Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes. In this economy? Welcome to Night Vale.

###

It’s contract renegotiation time again, listeners. It’s been 5 years since my last round with Station Management, and I think it’s time for a raise. Ratings have been good for my show, and while some of that has to do with City Council’s recent ordinance requiring all radios to be tuned to this station at all hours, I’d like to think some of our success has to do with my topnotch broadcast abilities.

By the way, City Council and Station Management are still dating. It’s been an on-again/off-again affair, but they’re living together now. They bought a new house and adopted several cats. These love birds are seen going to antique malls nearly every weekend. We’re all still waiting to hear when Station Management is going to pop the question.

But marriage or no, these two multi-headed, single-bodied monstrosities seem quite happy together. Cute, even. And I’m hoping this loving relationship has Station Management in a good mood today. Still, after what happened 5 years ago, I came prepared. I hired an agent – Alanna (uh-LAH-nuh) McTavish (Mc, like McDonalds, not “mac”). I know agents take a large cut, but it’s worth it knowing that all the Is are dotted and Ts crossed.

I’m not planning on asking for anything outlandish, salary-wise. I really like it here. Besides, I don’t know where else I would go. This is the only radio station in town, as mandated by the City Council in loving lock-step with their romantic partner.

Oh, I’m getting a text from Alanna. She tells me not to give away too much of my leverage by blabbing about my intentions. Okay, well. Listeners, all that’s just between us. Don’t tell anyone.

###

And now, traffic.

All roads, sidewalks, and bike paths that lead to the sandwastes are closed. As is the secret bunker for the US president, in case of a catastrophe like global thermonuclear warfare, bird attacks, or heavy rain.

I didn’t know the president’s top secret bunker was located in Night Vale. How neat. I’m on the website right now. Oooh, you can do tours. There’s even a children’s wing and a gift shop. That sounds like a fun family day out. Sadly, though, the bunker is closed to the public, including the president, along with all roads leading to the sandwastes until further notice.

The Sheriff’s Secret Police issued this order as they are still looking for the body of Dana Cardinal or her double. The Secret Police paused their search in the sandwastes this past week because they found a few dozen bodies, which are all linked to several unsolved murders over the past 60 years. But Dr. Janet Lubelle from The University of What It Is reminded Sheriff Sam that the university is funding this search, not the city of Night Vale. And Dr. Lubelle wants to keep digging for Dana’s double.

According to Dr. Lubelle, the University of What It Is is not interested in solving murders. Solving murders is scientifically boring, she said. Explaining doppelgangers, on the other hand, is scientifically very interesting, she said. And that’s what they’re in the sandwastes to do: find the woman Dana Cardinal killed on March 15, 2013.

So take Galloway Road or marked alternate routes instead. This has been traffic.

###

Okay, listeners, my agent, Alanna is here. She’s gone down the back hall to speak to Station Management. I warned her that they’re very dangerous. She told me she’s dealt with plenty of high-powered people. She understands every intimidation technique in the book. But I saw the terror on her face when she looked down the dark corridor, lit only by a pulsating orange glow around a solid wood door. We could hear sounds of snarling, then whimpering, then chewing. The gnashing of teeth was ravenous and wet. Ugh, that must have been one of the Shawns in sales asking for a raise. Poor guy.

Alanna steeled herself and headed down the hall. I wished her luck and gave her a double thumbs up. She immediately vomited, collected herself, and reciprocated my confident gesture.

When I last asked for a new contract, I didn’t even get to see Station Management. I had an appointment that morning before my show, and I was nervous, but prepared to talk to them about my value to this radio station and community. Before I could even make it down the hall, the floor tore open. There was a burst of flame, and a crow about the size of a skateboard flew up and handed me a piece of paper. It was a new contract. I had apparently already signed it.

Then arms, many arms, grabbed me from behind. Someone put a hood over my head, and someone else injected me with something. When I woke up, I was lying in the middle of the scrublands. My phone was dead and my shoes were missing. I walked across hot, sharp stones for 20 miles until I reached my home. And when I walked in the door, Carlos and all my friends were throwing me a surprise party to celebrate my contract renewal. It was one of the happiest days of my life. But I never wanted to go through negotiations with Station Management again. That’s why I hired Alanna this year.

Speaking of whom… It’s been quiet. Too quiet. She’s been in Station Management’s office a long time, and I haven’t heard….

