211 - Howl

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An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, an eye and a tooth for a loaf of bread.

Eyes and teeth are the new currency.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Some troubling news, listeners.

Barks Ennui, cartoon spokesdog for the Sheriff's Secret Police, has been committed.

Now, as we all know, there are good kinds of committed and less good kinds of committed.

Committed can mean being dedicated to a cause, or it can mean being part of a loving relationship.

In this particular case, Barks committed some crimes and was committed committed to the psych ward of Knightvale General Hospital.

As you may remember, the old Knightvale Asylum was shut down in favor of building a modern mental health center near Grove Park.

The city council even put together a really cool architectural model of the place.

The model has a working water feature in the courtyard and Lego figures in nurse uniforms and everything.

Unfortunately, this model was all the budget could afford.

In the meantime, meantime, the former surgical unit of Knightvale General is being used as a temporary psychiatric ward.

We don't have any surgeons anyway, said Suzanne Thurgood, publicity director for the Knale Medical Board, as she casually threw old scalpels at a tree in the forest.

Plenty of surgeries, sure, but no surgeons.

Each word was punctuated by the soft thump of another scalpel sinking into the tree's flesh, sap oozing from hundreds of tiny entry wounds.

And each of those marks spelling out vertically down the trunk the phrase, love

is death.

But that's another story.

This story, our top story, began on Friday morning.

Bark's ennui woke that morning as he usually did with a sharp gasp of anxiety.

He took his job as public safety ambassador seriously.

Even when he was sleeping, he understood that the security of Night Vale rested on his shoulders.

That's how it felt to him anyway.

He often found himself restless at night, compelled to monitor citizens through their TV screens to make sure that they were staying safe.

When Barks did sleep, he had nightmares.

and would wake with an involuntary jerk of his paws.

He couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible was about to happen.

Barks swallowed several crudely drawn aspirin from a cup of black coffee.

There were dark circles under his eyes.

Even his fur, normally a cheery yellow, looked dull and greasy.

The production team at the studio where he recorded his PSAs would be annoyed about that.

He nervously recalled the words of a recent ad he had done.

New study shows unpleasant thoughts can burn holes in your gray matter.

Woof woof.

And so he rolled the dark ball of dread to the back of his mind and drifted through the static to work.

You late again, Barks,

the assistant director informed him and then scolded him.

Bad, bad.

Barks only nodded and accepted the day's script pages in his teeth.

He felt tired already.

But he closed his eyes, rolled the red ball of cooperation forward in his mind, and began to learn his lines.

Suddenly, the fur along his spinal ridge stood at an end.

A low rumble like distant thunder reverberated in his throat.

The air directly in front of him was wavy and mottled, like TV static.

He normally found static comforting, but it shouldn't be here, not in this realm.

Static belongs inside the TV.

Never, ever, outside.

Barks yelped three quick expressions of alarm.

Well there, it's just me, Deb.

I'm here recording an ad for Darlar Tigrant.

How could Barks have mistaken Deb, so clearly a sentient patch of haze, for a sinister leak of static?

Not to mention the fact that they had a history.

Maybe not a dramatic one, but they'd run into each other at the studio once before.

They'd gotten to talking, decided to meet up for a happy hour at Rocklands, the bar annex attached to the pancake house.

After a few drinks, they even decided to leave together.

But once they emerged from the dark tavern into the bright sunlight, They both thought the better of it.

He still remembered how impeccably translucent she looked that evening as she faded into an undulating heat shimmer on the horizon.

Listen, Barks, we need to talk.

Deb pulled him into the corridor.

Her haze sparkled with bits of green light from the exit sign, making her look soft, like the fuzz on a new tennis ball.

Barks felt something stir within him briefly.

like it had that afternoon at Rocklands.

You're going to be replaced, Barks.

I overheard some of the sheriff's deputies talking.

When Barks asked her why, Deb said, quote, you aren't playing ball, Barks.

They throw the ball.

You catch the ball.

That's how ball is played.

