Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me thrice, wow, you’re good at this. Okay. One more time. Welcome to Night Vale.

###

It’s been a hard couple of weeks, Night Vale. There was a city-wide candlelight vigil for the Glow Cloud. Since there was no body to cremate or bury, we all stood in Mission Grove Park and chanted “All Hail” for 45 minutes until our voices grew hoarse. Former mayor and current Director of Emergency Press Conferences Pamela Winchell delivered a eulogy in honor of the ethereal, mind-controlling entity.

She said, quote, “The Glow Cloud would not want us to be sad. They would want us to be obedient and fearful. We are nothing, Night Vale, if not full of deference and terror! Are we not??”

As Pamela delivered this final rhetorical question, the crowd mumbled “Yes, ma’am,” and then we all shrieked and ducked because a pigeon flew too low over our heads.

“That’s right!” Pamela continued. “Now let us bow our heads and offer a moment of silence.” We did so, and during the quiet, we heard a galloping noise. When we looked up, we saw Pamela riding away in a vintage Cabriolet carriage drawn by a single black horse with a silvery mane. None of us had ever seen this horse, but we knew the horse’s name was Turkey Leg, because of course it was.

The service for the Glow Cloud was lovely, but notably absent was the Glow Cloud’s child. The very offspring who was the reason for the Glow Cloud’s arrival in town more than a decade ago. They came to Night Vale not merely to enslave our minds and drop dead animals on us, but also because of our great public school system. After graduating high school last year, the Child of the Glow Cloud left for college. They got a scholarship to Stanford to study Meteorology, which is considered one of the low sciences, like Astrology, Homeopathy, and Jazz Dance.

Josh Crayton, a former classmate of the younger cloud, said that he’s stayed in touch with his friend, and that they’re just trying to lay low, not draw attention to themself like their parent always did. At college, they mostly appear as a coastal marine layer over the Bay Area each morning, and then disappear over the mountains late in the afternoon. Plus, freshman year has been really difficult. It’s all been highly stressful.

Stressful indeed. Between the death of the Glow Cloud and the continued presence of the murderous staff of The University of What It Is, Carlos and I needed an escape, so we had a little date night. Don’t mean to brag, but we went to a magic show. More on that soon, but first the Community Calendar.

###

This Saturday, Dark Owl Records is holding a Grand Re-Opening. After meeting with Dr. Blake Jones from The University of What It Is, Dark Owl Records owner Michelle Nguyen said she learned that her dislike of popular music was only a trauma response, and that she, in fact, really loves popular music, and that her trauma stems from being bitten by an iguana at age 5. What she really hates is lizards.

“Lizards are the worst. We will never sell lizards in our store,” Michelle said, and then added, “But we will sell Billboard Hot 100 music. That’s all we sell now. Come get your REMs, your Weezers, your Runs DMC, your… well, I don’t know who’s popular anymore. I’m almost 50 and I haven’t listened to contemporary music in 30 years, but I’m sure you’ll find what you want.”

Sunday afternoon, the Night Vale High School Scorpions take on the Ash Valley Penguin Kings in basketball. It should be an easy victory for our home team, because the Penguin Kings are winless this season. This is partially due to poor coaching, and partially due to a district-wide clerical error that led to no students ever being enrolled at Ash Valley High. Six one way half-dozen the other, as Eleanor Roosevelt always used to say on that one sitcom.

Finally, Wednesday has been misspelled, once again.

This has been your Community Calendar.

###

Okay, so Carlos and I went to the new Old Night Vale Opera House last Friday to see Makarov The Magical. He’s apparently very famous. I was thrilled to get to see his show, because I love to be lied to in a visual way. It’s so exciting when someone makes you think that they can pull their thumb off and put it back on. Or when they convince you there was money behind your ear. Or when they say “you got something on your shirt.” Oh ho ho, they get me every time with that one.

Makarov’s performance was breathtaking. He knew every card that people were thinking. He made a rabbit disappear behind a sheet and then reappear in one of the loge boxes. He even hypnotized one of the audience members and got them to juggle flaming knives.

All through the show I kept leaning to Carlos and saying “how did he do that?” And Carlos would just say “It’s magic, Cecil.” “No, no, for real, Carlos. You’re a scientist, you must know the logical explanations for these tricks!”

But Carlos insisted they were magic, because it was a magic show. And, well, fine.