Oh god was that a scream? I think that’s a scream. It sounds like Alanna. Listeners, I…

It stopped. She stopped. The noise has died away. Or… oh dear… or Alanna has.

###

And now a public service announcement.

My fellow Americans, today’s political climate is rife with government and corporate confluence and corruption. And who is truly looking out for the people that make this country what it is? Who’s looking out for you and me, the citizens of this nation?

That’s right, The Council for Food is. The Council for Food is an independent, private shadow enterprise, based in an unmapped Caribbean island whose only interest is spreading the word of Food.

Yes, you heard that right: Food. The ingestion of food is vital for survival. Studies show that those who do not eat food are all dead, which studies also show is directly correlated to them not eating food.

Well, the Council for Food promotes the eating of food, things like cereal or blackened catfish. The Council for Food discourages people from eating non-food, things like Styrofoam and guns.

Wait, stop right now, Harrison Kip! Were you about to eat that silica gel packet you got in your Pampered Chef delivery? Don’t do it, Mister Kip! Silica gel is not food. Eat some mustard instead. Mustard is shown to be at least 64.8% food.

Good work.

You, concerned listener, must have many questions. Let’s answer them all:

- Are drinks food? Yes and no.

- Can I give my children food? Yes. All people can and should eat food.

- Where is the food? Food is everywhere that food can be found.

- I receive all my nutrients intravenously. Is that considered eating food? Yes, as long as those nutrients have been approved and delivered by a doctor.

- Is gum food? Oooh, we’ll get back to you on that one.

So start eating food today, Night Vale!

Food: it’s the best thing you can eat.

This message has been brought to you by The Council for Food.

###

Okay, I’m texting Alanna. I’m trying to call her, too, but there’s no response, listeners. I fear the worst. I’m going to be a brave Cecil and go rescue her from the deadly grip of Station Management’s claws or jaws, or whatever those things are they have on their necks.

I’ve got the wireless mic, and I’m coming down the hall. The orange glow around their office door is mild. Maybe everyone’s in a good mood. Maybe they’re just working out the finer details of the contract. Like vacation time, religious holidays, and more cat treats in the station restrooms.

I’m sure it’s all fine I’m…. Oh my god.

Listeners there something oozing from underneath the door. It’s glistening and dark red. It’s flowing now, not oozing. It’s gushing. It’s splashing! Nope! Nope! Nope!

Absolutely not. I’m coming back to my desk right now, where I belong. God rest your soul, Alanna McTavish, or maybe good luck, depending on your current plane of existence. But I cannot – will not – be going back there again. Under any circumstances. Contract or no.

###

And now, financial news.

The stock market is wild today. A real roller coaster of emotions. A real seesaw of feelings. A real elevator of sensations. Up and down the market goes, and sometimes left and right. Front and back. The market is in three dimensions. Four, even.

The DOW Jones Industrial average gained two more commas, but not in the number. The commas appeared suddenly in the middle of the word Jones. “J,ONE,S.” Investors are dead quiet, as the Fed announced that they were raising interest rates on the English language. Who does that?, one banker shouted before being tackled, shushed, and ultimately gagged by several other panicked traders.

The New York Stock Exchange in lower Manhattan is throbbing with activity. Literally. The building itself is expanding and collapsing like the throat of a bullfrog in mating season.

The CEO of Wells Fargo, who is a weasel, and here I mean that metaphorically. Just a lying jerk, that CEO. They’re not actually a weasel, of course. The CEO of Wells Fargo is, in fact, a rat, literally a rodent in a wood-chip-strewn aquarium in a Chico State dorm room. Anyway, the CEO of Wells Fargo said they will pivot from personal and private banking to jetski rentals beginning in Quarter Two. So if you’ve got any money saved at Wells Fargo, you’re in luck, because you can now redeem it for a two-for-one ride at their new Charleston location, down by Pier 83, next to the tamale truck.

This has been finance.

###

Well, this is a surprise. Dr. Janet Lubelle, and all of her terrible University of What It Is cronies have arrived here at the radio station. Dr. Lubelle’s henchman, Blake Jones, demanded the archived audio from March 15, 2013. That was the day Dana Cardinal killed her double right here in the studio, while I was on the air.

I told Dr. Jones and Dr. Lubelle that all of our archives are held in Station Management’s office, which is the truth. Dr. Jones sneered and said, “Where is this office?”