It's a metaphor.

But sometimes the sheriff also likes to literally play ball.

And you're not playing ball.

Figuratively or otherwise.

He tried to press her for more details, but Deb was called back to set for another take.

More on this story but first a word from our sponsors.

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Thanks, Deb.

In local news, Night Vale television station KQQQ Channel 2 is upgrading to a digital broadcast signal at midnight tonight.

This should not cause any issues for you viewers.

No issues whatsoever.

No one should even notice it happening.

No one should understand what it even means.

Sometimes local television programming is like that.

Tasteless, odorless, invisible, insidious, microbial, crawling, nesting, feasting.

Sometimes the television watches you.

Frederick Nietzsche said that.

Except it already had caused issues, listeners.

And those issues started on Friday night, with Barks enui.

When Barks returned home that evening, he found a notice about the digital tower upgrade.

The old tower would be shut down, which meant he would have to vacate his analog static and find a new place to live.

On top of everything else, he was being evicted.

Barks could exist in many mediums.

Broadcast signals, the physical realm, transdimensional space-time, but the soft rush of static, the murmur of Earth noise and alien communication, that was his home.

He loved his static.

Analog static was where he felt safe and happy.

Barks sat for a long time, simply feeling the cosmic radiation tingle and pulse and breathe throughout his body.

And then

something happened.

Two words bubbled up through the inky darkness of his mind like a psychic message.

A name.

Lenny Laserdisc.

Lenny Laserdisc, as longtime Nightvale residents may recall, was the grimacing hand-drawn figure from the old U-View video store labels.

Back in the 90s, we always abided by his cute little warning, rewind or regret.

And sometimes, depending on the year, rewind or repent, rewind or revenge, rewind or reptiles.

That last one doesn't sound so bad, but anyone who forgot to rewind during that period can tell you, if they have any of their tongue left, it was one of the worst of all.

As the only two cartoon mascots in Nightvale, Barks and Lenny had known each other a long time.

They even teamed up in 1991 for a children's special called DARE,

Drone Anti-Aircraft Retaliation Education, an hour-long animated musical about democracy.

But Barks and Lenny hadn't spoken in years.

Lenny was an outsider, an iconoclast, a spooky conspiracy theorist, completely out of touch with modern reality.

And right now, that was exactly what Barks needed.

We interrupt this program for a public service announcement from the Audubon Society.

If you see a bird nesting, please give it space.

Birds require extra quiet and privacy.

If you see a bird eating carrion, do not attempt to identify the remains.

You could be questioned later, and it would be easier if you didn't know too much.

If a bird approaches you with its face tilted to the sky, beak parted, and eyes smoldering with a fiery inner light, Call your loved ones immediately.

Update your last will and testament.

testament.

Put your affairs in order.

You have exactly 48 hours to do all of this.

Don't dawdle.

This is it, baby.

This has been a PSA from the Audubon Society.

Bark's Ennui searched for Lenny Laserdisc through late-night infomercials and fast food ads.

He hunted through the monochromatic canyons of an old western movie, bathed in fake moonlight that cast noonday shadows on the ground.

It was all taking too much time.

What am I even doing here?

Barks wondered.

He had his responsibilities to think about.

He didn't have time to run around looking for an anti-technology recluse.

It was ridiculous.

Worse, it was unsafe behavior.

Woof woof.

Barks had almost given up when he finally found Lenny holed up in an old Icano Lodge commercial.

Remember the Ecano Lodge that used to be out on Route 800, where travelers on a budget could relax in affordable rooms, only to wake up in the morning and discover that the entire place had burned down in a brush fire exactly 20 years earlier?

Ah, man, I missed that place.

Great Continental Breakfast.

Lenny turned slowly to face Barks,

backlit by the hazy glow of the motel.

He grimaced his signature grimace, the one shaped like a technicolor lightning bolt across his circular silver face, a face which made up 85% of his body.