The really exciting part, though, was we got VIP tickets which allowed us to go backstage afterward and meet Makarov. And let me tell you, he was exactly like he was onstage: serious, demonstrative, and mysterious. I asked if Makarov was his real name or his stage name, and he said, “Makarov, my young friend, is merely a sobriquet, perhaps even a nom de guerre, depending on how the audience receives my performance.” At this he chuckled, and I worried that it was because I didn’t know what sobriquet or nom de guerre meant. I never studied Russian.

Makarov continued, “My given name is Makarov. It is a beautiful name, but alas I had to take on an alias, lest my patrons confuse who I am in life with who I am on stage.”

“That makes sense,” I said, still nervous to be around a famous magician. Though, Carlos looked confused.

“We are different people,” Makarov explained. “Makarov of the stage wears a cape. Whereas I, Makarov, wear a cloak. He is a magician, whereas I am a man. He is an entertainer, whereas I am a performer. Do you see?”

Then he lifted his hood over his face, twirled, and the cloak collapsed to the floor and Makarov, the man and the magician, was gone.

I clapped and asked Carlos “How do you think he did that?” And Carlos repeated: “Magic.”

More on our date night soon. But now, a look at Traffic.

###

Route 800 has been temporarily closed after a recent scientific journal publication from Professor Blake Jones of The University of What It Is. The paper revealed that the highway was a closed loop that prevented people from entering or leaving Night Vale. Dr. Jones intimated that the road itself did not follow the maps, and that the reason people have been unable to leave this city is nothing supernatural. It’s simply that engineers designed a road that didn’t join any other throughway. City Council issued a press release that said the entire route will be closed down until, quote, “these freaking nerds get the heck outta here.”

This has been traffic.

###

An update on another former mayor, and Intern Emeritus here at the radio station, Dana Cardinal. Dana was questioned by the Sheriff’s Secret Police regarding the alleged murder of her doppelganger nearly 10 years ago. According to the deposition transcript, Dana described in detail what happened on the day of the Sandstorm. She said that from beyond the sand-clouded streets emerged a shadow. As the figure approached her, Dana could see from the silhouette that it was exactly Dana’s height, with the same proportions. As the figure neared, Dana saw that it was wearing exactly what she was wearing, that the eyes and hair were identical to her own. The only difference was the mouth. That mouth, Dana repeated, holding back tears, was twisted into a sneer, a snarl, a smile so hateful.

Dana’s double stood outside the radio station window, watching Dana and grinning. The doppelganger then turned and walked calmly to the front door. Dana could see it moving through the offices toward Dana’s desk. The double was holding a stapler, exactly as Dana was at the time. The doppelganger swung the rudimentary office machine down onto Dana’s head, but it was a glancing blow. They began to wrestle, their bodies rolling and intertwining so aggressively that Dana did not know if she was it, or if it was she. Finally, Dana, or perhaps her double, raised the stapler and in a single swift blow cracked it into the other’s forehead. And again, and again. And again. Until it was done.

Later Dana wrapped the body in trash bags from the supply closet, loaded it into her 2005 Nissan Sentra, and drove to the sandwastes. She dug a grave. Not a shallow grave. A full 6 feet down. It was uncharacteristically raining that day, and she kept slipping into the muddy pit. When she finally tossed the body into the hole, the bag tore away around the figure’s head, and she saw one final time her own face, bloodied and still, as she shoveled dirt below.

Sheriff Sam, clearly shocked by her forthright account, asked, “Do you want a lawyer, Ms. Cardinal, or what?” But Dana refused, said she owed them the truth. She has always been so honest, to a fault.

The Secret Police have dug all over the sandwastes and have found nothing yet. Dr. Janet Lubelle from the University of What It Is sent a large number of her archaeology staff to help the officers in their efforts. It is only a matter of time before the truth is known.

###

And now the conclusion to my date night with Carlos. After meeting Makarov, Carlos and I headed to the Moonlite All-Nite Diner for a little post-show dessert. What better way to cap off a lovely evening than with a slice of Invisible Pie. But it did not go well.

In the booth across from us sat a group dressed all in white lab coats. They were talking loudly about the Invisible Pie. Each had a slice in front of them. There was one man in particular, very slight, maybe 5-foot-4, thin build with a wisp of a mustache, yet a rich baritone voice. This man proclaimed: “It is scientifically impossible for any material the size of a piece of pie to be fully invisible!” He then clanked his fork all over his plate. “See? No pie,” he announced. “Wait till I tell Dr. Lubelle. Why, this is another fantastic discovery for the University of What It Is!” And all of his cronies clapped and cheered.

Then I said, “Please keep it down. We’re trying to enjoy our very real pie.” Carlos scowled and said, “Cecil, you can’t reason with these people.”

