moment, but first, the news.

The government released a statement Friday disavowing knowledge of any events which resulted from a recent gardening supplies sale that they may or may not have been involved with.

A representative of the US Government, in association with the World Government, the Shadow Government, the Lizard People, and the Watchers From Behind the Stars, wrapped in a burlap cloak and speaking in a low, croaking voice, said, “So yes, we recently sold surplus and used materials from a variety of secret government projects and experiments, all disguised as gardening supplies, and yes, the resulting effects on human life and on the very nature of time were unfortunate, and yes, people died in ways that we did not previously think were even possible in this particular universe, but basically it comes down to this: ‘America, love or leave it.’”

When asked about any efforts that were being made to provide aid to those who were dislodged from the natural laws of the universe as the result of dangerous experimental materials sold in Night Vale under the guise of simple home goods and gardening wares, the representative only repeated “America, love or leave it”, each iteration a little rounder, a little more abstracted from human communication, until it was only a series of guttural sounds in the vague shape of what used to be words, as the representative retreated further and further into their burlap cloak until it collapsed, empty, upon the podium, smelling of compost and grain alcohol.

All in all, a pretty typical statement from the government, and hopefully this clears up that whole thing with the flamingos.

Due to the recent events we all have read about, the Librarians have been more active than usual. Witnesses, who were paid to go witness by others who were afraid to get close enough to see, report that there is steam and sparks flying out of the Public Library’s many chimneys. Howling can be heard both inside the building and from the mouths of the witnesses as, through the windows, they glimpse the terrible physical forms of the librarians.

There is even a few unconfirmed reports that in the confusion of recent events and the resulting damage done to the library building, one of the librarians may have escaped. Of course, a disaster of that magnitude hasn’t happened since, oh, I guess it would have been last year, so that doesn’t seem likely. Truly it would be awful if it did though. We lost so many people from so many different places the last time a librarian escaped.

One of the witnesses, James Patterson, (no relation to the famous local dairy farmer, James Patterson), reported that perhaps the librarians have developed the power to mentally influence those around them, since the closer he got to the library, the more strongly he felt the urge to read books. “Are there any good novels coming out soon?” he began foolishly asking, blind to the dangers that books present. “Oh man, I could really use a new novel,” he babbled, the poor thing, not even understanding the ghastly words spewing from his mouth.

We have no idea if this event was an aberration or if librarians have truly developed the terrifying ability to make people want to actually read books, but all citizens would be well advised to stay clear of libraries and any dangerous books they may see in bookstores everywhere quite soon. I mean, you should always avoid books and libraries, but now it might worth taking extra precautionary measures like scooping your eyes out with grapefruit spoons and triple bolting your door.

And now, back to today’s epilogue.

The baristas are continuing to multiply. All over town businesses that were recently useful normal things, like Gas Stations, and Antique Malls, and Screaming Sheds are now suddenly coffee shops, full of identical Baristas demonstrating their ability to illustrate, using steamed milk on coffee, the exact moment of your death.

This crisis makes me think of the Man in the Tan Jacket, who was with us in so many crises through our town’s recent history. What would he have done with this situation?

Perhaps it would help to start at the beginning. The beginning is usually an awfully convenient place to start, right? But trying to find a beginning means grappling with the question of time. Scientists have a game where they try to explain time to each other without laughing. No one has ever won.

The man came to us first almost three years ago, a newcomer in a tan jacket. I remember him standing by the side of the road in the small puddle of light cast from a burning refrigerator.

And that is the thing, the remembering. When he was here, we did not remember him. We forgot him constantly. A spectre in a tan jacket. Now he is not here, and we remember him perfectly. Years of stories and experience come flooding back to us. We remember him scampering over the walls of the dog park. We remember him showing us a map to a place very far from here, a place we did not understand at all. We remember him passing out pieces of paper, the content of which was a mystery, the physical properties of which were a nuisance. But here again I cover a story we already know because we all so recently experienced it.

Old Woman Josie released a statement, to me, in person, as part of a conversation we were having privately, without her saying it was a statement, it was just a thing she said to me during a conversation, anyway here it is, she said, “I always liked that man in a tan jacket. Even when I was afraid of him and suspicious of him. Even when he showed up at my door in the middle of the night with that suitcase of his, the suitcase that constantly buzzed, knocking on my door and babbling about how he needed help desperately, how we had to help him save his home. Even then, as I was ignoring him in his hour of need, I liked him. Even when I forgot him completely and had no idea he even existed, I liked him. You know, this fruit salad Carlos made is just delicious.”

And I agree with Josie’s statement. The fruit salad we were having at our lunch together was super good, and I wolfed it down even though I’ve been trying to cut back on my meat consumption lately.

I got a little sidetracked there. To get back to the point, we’re all likely going to be destroyed by an endless stream of baristas, which is, of course, a direct result of the recent events involving Jackie and Diane. So there’s that.

Listeners, looks like we're in need of a new intern. Intern Danielle has stopped coming to the office.

I mean, Danielle had all these crazy conspiracy theories about how radio interns are doomed, so she wanted to stay inside and focus only on computer work. She steadfastly refused any field reporting assignments, so I complied with her wishes and let her run our social media accounts, which I thought would make her happy.

