[Production Note: add audio glitch fx on bolded “Mother Lauren” mentions; the first time, it’s extra strong—lesser intensity/variations on subsequent mentions]

You are my sunshine. My only sunshine. Without you, darkness would shroud the earth leading to the mass extinction of all life as we know it. Please don’t take my sunshine away.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Wow. It’s a beautiful day out there, isn’t it, listeners? I’m not talking about the weather, obviously it’s not time to talk about the weather yet. I’m talking about the town cleansing project that’s been underway for the last week or so. A citywide cleanup event sponsored by our very own Mother Lauren. Our strange benefactress who slid through the portal from the Desert Otherworld one day and started changing hearts and minds. Literally rearranging the cellular content of our most vital organs using beams of amber-tinted light shooting from the tips of her fingers. As well as toppling our buildings and razing entire city blocks that were no longer serving us. Establishments that had outlived their purpose. Places that were not sparking joy.

Now, I’m not trying to sugarcoat anything. I know there’s been some concern. Some protesting. Some uprising. And that’s exactly why Mother Lauren has erected Smiling God worship centers in the charred remnants of the former Ralph’s, Arby’s, and Michael’s craft store. With so much upheaval and unrest going on, what if you could just…feel okay about it? Wouldn’t it be better to stare at a golden idol, relax, let your eyes roll slowly backwards until only the whites are showing, and let your mouth fall open into a big, warm, welcoming smile?

On a personal note, I’m especially pleased to see the changes in the Boy from Grove Park, also known as the young version of Kevin from Desert Bluffs. He used to be so lost, both literally and metaphorically. Now he’s really growing up before our eyes, both literally and metaphorically. He’s become much more mature as well as several feet taller. And I’m happy to report that he is no longer holding any knives. Though his teeth are now extremely long and sharp, so he’s basically holding 28 knives, they’re just all inside his mouth.

Mother Lauren has been a true mentor to the boy, and has really taken him under her wing. Under her enormous, oil-slick colored wing. The wing that beats the worship drums at sunset and sunrise. The wing that blows gales of sand through the streets, purging the debris from collapsed homes and buildings. The howling gusts that carry an undercurrent of singing voices, of weeping, of blissful delirium.

The boy nestles there, in the pocket of that wing, growing and smiling and nodding along in agreement to something that only he can hear. We are all very proud of him.

In other news, all coffeeshops in the Barista District are now serving Pup Cups! Those foamy delights made of whipped beef tallow are once again available to your furry friends. Feel their ravenous delight when you place the cup before them. Witness their slavering mandibles plunging with more enthusiasm than you’ve ever felt for anything in your entire life. Question why that is. Did you make bad choices? Or is it more of a general human problem, the curse of having a brain capable of comprehending the endless horrors of existence, that really dulls the enjoyment of life’s simple pleasures?

Your dog doesn’t have that problem. Your dog lives in the moment, feels every sensation to the fullest, and barely remembers yesterday. With the Pup Cup, you can live vicariously through their uncomplicated joy. You can at least be happy for them. And envious? Definitely. In fact, you will get such a rush of jealousy from seeing their euphorically-chomping, foam-flecked muzzles that you might feel the desire to try the Pup Cup for yourself—despite the cautionary flyers posted all over the Barista District warning against this very thing. The Pup Cup is NOT intended for human consumption. If this line is crossed, the natural order will be disturbed. There will be consequences.

But luckily, self care isn’t just for dogs. The newest addition to downtown is the Hazy Mirage Tanning Salon, Night Vale’s only maximum security spa—for maximum relaxation.

A full-service dirt football field surrounded by glaring white concrete walls and loops of concertina wire ensures a private experience of uninterrupted you-time. Give up your phones, clothing, and all other personal items at the door and enter the locked shadeless compound for your day of serenity. Emerge hours, or possibly years, later with a deep, fully baked color and a completely new mindset. Even your closest friends and family will barely recognize you after just one session at the Hazy Mirage. Your physical appearance and personality will have undergone such radical changes, you may not even recognize yourself anymore. That’s because you’ve become a small, living piece of the sun here on Earth. You have submitted to its power, and in turn, it has bestowed upon you great and terrible gifts.

Hazy Mirage Tanning Salon. Let the Sunshine In.

And yes, as you may have suspected, that was an advertisement and not actual news, but they paid extra to be featured in the headlines, so… kind of the same thing.

In real news, I’m getting word from my reliable (and extremely handsome) source in the Science District—my husband Carlos—that the portal inside his lab is now making a soft hissing noise. He’s unclear whether it’s more of a powerline buzz or a carbonated soft drink fizz or something closer to television static, but he is doing rigorous testing to determine the most accurate simile for the sound.

