1.11 – Pilot

A great howling was heard from the Night Vale Post Office yesterday. Postal workers claim no knowledge, although passers-by described the sound as being a little like “a human soul being destroyed through black magic.”

The Indian Tracker [sic]– now, I don’t know if you’ve seen this guy around– he’s the one that appears to be of maybe, Slavic origin? yet wears an Indian headdress out of some racist cartoon and claims to be able to read tracks on asphalt.

He appeared on the scene, and swore that he would discover the truth. No one responded because it’s really hard to take him seriously in that headdress of his.

2.4 – Glow Cloud

The Apache Tracker– and I remind you that this is that white guy who wears the huge and cartoonishly inaccurate Indian headdress– has announced that he has found some disturbing evidence concerning the recent incident at the Night Vale Post Office, which has been sealed by the City Council since the great screaming that was heard from it a few weeks ago.

He said that, using “ancient Indian magics,” he slipped through Council security, into the Post Office, and observed that all the letters and packages had been thrown about as in a whirlwind… that there was the heavy stench of scorched flesh… that the words written in blood on the walls said “MORE TO COME” and “SOON.”

Can you believe this guy said he used “Indian magics”? What an asshole.

7.4 – History Week

It has been several weeks since anyone in Night Vale has seen the Apache Tracker, that white guy who wears the inaccurate and horribly offensive Indian headdress everywhere. He has not been seen since he began investigating the great screaming heard at the Post Office, and the words written in blood inside. Also, the entire structure of his house has vanished, and the lot where it stood is now a bucolic meadow that neighborhood kids will not ever enter, for reasons even they are unable to explain.

I think I speak for everyone in the community when I say, good riddance to that local embarrassment. He made the whole town look ignorant and racist.

11.3 – Wheat & Wheat By-Products

New information on the Apache Tracker, who you might remember as that white guy who wears the cartoonishly inaccurate and offensive Indian headdress, and who disappeared some weeks ago after investigating the strange occurrences at the Night Vale Post Office. Well, word is in that he has reappeared, except it now seems he is actually Native American.

Witnesses say his features are still recognizable but during the disappearance he has transformed into that which he always absurdly claimed to be.

More explanation, of course, is needed, but the Apache Tracker is also now only able to speak Russian, and I did not bother to get his statement translated. Apparently he has been taking to leaning on the hood of an old Honda Accord in the parking lot of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, shaking his head slowly and checking his watch.

Does his complete racial transformation make his previous actions less offensive, listeners? Write us a letter telling us what you think, and then put it away in a drawer for ten years. Reading it again, you’ll get a little pang of nostalgia for the person you used to be, once upon a time.

13.6 – A Story About You

A man slides into the booth across from you. You recognize him vaguely, although he looks considerably different now. It is that man who appeared to be of Slavic origin, but who dressed in an absurd caricature of an Indian chief and called himself the Apache Tracker. Except now, it’s difficult for you to miss, he has actually transformed into a Native American. You wonder if the pie will get there soon. The Apache Tracker smells of potting soil and sweat. He leans across the table and touches your hand, lightly.

You do not pull the hand away, because you know that there will be no consequence for any of this.

“Вы в опасности.” (Vy v opasnosti. You are in danger.) he says. “Они идут.” (Oni idut. They are coming).

You nod. He taps the table. Then, bringing his thick eyebrows together and pursing his lips, he leans down and taps the ground. You nod again.

“I think my pie is here now,” you say unnecessarily, as the pie is quite visibly placed in front of you.

You did not order invisible pie. You hate invisible pie.

He looks at the pie for a long time, and then lets his breath hiss out slowly through his nose.

“Они придут снизу. Пироги не помогут.” (Oni pridut snizu. Pirogi ne pomogut. They are arriving from below. Pies will not help.) He leaves. What an asshole that guy is!

 

[Cyrillic & translations provided by anonymous Tumblr users and noaarmstro, with help from annachibi.]