“Oh, let me show you,” I offered with a smile. But Dr. Lubelle said with faux kindness, “No. You have a radio show to do, Mr. Gershwin-Palmer. We can find it, if you just point the way.”

And so I did. And now the entire staff of the University of What It Is is in the office of Station Management, the most savage beasts this side of librarians. [trying to hide his glee] Oh, I wish I could see what Station Management is going to do to them. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for Night Vale. I could get a pay CUT, and I’d still be thrilled with Station Management for finally taking care of Dr. Lubelle once and for all.

Though, I’m not looking forward to cleaning up the mess when they’re done. Still, glorious news, Night Vale. Glorious news!

And now, the weather.

###WEATHER###

Terrible news, Night Vale. Terrible news. Dr. Lubelle and her fellow scientists emerged unscathed from Station Management’s offices. They were holding an audio reel marked “March 15, 2013.”

They were astonished at how easy it was to find the archived recording of that show. But they were even more astonished at the condition of Station Management’s office.

“It was like finding ruins, but almost perfectly preserved,” Blake Jones said. And then he asked me, “How long has this station been running without management?”

I didn’t understand. I explained to them about the horrifying noises, the glowing light under the door, and how no human is allowed to look directly at Station Management. That they’ve already eaten one of the Shawns from sales, and possibly even my agent.

There was a long pause, and then Dr. Lubelle laughed. After a beat all the other university sycophants laughed along with her.

Dr. Lubelle said, “Oh, Cecil. Your ‘station management’ is just an orange lava lamp that’s been plugged in for god knows how long. And the noises were a Halloween sound effects cassette running on a loop. There’s no one in that office, and there hasn’t been for decades.”

I stammered. Something about contract renewal. And about the fire and the floor opening up and the crow. And Blake Jones said, “You definitely have a crow infestation. We also see signs of foundation damage here, too.”

I said, “Wait. Did you find my agent, Alanna McTavish, in there?”

They said they saw no one else in the office. Then Blake Jones began typing on his phone. He turned the screen to me and said, “Cecil, I just looked that name up. Alanna McTavish died twenty years ago. Here’s her obituary.”

There she was, just as they said. Alanna McTavish, dead at age 97, April 1, 2003.

Dr. Lubelle looked at me with real pity. “Mr. Gershwin-Palmer, you seem disturbed. Your perceived reality has been shattered, hasn’t it?” I was waiting for a cease-fire from these people, or at least an apology. They’d already killed Sarah Sultan. They killed the Glow Cloud. And now, Station Management. I feared Station Management, yes, I did not like them, but they were MY Station Management.

Dr. Lubelle did not back off, nor did she apologize. She said, “We’d love to study this confused brain of yours. Come down to the university tomorrow morning, for some… tests.” At this, one of the scientists snickered.

“How dare you?” I shouted. “Get out!”

And they did without incident, but before they got out the door, Dr. Jones turned back and said, “Oh, we found this.” And he handed me a document.

It was my contract, renewed for another 5 years, with a TWENTY-PERCENT raise.

Dr. Jones said, “That’s your handwriting, isn’t it, Cecil? Couldn’t be Station Management’s handwriting. They don’t even exist. They’ve been…. Well… They’ve been explained.”

After they left, I stood at the open door of Station Management’s office. I had never been there before with open eyes. It was covered in mounds of dust and cobwebs. There were no footprints or any indication that anyone had been in there for at least 40 years. Who was Station Management? How do I even begin to mourn them? How will City Council mourn them? I dread even thinking about the depths of their sorrow.

Why, with all the pain Station Management has put me through, should I grieve their death? Maybe I’m scared thinking of running this radio station on my own. Maybe I loved them, like a really difficult family member.

Or maybe I’m frightened for my town. Who’s next to be explained away? Sheriff Sam? Dana? Big Rico? Teddy Williams? [gasp!] Me? Carlos?

No! I can’t think about these things. I must do what I do best, and that is broadcast. Night Vale, this is your newly re-signed radio host. In fact, this is your brand new Station Manager. And I am calling on each and every one of you to close your doors to the University of What It Is. Do not rent them a lab. Do not give them a hotel room. Do not even offer them a glass of water. They must learn that they are not welcome here.

Stay tuned next for the sound of tears barely audible over the roar of a vacuum cleaner.

As always, Good night, night vale. Good night.

###

PROVERB: Call me old-fashioned, but I believe the universe was better when it was a dense, single point.