Unlicensed Ep 1 - The Detective of Citrus Ave

Hey y'all, it is Jeffrey Kraner speaking to you from the year 2025.

And did you know that Welcome to Night Vale is back out on tour?

We are.

We're gonna be up in the northeast in the Boston, New York City area, going all the way over to the upper Midwest in Minnesota.

That's in July.

You kind of draw a line through there and you'll kind of see the towns we'll be hitting.

We'll also be doing Philly down to Florida in September.

And we'll be going from Austin all the way up through the middle of the country into Toronto, Canada in October.

And then we'll be doing the west coast plus the southwest plus Colorado in January of 2026.

You can find all of the show dates at welcome to nightvale.com/slash live.

Listen, this brand new live show is so much fun.

It is called Murder Night in Blood Forest, and it stars Cecil Baldwin, of course, Symphony Sanders, me, and live original music by Disparition, and who knows what other special guests may come along for the ride.

These tours are always so much fun, and they are for you, the Die Hard fan, and you, the Night Vale new kid alike.

So, feel comfortable bringing your family, your partner, your co-workers, your cat, whatever.

They don't gotta know what a night veil is to like the show.

Tickets to all of these live shows are on sale now at welcometonightvell.com/slash live.

Don't let time slip away and miss us when we are in your town because otherwise we will all be sad.

Get your tickets to our live US plus Toronto tours right now at welcometonightveld.com/slash live.

And hey, see you soon.

Summer is turning to fall, which frankly, rude of summer to do.

But don't worry, Quince is here with fall staples that will last for many falls to come.

We're talking cashmere, denim.

This is quality that holds up at a price that you frankly just won't believe.

We're talking super soft, 100% Mongolian cashmere sweaters, which sounds like the kind of item that you need a credit check to even imagine, and it starts at just $60.

Plus, Quince partners directly with Ethical Factories, so you get top-tier top-tier fabrics and craftsmanship at half the price.

I got an adorable dress for my daughter, which she helped pick out.

She wore it at her first day of school.

She loves that dress.

It has pockets, if you know, you know.

I also got myself a mulberry silk sleeping mask, and every night since has been a luxury, I have never gotten better sleep than with mulberry silk draped upon my eyes.

Experience what it must be like to be wealthy without having to, you know, have a bank account that doesn't make you wince when you check it.

Keep it classic and cool this fall with long-lasting staples from Quince.

Go to quince.com slash nightfail for free shipping on your order and 365 day returns.

That's quince.com slash nightfail.

Free shipping and 365 day returns.

Quince.com slash nightfail.

Oh, I am so excited for this one.

Today, we are proud to present present the first episode of the first fiction podcast created by me, Joseph Fink, and my Nightvale co-creator Jeffrey Kraner, since welcome to Nightvale.

It is called Unlicensed, and we are about to play you the first episode.

This is a project that is very close to my heart, and one that we have been working on for years.

So many years.

Unlicensed is an LA detective story about two unlicensed private investigators, Lou and Molly, who operate on the fringes of the system, scraping by with the cases too small or weird for the big firms downtown, until one day they stumble on a case that leads them to a ransom and a murder and a strange new wellness center hidden deep in the hills.

This case is way over their heads, but there is no one else around to solve it.

It stars Molly Quinn, who you might recognize as the voice of the number station and Faye on Nightfale, and Lucia Struss, who is an incredible stage actor and also a former Nightvale guest voice, and T.L.

Thompson, voice of Lee Marvin on Nightvale.

There are also so many other great voices.

On this first episode, you might recognize the voice of Jason Siegel.

That was very exciting to get.

And no less exciting, Robin Virgini, voice of Radio Jupiter on Nightvale.

All 12 episodes of the first season are available right now only on Audible.

There is a free trial, so...

Feel free to use that free trial to listen to it.

However, there are a ton of really interesting other shows on Audible Audible that I have spent the last two years listening to, and so I will be sharing some of my personal recommendations after this episode if you want to stick around and explore those.

Get your free trial of Audible and listen to the entire first season of Unlicensed right now at audible.com/slash unlicensed.

That's audible.com/slash unlicensed.

To listen to all 12 episodes of this show right now,

and now, here is the first episode of Unlicensed.

Okay, okay.

Let's try to make this quick.

I'm supposed to be serving the people of California, not answering questions about gossip and innuendo.

Governor, how do you respond to the allegations brought forth by Ms.

Rosen and Ms.

Hatch?