The man stared at me and stood up. I saw his nametag, Dr. Blake Jones. I had heard the name before, and I recognized him, too. He was Dr. Lubelle’s second-in-command, her henchman if you will.

He started to say something to me. I could see he was forming a reasoned argument the way a hunter loads a rifle. But then the diner manager, my old friend Laura, arrived and asked Dr. Jones if there was a problem with the food. If so she’d be willing to bring him something else. Perhaps he would like some fresh fruit, and here Laura began to pluck green apples and fresh blackberries from the branches growing out of her body. I could see it was painful for her, but she is a good manager, always putting the customer first.

Dr. Jones looked her up and down, excitement in his eyes. “Ma’am, might I bring you to our campus to study this unbelievable skin condition of yours?”

“Hold it right there,” I announced as I rose up, standing between this man and Laura.

“Say, buddy,” Dr. Jones said. “Did I see you two at the ‘magic‘ show tonight,” and here he did finger quotes. “You looked so enthralled. You know magic isn’t real right?

“The rabbit trick is just a trap door in the table and a second rabbit in the balcony.” He was so patronizing. Is this what I sound like when I explain things to my son? Dr. Jones went on, “And the card tricks are only slight-of-hand and memorization skills. One of them definitely was a fake deck.”

“Stop it, both of you,” Carlos said. He grabbed my arm. “Let’s just go, Cecil,” he said.

But Dr. Jones jumped in, “Hello, Carlos. I’m Dr. Blake Jones. We haven’t met, but I was your replacement when you left The University of What It Is. You were a beloved member of our faculty. You even had your portrait in the Academic Building.

“But then you went soft,” Dr. Jones continued. “You forgot what it meant to be a scientist. To do true research. You stopped caring.”

Carlos didn’t say anything, he just tugged my arm, pulling us both away.

Dr. Jones called out: “They took your portrait down. The University can’t celebrate failure, after all.”

And that’s when I punched Dr. Blake Jones.

Oh look. It’s time for the weather.

### WEATHER ###

I’ve never punched a person in my life. I still haven’t. I should be honest here. I thought I had landed my knuckles squarely into Dr. Jones’ jaw, but I missed and hit the load-bearing column instead. Everyone laughed, even Laura. So embarrassing.

It was Makarov the Magical who shifted their attention, though. He seemed to appear from nowhere. He made a wordless gesture with his arms, and we all sat back down, even the scientists. Makarov then said Dr. Jones was correct about the secrets to his tricks, but magic is not magic. Wonder is.

Then Makarov pointed to Dr. Jones: “This man. He does not know everything. For instance, he does not know where his steak went.”

“I didn’t order a steak,” Dr. Jones protested. And as if to punctuate this statement, a raw slab of beef fell from the air above and splattered onto the scientists’ table, streaking and dotting red juices across the white coats of the University minions. The scene looked like a still from a Dario Argento film.

Dr. Jones, unaffected by the surprise, immediately began to analyze the steak.

“No fishing line,” he said. “Must have had a secret assistant throw it or drop it from a moveable ceiling tile.”

Makarov winked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and left.

When we got home, Esteban was already in bed. We paid our babysitter, and as soon as the door closed behind her, Carlos said angrily, “I’m not angry with you, Cecil. I’m not angry.” He said this like a person who was pretty angry.

Carlos cautioned that there are bad people in the world, even scientists, full of terrible ideas and actions. And the tragedy of it is, you cannot stop them with a clever quip, a reasoned argument, and certainly not with violence.

“We can’t afford to have you in jail or sued for damages, Cecil,” Carlos said. And I agreed. I apologized for making a scene, and promised to do better. He smiled and said, “Now… about that dessert you promised.”

“Ooohh, Carlos” I said. “Does that mean what I think it means?” And he said, “If you think it means ice cream and a decaf, then yes.” And I said, “Exactly. That’s totally it.”

Listeners, I don’t know how to fight Dr. Janet Lubelle, nor her annoying henchman. I want the City Council to pass an ordinance making The University of What It Is illegal. I want every business in town to refuse them service. And I know it’s not productive, and I won’t do it, but I still want to punch Blake Jones in the mouth.

In the meantime, we have to stick together, Night Vale. We have to take a stand. Violence isn’t the answer, and our pleas go unacknowledged. But there must be something we can do.

Stay tuned next for our new show ASMR Extravaganza. Tonight’s episode: Clogged Sinuses and Pickle Eating.

As always, Good night Night Vale. Good Night.

###

Proverb: A cursed amulet saved is a cursed amulet earned.