As bystanders gather around to watch Carlos pour colored liquids into different beakers, I’m getting reports that a distant figure is approaching from the other side of the portal. The figure is at first a smudge. Then a shadow. Then a silhouette. As it gets closer, the noise becomes louder.

Carlos has now concluded that the noise most closely resembles air escaping from a punctured tire. Or possibly a steam radiator. Maybe a large snake.

As the sound reaches the intensity of a million wasps, give or take, the dark figure becomes clear. It is Kevin. He is not smiling. He does not sit down calmly on his side of the portal, as he did last time.

“This just won’t do,” is all he says.

With the sound of a screaming tea kettle, he steps through the portal into Carlos’s lab.

Every test tube, graduated cylinder, and Erlehnmeyer flask shatters in an instant. The computer monitors split apart like liquid crystal fault lines. The windows explode both outward and inward.

“Oh geez,” Carlos was overheard to comment.

Kevin pays no attention to the scientist who is rummaging through the closet for a broom. He walks past him, through the shards of glass, out the door and onto the street. He stands there as if waiting for someone. Or possibly the bus. The 12 stops outside Big Rico’s Pizza, as does the streetcar. While we wait to see who or what Kevin is waiting for, let’s go to a word from our sponsors.

Well, this is an unusual treat. Our sponsor today is actually a local nonprofit organization. I don’t even know how that works. Shouldn’t someone be sponsoring them or-? Anyway, it’s a pleasure to be associated with a group that’s doing positive work in our community.

Charities for a Smiling God is Night Vale’s newest donation center. Bring all your old functional weapons down to the big yellow drop box at Somerset and Main, for charitable reasons.

Whether you’re able to donate or not, Charities for a Smiling God wants to take this opportunity to share the good word. That word is teeth. It’s a really good word, isn’t it? Teeth. Teeeeeth. Chompers. Smilers. Show-bones. Happy squares. Jaw candy.

Show us your teeth. Give us your weapons. We are always watching.

Now, traffic.

This weekend, the cineplex is hosting a 24-and-a-half year anniversary screening of Steven Soderbergh’s classic multi-narrative film about international cat smuggling. This landmark movie shed light on the complicated relationship between the United States and Mexico as related to their mutual reliance on the illegal kitten husbandry industry. It’s a smart, unflinching, and downright adorable portrayal of damaged lives and toxic politics, all told through family-friendly animation and incredibly realistic gore. Be sure to stick around afterward for a Q&A with actor Lee Marvin in attendance. While he was not in the film, he has a lot of opinions about it. Not all of them are favorable.

This has been traffic.

Back to our top story.

From across town, a great and thunderous wailing. It reverberates off of buildings and streets. It destroys our ability to concentrate on anything else. It comes from the deepest depths—though from the depths of what, we do not know.

What we do know is that Kevin was not waiting for a bus. He was waiting for himself. Specifically his younger self, also known as the Boy from Grove Park. And that boy has just arrived via the streetcar, which lets off in front of Big Rico’s Pizza.

As the boy hops off the trolley, the wailing ceases. The hissing sound from the portal ceases. Now there is a great and thunderous silence that reverberates off of buildings and streets and destroys our ability to concentrate on anything else. From all over town, we can hear their conversation, though it is spoken in low tones and meant only for themselves.

“I told you I would be ready for you next time,” the boy says.

“And I told you I wouldn’t be alone,” older Kevin says.

No one knows what older Kevin means by this, as he does appear to be quite alone.

“I’m the one who is not alone,” Younger Kevin says, his eyes aflame with amber light, his body stretching another foot taller. A towering shadow falls across the street, shielding young Kevin from the sun. Older Kevin grimaces.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” Older Kevin says, his eyes fixed on the shadow now instead of the boy.

“Of course not,” Young Kevin agrees. “You came here to be destroyed.”

Young Kevin raises his hand up, his fingers glowing and hypnotic. Older Kevin opens his mouth to speak again, but no words come out. His mouth just continues to open and open and open, falling into a gaping smile of his own needle-sharp teeth. Without another word, he crumples to the ground in front of the number 12 bus stop.

Mother Lauren steps from behind Big Rico’s, beaming down at the boy. He beams back up at her.

As they gaze into each other’s impossibly long eyes, a chill passes individually through every person in Night Vale. A chill that numbs each of us to inaction. We sit or stand perfectly still, listening to the distant sounds of buildings collapsing and streets buckling. Smelling smoke and acid. Our jaws loosening. Opening. Smiling.