Everyone knows their names all of a sudden.

Lou Rosen and Molly Hatch.

Boy, they must love being famous now.

Well, I can only tell you what I would tell any citizen of this great state who asked.

We take all major allegations seriously, even if it weren't a month before the election.

What these two claim to have found is dead serious.

If, and I say if, even half of what they claim is true, then Lou Rosen and Molly Hatch have stumbled into one of the most outrageous crimes in this state's history.

If you believe them.

Unlicensed, episode one,

the detective of Citrus Avenue.

Five weeks before the governor's press conference, a passenger jet on its way to Tokyo, or Sydney, or Oklahoma City, rolls up from the LAX tarmac, and within seconds, it's hundreds of feet above the Pacific Ocean.

From the window of the jet, passengers can see the placid harbor of Marina del Rey.

As the jet turns and the full stretch of the city swings into view, they can see farther east to the winding streets of Ladera Heights, one of the few affluent neighborhoods where black people could live in relative safety for a lot of the last century.

Beyond that, Inland and east, past chain-link fences and billboards for weed delivery, past shops that fix auto-glass and stores that sprawl half their inventory out along the sidewalk, and still further, all the way to Vernon, a city of 113 people just south of downtown Los Angeles.

Full of warehouses and factories and not a single public park.

From Vernon, through the railroad exchanges of commerce, through the sunny shopping streets of Pasadena, and then a little farther east still,

until the last bit of LA excitement has drained away, and all that's left is the desert and the cul-de-sacs.

All the way to Azusa, A to Z in the USA.

Gateway to the inland empire.

Here we find, in a narrow parking spot, in the cracked lot of a half-vacant strip mall on Citrus Avenue, a 2011 Toyota Corolla.

Stepping out of the teal green sedan is a woman who keeps her hand on the car door for 30 long seconds, debating whether she should move forward or get back inside and start the long drive west again.

I breathe slowly as my hand lingers on the car.

I'm scared to move forward, but I don't leave because I don't want to get back on the five at rush hour.

I finally let my hand fall and I take a good look around me.

There's a Mexican restaurant and an accountant, three empty storefronts, and then another that looks empty except the paper that has been taped on the inside of the glass door.

The paper says, Private investigator, affordable rates.

I count to three:

One, one thousand,

two, one thousand,

three, one thousand.

I step up, knock on the door, and a flurry of a woman answers.

I say, I'm here about the ad, assistant to a PI.

She has no idea what I'm talking about, and she's leaning against the door like all she wants to do is close it.

I wish she would.

Instead, she invites me in with a shrug.

The office is a narrow room packed with papers and binders.

Her desk is a slight mound in the unbroken clutter.

It looks like the contents of an entire office building fell on her desk all at once.

The woman waves at everything around her and says, Rosen.

Whatever explanation she was trying to offer for this disaster, I do not understand it.

She repeats, Rosen.

She asks if I'm confused because I look confused.

And then I see a nameplate on the corner of the desk sitting askew, half hanging off the edge.

It reads, Detective Lou Rosen.

Detective Rosen, I say.

I'm Molly Hatch.

And we shake hands.

Her skin is softer than I expected.

I vaguely remember putting up the ad.

I vaguely remember everything.

That's my problem.

When it's right in front of me, I can see it so clearly.

I see the shape of it, turn it around in my head.

Even complicated cases fall easily into place when I'm looking at them.

But I can't remember what I already know.

I figure it all out and then lose track of the answer.

My head is as cluttered as this office, and that's pretty fucking cluttered.

I know.

I do know that.

I can see it as well as anyone.

I just can't seem to do anything about it.

I tell this new girl, I forget her name, I'm in the middle of a case right now.

You can assist me with that.

She says something about expecting an interview, but I tell her no, or yeah, but later.

She looks disappointed or relieved.

I can't tell.

Right now, we have a case.

An insurance company hired an investigative firm called McGovern Security and Research.

They're based downtown.

And then McGovern Security, or more specifically, an agent of theirs named Grady Lamb, subcontracted to me.

McGovern Security is too busy gathering evidence on unfaithful millionaires and protecting celebrities to deal with a piddling life insurance case like this.

Plus, Grady is an old friend.

He likes me and he knows I need the work.

The girl interrupts to ask why the insurance companies don't hire me directly.

It's complicated, I tell her, her, although it isn't.

She nods as though she knows it isn't.

Then she asks, how far along I am into the case.