I was wondering when you sh show up,

Lenny said, quoting Humphrey Bogart from The African Queen, a movie that had last been rented in 1997 by Diane Creighton, who had remembered loving it as a kid, but never did get around to watching it again before the return date.

The two mascots talked long into the night.

Lenny told Barks that the new tower wasn't just a digital TV signal.

There was a whole antenna farm being built out there in the hills, sending things out,

taking things

in.

Unknown,

invisible things.

It's a

public safety hazard, Lenny told Barks, appealing to his civic-minded nature.

And we're the only ones that can stop it.

As Barks listened with growing fascination, Lenny detailed a plan.

They would send out a subliminal message during Saturday Night Live, the popular weekly broadcast that shows an unbroken live shot of the sand wastes on Thursday nights from 11.37 p.m.

until dawn.

That message would instruct the townspeople to go blow up the new TV tower.

Once the new tower had been destroyed, everything would remain the way it was.

The static would continue its pulsating, whispering comfort forever.

Or at least until the city raised enough money to build a new tower.

And they already used up the entire budget on this tower, including the funds previously earmarked for the new mental health facility.

It's

almost too easy,

Lenny exclaimed, spinning around with excitement.

Lenny had seen John Carpenter's They Live Backwards and Forwards 427 times.

He always wondered if subliminal messaging could really work.

If anyone could make it happen, he thought, Barks could.

And listeners, Barks did.

From his static realm, he began broadcasting messages shortly after 11.37 p.m.

during the cold open of scuttling beetles.

But the sheriff and their secret police found out.

As Saturday Night Live, with its gorgeous, unlit shots of rocks and sagebrush, was their favorite can't miss television show.

And Barks was apprehended at 11.39 p.m.

during the credit sequence of hollow moaning sounds and distant jazz.

Barks was charged with several thousand counts of psychological assault based upon the most recent ratings data for SNL.

Due to his agitated mental state, Barks was involuntarily committed to the CCTV signal inside of the Vale General Psychiatric Ward.

And there he remains today.

His former scope of vision, once as endless as the universe itself, is now limited to a looping security camera feed.

The hallway.

The reception desk.

The parking garage.

Another angle of the hallway.

The fire exit.

The fire exit.

Wisps of haze catching the green light of the exit sign like the fuzz on a new tennis ball.

And now, a word from our sponsors?

Deb?

Deb?

I don't know where Deb went, listeners.

Well,

let's go to the weather.

Flip a coin with your strange hands Not quite woman, not quite man It might land somewhere in the middle

or somewhere out of reach And if I ever learn my name

I'll carve it in a park bench and I'll stare

Till the letters don't look like anything I'll stay

Just like you stare

With judgment and uncertainty Oh this park bench is a sacred place though it's far from Eden's garden It protects me from intrusive thoughts and eyes made prone to wander.

And if you ever find me here,

you best leave me to my thinking, or I'll be going, going, going, going, gone.

I'll be traveling on.

I'll be traveling on.

Cast a spell with crooked teeth, not quite dull and not quite sweet.

It might look something like a photo,

out of frame and out of focus.

And if I ever learn my name,

I'll carve it into dogwood and I'll cry

with a weight that shoulders broad as mine could never fade,

so much you care

Lord this dogwood is a sacred tree though it's far from Satan's garden It holds me like my mother

And it smells just like my father And if you ever find me here, well you best leave me to my thinking Or I'll be going, going, going, going, gone,

I'll be traveling on.

I'll be traveling on,

traveling on,

traveling on,

traveling on.

Charlie Sheen is an icon of decadence.

I I lit the fuse and my life turns into everything it wasn't supposed to be.

He's going the distance.

He was the highest paid TV star of all time.

When it started to change, it was quick.

He kept saying, no, no, no, I'm in the hospital now, but next week I'll be ready for the show.

Now, Charlie's sober.

He's going to tell you the truth.

How do I present this with any class?

I think we're past that, Charlie.

We're past that, yeah.

Somebody call action.

AKA Charlie Sheen, only on Netflix, September 10th.

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Breaking news, listeners, Bark's ennui has escaped.