Until another shadow falls across the street. One resembling a distorted tripod. Everyone in town simultaneously turns to look toward the new silhouette at the end of the block. We gape vacantly at the form of three small human beings, their fists raised together in the air to form a tiny pyramid.

Listeners, it is none other than Alejandra Nuñez, Ronnie Sharma, and Nanako (NAH-nuh-koh) Barnes of Mr. Prescott’s 5th Period AP English Class. The tweens who so bravely vanquished the villainous librarians at the East Side branch opening all those months ago. The child warriors who faded from the limelight due to their focus on homework and standardized testing and extracurricular reading. The heroes we forgot we even had—who are now, as of 3:00 o’clock today, on summer break.

“We’re not gonna let you ruin our vacation, lady,” Ronnie addresses the entity who is not exactly a lady, but is somewhat lady-shaped. The three break their pyramid fist, then fan out, blocking off their end of the street.

Mother Lauren spreads her wings, of which there are many, blocking off the other end of the street. Her mouth that is smiling laughs. Her mouth that is frowning screeches like a freight train.

The Boy from Grove Park reaches up and holds her hand.

The two small groups advance toward one another.

More on this after a brief public service announcement.

With so much confrontation in the air, the Night Vale Psychological Association wishes to present an alternative option: Avoidance. Have you thought about maybe just not? Avoidance has a bad reputation but it actually has numerous health benefits. Avoidance has been proven to lower stress hormones and raise antioxidant levels. It even contains lycopene, a superfood chemical previously thought to exist mainly in tomatoes.

When faced with conflict, it’s natural to become reactive. The Psychological Association recommends closing your eyes instead. Clear your mind. Turn around. Walk away. Don’t look back.

Feels good, doesn’t it?

Now back to the chaos and warfare at hand, with a statement by Councilmember Tamika Flynn.

TAMIKA: Hi everyone. It’s me, Councilmember Flynn. First of all, I wholeheartedly endorse the words we just heard from the fine folks at the Night Vale Psychological Association. I know things are a bit tense right now. And it’s only natural to respond to violence with violence. I’m speaking specifically to my young friends, the Library Tweens. I’ve been where you are. And I know how super satisfying attacking evil can be, especially when you’re using your fists and feet and weapons and brains all together in a perfect cocktail of absolute annihilation. Yep, there is literally nothing better than that feeling.

But I want to reassure everyone that I’m working hard on passing a comprehensive legislation package to stop Mother Lauren from destroying our town, have everyone extradited back to their own realities, and close the portal down for good. Okay, friends? So just sit tight, avoid, relax, and wait.

Oh, and Young Kevin, please come home. I’m making mac and cheese sandwiches for dinner. I know that’s your favorite. Okay, bud?

Everyone else: we’re gonna get through this together. I promise.

But first, the weather.

[Weather]

CECIL: Listeners, while I found Councilmember Flynn’s statement compelling, it turns out the Library Tweens did not feel that way at all. Their favorite teacher Mr. Prescott insists that they are usually very obedient kids in the classroom who have a lot of respect for adult authority within reason. But on summer vacation, all bets are off.

Despite Tamika’s call for nonviolent and lawful solutions, I am reporting to you now that violence is occurring. Like, a lot of violence. I will try to describe the battle unfolding on our streets as accurately as I can, with the caveats that I don’t actually understand what I’m witnessing, I can’t tell what’s right or wrong anymore, and I have no way to gauge who’s winning or losing.

You know how in summer camp movies, there’s always a food fight scene that makes no real sense in terms of anyone’s motivations or alliances, and it’s just a complete mess for the sake of messiness? That’s kinda what I’m seeing out there right now. Except instead of mashed potatoes and pudding flying around, it’s blood and viscera. Sometimes farm animals. Cars. Office furniture.

A little bit of mashed potatoes.

But it’s not just Mother Lauren versus the Library Tweens. The town has been divided, and everyone is pitted against each other, fighting for one side or the other.

And I’m getting word that there’s now a third faction emerging, which is mostly made up of turkey vultures who were drawn into town by the smell of fresh carrion. And, yes, there are some human defectors who have abandoned whatever side they were previously on and are now fighting on the side of the vultures as well.

In fact, I don’t think there’s actually anyone out there listening to the radio anymore. Nearly everyone has taken up arms, left their houses and workplaces, and joined whatever cause they believe in. Or think they believe in. Or want to believe in. Or were forced to believe in.

Stay tuned for the end of something and the beginning of something else.

I would say good night, Night Vale…But if a tree falls in the forest, you know?