Well, that's the thing, I say.

I already figured it out, I'm pretty sure, but I kind of lost track of the evidence.

It's here somewhere.

I gesture to the cosmos of paper around us.

We'll just have to find out what I already found out.

Gary Ross, age 41, was fishing with his wife, Amy Ross, 35, at the Azusa River Wilderness Park.

It was a weekend of heavy rains, and the San Gabriel River flowed hard.

It was, perhaps,

inadvisable to fish in such fast-moving water, but Gary was a stubborn man, and Amy had learned the hard way not to argue with him.

Gary's drowned body was found a mile downstream, half submerged and ensnared in thick wild grass.

According to Amy, he waded too far into the river and lost his footing.

She said the rain-swollen current took him away so fast that it didn't feel real until she ran after him and that same current tugged greedily at her ankles.

She said that it was a miracle.

She didn't end up floating down after him.

The police dropped the case.

For lack of evidence pointing to murder, these kinds of tragedies happen more often than folks like to think.

But Gary had a life insurance policy, and the insurance company is always motivated to wriggle out of their obligations.

And so they hired McGovern Security and Research, the slickest and most expensive of the downtown PI agencies.

Of course, the dirty secret of McGovern's security is they take on far more cases than they have personnel to handle.

And when that happens, they subcontract.

Lou Rosen is not high on their list of subcontractors, but sometimes their overflow reaches the point where they will give her a nothing case like this and pay her cash under the table as long as no one finds out that their work is being done by someone who doesn't even have.

Okay, so yes, I don't technically have a private investigator license.

It's just, you know, how these things go in California.

They have all of these requirements, one after another.

This, this, this.

And you have to apprentice with another PI, which just,

you know.

So, no, I haven't yet.

I'll get around to it.

I will.

You don't have a license.

This Twerp says in a judgy voice, and I hate that judgy voice because I agree with it completely.

Is that

even legal?

Listen.

Listen.

Listen.

Never mind.

We have a case to solve.

Or I solved it already.

I spent hours following Amy Ross, the bereaved widow, around, digging into her personal life.

All of that evidence is in here somewhere.

Probably not a murder, I say.

The new kid,

Margaret,

Melissa, squints at me like I'm an advanced calculus problem.

Almost definitely not, I say, 80% sure, and I start flinging around papers.

She gathers up the papers and puts them into neat stacks.

That's not helping me find what I need, but I don't stop her because she's eager to do something.

The river conditions, I say.

I got the river conditions from the state.

They were just here.

They were somewhere around.

She puts her hand on my hands.

It feels like the pause on a video.

I'm always so frantic.

She reached out and she stopped me.

That was good.

Sometimes I need to be stopped.

Let me look, she says, and she takes her neatly stacked piles and begins snapping them this way and that, sorting them by related topics.

It's only 30 seconds before she places a printout from the state database in my hand.

I don't thank her.

It seems wrong to thank her.

This is a job interview, isn't it?

She's the one trying to impress me, isn't she?

As usual, the situation is slipping out of my control.

Look at this, I say, to regain my authority.

Fast currents.

There had been hard rains for two days beforehand, and the river had grown swollen.

Might not have looked like much from the shore, but conditions like this can pull in an adult man when he's standing hardly above his ankles.

There's Gary, both arms full of equipment, tatering, overloaded and poorly balanced, excited to get on with his fishing vacation, and not two seconds later, swept up and drowning.

The body was found a mile downstream, which fits.

It happens.

The eager-looking woman in my office nods solemnly, befitting the tragic loss of life.

And then she says, that's it then.

No,

I say, no, there was something.

I wanted to find this paper for a reason.

God, what was the reason, though?

Everything I need is in my head.

Somewhere, but hell if I can find it.

I stare and stare at the report about the river.

And then there it is.

East, I say.

She looks at the report and says nothing.

East, I repeat, like words are chisels to jar ideas loose.

That's why I wanted this.

Why was I thinking east?

According to this, the river was flowing east.

She says.

Yes, okay, yes, but it it doesn't usually, I say, it usually flows west.

The rains had been so heavy that the river had temporarily reversed course.

Happens sometimes, but the body wasn't found a mile east.

It was found a mile west, where downstream usually is.

But a mile west that day was upstream, so the body couldn't have floated there.

I flip the paper like a frisbee at the floor because I am done with it, and so it no longer exists for me.

The young woman, Millie,

scoops it out of the air and uses some unfathomable filing system she had just developed to organize the stack she had made on a corner of my desk.