But a few weeks ago, after giving her the simple and fun job of taking pictures of Khoshekh, our radio station's live-in cat, for our official station myspace as well as to my personal google plus and snapchat accounts, she just stopped coming to work. I guess she just didn't have it in her anymore.

But listen, if you're more motivated to learn about a career in radio than Danielle, we'd love to have you come intern here at the station. All you need to do to become a Community Radio intern is not run away when station management surrounds you outside your home shouting "THIS ONE IS NEXT! THIS ONE IS NEXT!"

And now a word from our sponsors. Personally I find the content of this ad distasteful, given my earlier warning, but I’m informed by station management that I have to read it as written. Here goes.

Many of us like books. None of us like to admit it. We know that reading makes us deviants, perverts, freaks. Many of us might say, on the radio for instance, that books are dangerous and should be avoided. Even thinking the words “I like books” to ourselves makes us shudder with a secret shame. We know that we should only be reading government pamphlets and the prophecies on the back of cereal boxes, but again and again we find ourselves returning to the dark sickness of literary language. Who among us can say that they do not have, buried in a box of linens under their bed, a well read copy of Brand New Ancients by Kate Tempest or a collection of Annie Baker’s Vermont Plays?

Given all this, should we band together, deviant with deviant, a deviance so natural that it is no deviance at all, but an ingrained motion of the heart, a secret desire so common that it is no more secret than the sun? Should we begin to admit together that we all sometimes like to touch and read books?

No, of course not. We should be ashamed, and hide our love of books from each other, heaping scorn and hypocritical anger upon anyone who dares to reveal that they have the same desires we do.

Harper Perennial. All of our literature is shipped to you in unmarked brown paper wrappings. Charges will appear on your credit card statement as DEFINITELY NOT BOOKS. No one has to know you are a book reading freak.

This has been a message from our sponsors. Ugh, books.

The population of the Barista district continues to grow, doubling almost every hour, through no means known to modern science, antique science, or reverse science. Carlos is working on a solution, but in the meantime, towns people are overwhelmed and scared by the coffee options suddenly available to them. They are screaming. They are screaming and running away.

Larry Leroy, out on the edge of town, told me that he can see them now, the baristas, and that they are beautiful and surging. There are so many hands holding so much coffee. They are all so helpful.

“This might be it,” Larry is saying. “Anything could be it,” he is continuing. “Any moment could be the last one. We should always be prepared for the eventuality of no more eventualities. We all live on the narrow precipice. But also yeah, this barista thing is really going off, huh?” he concluded.

Perhaps if the man in the tan jacket were here, he would have some idea, some solution, or even would just be there to add a comfortingly forgettable presence to this ongoing disaster. But of course, he is not here. And we all know why. We all know who really he is now.

Oh. Oh, Carlos is texting me. He, hm, ok he says that he has a solution to this whole barista thing. Hey! That’s quite clever. It also takes care of that other problem, you know the one I don’t even have to explain to you right now because it was so frightful and all-consuming and fresh in our memories.

Ok, while Carlos does his clever plan, I’ll do a clever plan of my own which is: taking you to the weather.

[WEATHER: "Endless Dream" by God Is An Astronaut http://godisanastronaut.com]

And now here we are, in the after. Carlos’s plan, well, we read about what it was and how it turned out. No need to summarize here.

What do we do, after such huge events have transpired? After the ones in danger no longer are (meaning either that they no longer are in danger or that in an existential sense they just no longer are).

Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’m going to go bowling with Carlos. League Night is tonight, and we’ve gotten the team back together with Old Woman Josie. Of course, she can use her left hand again now, now that this affair we’ve been talking about is all over, so our scores should be up.

And what else? The sky of course. Always that. Let’s start there, and work our way down to earth. Other cities. Other places. This city. This place.

I imagine that soon this town will settle back into the routine of its existence until a new peril arises again soon. Like a heartbeat. A sudden, violent movement. And in between a lull, in itself a rhythm, a counterpart, the silence between the beats.

Night Vale, in a lull. The doctors at the hospital, going about their mysterious routines. The Pawn Shop, its name changed now, of course, after what happened recently. The office district, and, oh it looks like there is a large family of tarantulas heading there now and they do not look happy. I would hate to be whoever it is that they’re looking for.

The Moonlite All-Nite Diner, where I’m sure Steve Carlsberg is going to stop by on his way home for a slice of invisible pie. Our mayor, Dana, getting ready to finish her work. Carlos’s lab, where he is also finishing up his work. See you soon Carlos.

And, and something else. Over a housing tract across town I can see a dot in the sky, floating high above one of the houses, twirling and soaring higher. I can’t quite see what it is, but it’s lovely.

In any case, an entire town swinging back to the normal, getting on with life in the after. After all of the things that we all now know happened. All of us.

Except, of course, one person. A person missing. A person who we all missed. A person impossible to remember. A person, now, impossible to forget. The Man in the Tan Jacket.

And what next?

Well, I think there may be other people, other stories to tell. We are each of us a vast story waiting for someone to tell it.

Stay tuned in just a few days, or depending on where you are in time, any day you decide to get around to it, for a 401 page factual report about the events that led to this epilogue, available in hardcover, ebook, or audiobook from your favorite factual report retailer.

In the meantime, from after the whole of what you haven’t yet read, good night, Night Vale. Good night.