The breach occurred mere moments ago when the electrical connections inside the CCTV system were dampened by a drifting patch of haze, causing a temporary short circuit.

Barks was last seen emerging from a damaged EKG machine, blurry and distorted, by a patient who was being monitored for heart palpitations.

I feel fine now that I can't hear that darned beeping anymore, the patient said, referring to the now-silent EKG machine.

Though that Barks on Wii cured my arrhythmia.

Barks's whereabouts are unknown.

Maybe he's out roaming the streets right now, reborn by a newfound sense of freedom.

Drifting down neon-tinted alleys, weaving through noisy chatter outside of bars and soft conversations on fire escapes.

Pausing to smell a discarded melon rind.

Keeping his distance from the lone man who plays a brass horn on the corner, not out of fear, but because the man doesn't have proper breath control and is absolutely butchering West End blues.

Maybe, tonight,

he has no fear.

No anxiety.

He can easily avoid the helicopters and cloaked figures that search for him.

After all, he's taught secret police suppression protocols for years.

He's appeared on every page of their training manual illustrating capture techniques via puns and rhymes.

He knows their tactics better than anyone.

He floats past the revelers and the whisperers and the people playing horns,

and he doesn't worry about what they might be be doing to compromise the existence of life as we know it.

There are other things to investigate tonight.

None of them are crimes.

None of them are dangerous.

There are

sounds

and smells.

There are holes to be dug.

Sticks to chew.

He has the abrupt urge to chase a cat, but he resists it.

He is still respectable after all.

But the garbage cans behind Tourniquet,

overflowing with the saucy remains of fine dinner,

those

cannot be resisted.

And maybe, as he wanders,

he feels a soft shiver on his paw.

and looks down to see a tendril reaching out from the patch of haze at his side.

I interrupt my own musings to bring you an apology from the TV station KQQQ, Channel 2, for the brief gap in service tonight.

A lone sleepwalker was found hacking away at the new digital tower with a camping hatchet, and minor repairs had to be made.

KQQQ,

thanks you.

for your patience.

Oh, I also have an update from the Audubon Society.

A flock of gilded pariahs is now nesting in the old decommissioned television tower.

As you may know, the gilded pariah is an endangered woodpecker that has not lived in our desert for quite some time due to lack of habitat.

They need tall structures for nesting in order to keep their delicious eggs safe from predators.

Their number one predator is the

Gilded Pariah, who destroy their own habitats and have a tendency to eat each other's delicious eggs.

You can view them from a distance and leave approved seed and crumb offerings.

They will not eat the offerings, but they consider them a sign of submission.

It's important to submit to the Gilded Pariah.

Carlos and I are planning to take Esteban out to see the birds this weekend.

They're supposed to be quite beautiful, with ruby-red throat feathers and iridescent gills.

Stay tuned for the hammering of their little beaks, ceaselessly destroying their new home.

Stay tuned for a triumphant howl and the clatter of garbage cans in the street.

Stay tuned next for the faint sound of analog static.

Good night, Night Vale.

Good night.

Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Night Vale Presents.

This episode was written by Bree Williams with Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Craner and produced by Disparition.

The voice of Deb is Meg Bashwinner.

The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin.

Original music by Disparition.

All of it can be found at disparition.bandcamp.com.

This episode's weather was Park Bench by Paul Myra.

Find out more at paulmyraatheband.com.

That's P-A-L-M-Y-R-A.

Comments, questions, email us at info at welcometonightvale.com or follow us on Twitter at Nightvale Radio.

Or try to argue back with a thunderstorm.

Check out welcometonightvale.com for info about Joseph Fink's novel, The Halloween Moon, out now in paperback.

Today's proverb, it turns out you don't have to wait until Halloween.

Any night of the year, you can knock on a stranger's door and demand a treat under the threat of a trick.

Bundled and safe with Expedia, you were made to follow your favorite band and

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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 Unschooled, a podcast where we talk about good movies, critical hits, fan favorites, must-season, and 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.

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