So, she says, not an accident, probably a murder.

And I begin to see the shape of it.

I begin to remember what I had already found out.

My every instinct is to leave.

The woman is a fluster, a sprawl, and I had been searching for the clean and the simple.

I've had enough mess for one life.

A family I hardly talked to in small-town Nevada.

A man in that same small town who is justifiably angry at me and still living in a half-empty apartment that we once shared.

A drinking problem I'd failed to shake three times times before I shook it for good.

Except you never shake it for good.

Now I want to start my life over.

Need to start over.

Have bills to pay, for instance.

I'm spending the last of my savings on a furnished rental in Northridge where none of the neighbors will make eye contact.

And the only businesses in walking distance is a chain office supply store that is days from going under, and a liquor store that makes, I must admit, a delicious samosa out of a little counter in the back.

And does this even seem like the kind of employer that would pay me on time?

But still,

I do not leave.

Instead, I say,

do we have any idea why Amy would want to kill her husband?

Lou says, Brother.

And I don't know whose brother?

Amy Ross's brother?

Lou Rosen's brother?

My brother?

What brother?

Her husband's brother.

Gary's brother.

Leonard Ross.

Leonard was close with his sister-in-law.

Very close.

I talked to Leonard's neighbor earlier this week.

Amy Ross visited Leonard Ross multiple times over the last couple years.

Often spent the night.

An affair, I say.

Even the word is difficult for me to form.

The word smells like sour sheets and tastes like alcohol left forgotten from the night before, then ashamedly drunk in the bleary morning.

I know that taste well.

It seems obvious.

Kill your husband, collect the life insurance, run away with his brother, your lover.

Wouldn't be the first time in human history.

Lou pulls out a notepad full of scrawled bullet points.

I ask, do we know where Leonard was when his brother, Amy's husband, died?

She madly scans the list of notes, repeating, do we, do we, do we?

She seems to be caught in another loop, and this one sends her hurtling across to a different pile, papers flying high into the air as she claws through them.

She discards her previous notes, and I see that they are just a grocery list dated three months ago.

I look behind me, the door only a few feet away.

I can see my car, the late afternoon sun winking at me off the windshield.

I decide to leave.

This isn't the right fit.

I will leave.

I am going.

But as a goodbye starts to form on my mouth and my shoulders start to turn toward the door, I glance back at this Lou Rosen.

And instead of the disheveled mind of an unlicensed PI, I see a woman drowning, up to her chest in this scatter of evidence from this and that case.

I can't do it.

Some part of me needs to help Lou up, to save her from what she has done to herself.

So I pivot reluctantly back into the room and gently take her frantic hands from the papers.

I flip through the pile until I find a document that says Ross on it.

Lou gapes at me like a child watching a magician produce a dove from her sleeve.

I examine the paper.

It's the data from Leonard's fitness tracker, I tell her.

Yeah.

Oh, yeah.

I'm not supposed to have that.

Output from those is private, but I can be convincing.

And when I'm not convincing, I can be sneaky.

I look over the report.

It had a complete location history for Leonard Ross in the 72 hours around his brother's death.

I remind myself never to wear one of those things.

He was there, I say, realizing what I'm seeing.

He was at the river when Gary died.

Lou says she knows that already.

And so I ask,

have you solved this case or or not then?

She says yes, and then no, and then yes.

She's collected all of this information and she knows she has everything she needs and that the case is solved, but she can't piece it together.

She literally cannot put all of the pieces of evidence and information into one single place.

She looks miserable.

I think this is because she's frustrated, but then I think it's because she's embarrassed.

Maybe it's both.

Okay,

I say.

Okay, so Gary, the husband, his brother Leonard was there at the river when Gary died.

This supports the theory of Leonard and Amy running away together with the insurance money.

But Lou's not looking at me.

She's digging in another pile.

Right, yes, right, except...

Right.

This.

She scrambles through her notes again, sending my neatly sorted stacks into wild showers of paper.

I say, Lou,

Detective Rosen, I'm trying to ask you a question.

She doesn't respond, not right away.

Finally, though, she stops, holds up a stack of pages with tiny, tiny print.

Except they didn't file for the insurance.

It triggered automatically when the death certificate was issued.

Neither of them has so much as checked in on the claim.

Money doesn't seem to be the motive, Maggie.

It's Molly.

Molly, that's it.

Amy's arm, I say.

Her arm, she echoes.

Somewhere in

here, I point.

And soon enough, Molly sighing and rifling through the papers with an efficiency that feels like a personal attack.

Molly finds a medical record that mentions Amy's collarbone, not the arm.

She looks again.

Dental records.

A broken tooth.

No, that was years ago.

She looks again.

The most recent.

Found it.

Yeah, her arm.

Uh, there were a lot of injuries in the last two years.

These are.

Oh my god.

They look like.

He was a real piece of shit, right?

I say about Gary Ross, age 41, possible victim of a murder, definite abuser of his wife, Amy Ross, beating her to an inch of her life on a regular basis.

Molly looks about ready ready to cry.

I did too when I first read those medical records.

Well, there's also this, I say, holding up my notes from talking to Leonard's neighbor.

I had lucked into finding those notes because I remembered they were on the back of an old grocery list.

These are the dates she stayed with her husband's brother.

And over here, I say, indicating the general vicinity of my desk where I believe additional medical records to be.

Molly quickly puts the records in chronological order and compares their dates to the dates of her visits to the brother.

Safe Harbor.

Leonard Ross took in his sister-in-law Amy every time his brother attacked her, gave her a place to stay.

They both felt despair at what your own husband or your own brother can be capable of.

Despair so deep that it could lead into fast-moving water.

He beat her one last time, Molly tells us both the story we now know, broke her arm.

So, on a fishing trip a couple weeks later, I say, on a day when the river was swollen with rain, Leonard Ross came and together with Amy Ross, they killed Gary Ross, the monster in both of their lives.

They didn't file the life insurance because they didn't do it for money.

They did it for survival.

I can't prove it, but I have enough circumstantial evidence for the insurance people.

They would take any excuse I gave them.

And I guess that is that.

Lou will call McGovern Security and Research and some lazy suit will call the insurance company, who maybe then notifies the police.

It's not right.

that Amy should be considered a murderer, but it's the way the world works.

Law and justice are the solid shores, but this case is in the middle of the wide, turbulent river.

I can only hope Amy and Leonard can afford a good lawyer.

But I'm proud of myself for helping Lou get her case together.

My life has been a lot of taking things apart lately.

It's nice to put something together at last.

But I feel less proud by the second as Lou pulls out her phone, scrolls through contacts, and hits call.

I don't want this woman to go to jail.

I don't want her to have to recount her traumas in a court just to justify her own safety.

The world is better without Gary Ross.

As Lou puts the phone to her ear, I count to myself.

1 1000.

2 1000.

3 1000.

Hey, Grady, it's Lou.

She says.

There's nothing here.

She says.

Yeah, just like like you thought.

Everything points to an accident.

She says.

Lou puts her phone away and looks at me.

I don't know if her look is a question or a statement.

I say,

it was the right thing, what you just did.

She nods, but she didn't need me to tell her that.

In the mess of piecing together the evidence, I hadn't stopped to notice how well she had put together that evidence, how easily she had made the connections.

There was a fierce mind there.

Disorganized, but astonishing.

A wide and turbulent river.

So, I say after several silent seconds,

I'm sorry I came at a bad time, but the interview?

I have my resume.

I hold it up.

A mostly empty sheet of paper, a fair record of my life to that point.

Lou waves it away.

Come back tomorrow, 9 a.m.

Nope, 10.

Nope, 11.

I want to sleep in, she says.

And I dread another drive back and forth down the five just to reschedule an interview.

Lou points to a waist-high pile of papers and says, that can be your desk.

As I stare at the mound of documents, I realize for the first time that there's some kind of office furniture beneath it.

Lou says, you'll have to clear it off first.

Maybe come in at nine.

Here's a key.

I guess I should just take the yes, but I have so many questions about pay, about benefits, hours, a job description.

Generally, there are details that need to be talked through.

I'm not good with details, she says.

Tell you what, you can figure those out for yourself tomorrow.

Don't be greedy, and I'll probably sign off on it.

I'm not very good with business either.

She holds out her hand.

I shake it.

Her skin was not as soft as I had first thought.

Thank you, I say.

Don't thank me until you've tried the job, she says.

Outside, the sky goes dark over the mountains.

The lights in the strip mall on Citrus Avenue flick on one by one.

A red sign with an accountant's name in white lettering.

The restaurant that's just called Tamale's number 21.

Across the street, the headlights of the cars lining up at the gas station send glints dancing across Lou's window.

But us, we're moving west with the sun.

Over Arcadia where the McMansions and the 1940s bungalows jostle for space as parakeets swoop from tree to tree, the descendants of escaped pets.

Over Atwater Village, where gentrified condos wedge themselves between apartments full of locals who have lived there for decades.

Over the unhoused, lining up along the LA River trying to survive.

Over the long extinct town of Edendale.

where the first big studios of Hollywood built their empires, now swallowed by Silver Lake and all all but forgotten.

Continuing west along Beverly Boulevard past the cluster of synagogues and bagel stores, men in yarmulkas and women in ankle-length dresses getting on with the business of a 3,000-year-old tradition as the cars maneuver around them to get to the grove or to the Largo Theater in West Hollywood.

And finally to the coast, a quiet beach off the Pacific Coast Highway.

Rock climbers easing their way off Point Magoo Rock, and the waves hissing over the ankles of a teenage couple who drove down from the suburbs looking for some space away from their parents, and now stand here, so completely in love, watching the last of the sunset mottle away to black.

A few miles out from these young lovers, the waves sweep against the struts of an oil platform.

Here, an oil worker pauses to take in the city along the shore.

She looks for some familiar landmark, some sign of all the millions of people she is looking at from her perch above the dark, churning sea.

But from where she stands, the whole city is just an inscrutable scattering of light.

She looks at it for only a moment,

and then she turns away and gets back to the business at hand.

This episode of Unlicensed was written by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Kraner.

It stars Molly Quinn as Molly, Lucia Struss as Lou, and T.L.

Thompson as our narrator.

with Jason Siegel as the governor and Robin Virgini as the journalist.

To hear the rest of this show, get your free trial of Audible at audible.com/slash unlicensed.

Now, I have been listening through Audible Originals over the last two years, and as promised, here are some personal recommendations of shows that I've enjoyed.

If you want to stay on Audible and keep exploring what's there, no one asked me to do this.

These are shows I chose to listen to and personally liked.

So, here we go.

Hot White Heist

is a very queer, very funny heist story that's premise is too explicit for me to even try to sketch out here.

Featuring more celebrity voices than I can list, it's the kind of show where Tony Kushner shows up as himself to give a five-minute monologue on how he thinks the story is going so far.

I Will Never Lie to You is a 70s road trip written by Bree Williams, a frequent Nightvale writer and also a writer on Unlicensed, along with James Urbaniac of Venture Brothers and Night Vale, who also stars in it.

A funny and sweet two two hours of your time.

And Romance Road Test is not fiction.

It's by the hosts of Buy the Book.

It's a very fun podcast, some of you may have listened to.

In Romance Road Test, two real Brooklyn women and their real husbands try out real romantic advice in their own relationships and record what happens.

Everyone involved is candid and charming, and it's a lot of fun.

I listened to this one in the car with my wife.

So here are all episodes of Unlicensed and a bunch of other cool shows at audible.com/slash unlicensed.

I'm Amy Nicholson, the film critic for the LA Times.

And I'm Paul Scheer, an actor, writer, and director.

You might know me from the League Veep or my non-eligible for Academy Award role in Twisters.

We love movies and we come at them from different perspectives.

Yeah, like Amy thinks that, you know, Joe Pesci was miscast in Goodfellas, and I don't.

He's too old.

Let's not forget that Paul thinks that Dune 2 is overrated.

It is.

Anyway, despite this, we come together to host Unspooled, a podcast where we talk about good movies, critical hits, fan favorites, must-sees, and in case you missed them.

We're talking Parasite the Home Alone, From Greece to the Dark Knight.

We've done deep dives on popcorn flicks.

We've talked about why Independence Day deserves a second look.

And we've talked about horror movies, some that you've never even heard of, like Kanja and Hess.

So if you love movies like we do, come along on our cinematic adventure.

Listen to Unspooled wherever you get your podcasts.

And don't forget to hit the follow button.

Hi, I'm here to tell you about Good Morning Night Vale.

Welcome to Night Vale's official recap show and unofficial best friend food podcast.

Join me, Meg Bashwiner, and fellow tri-hosts, Hal Lovelin and Symphony Sanders, as we dissect all of the cool, squishy, and slimy bits of every episode of Welcome to Night Vale.

Come for the insightful and hilarious commentary, and stay for all of the weird and wild behind-the-scenes stories.

Good morning, Nightvale, with new episodes every other Thursday.

Get it wherever you get your podcasts.

Yes, even there.