3.4 – Station Management

Here at the radio station, it’s contract negotiation season with the Station Management again. That’s always an interesting time. Now obviously, I’m not allowed to go into details, but negotiation is tricky when you’re never allowed to glimpse what you’re negotiating with. Station Management stays inside their office at all times, only communicating with us through sealed envelopes that are spat out from under the door like a sunflower shell through teeth. Then, in order to respond, you just kind of shout at the closed door and hope that Management hears.

Sometimes you can see movements through the frosted glass… large shapes shifting around, strange tendrils whipping through the air. Architecturally speaking, the apparent size of Management’s office does not physically make sense given the size of the building. But it’s hard to say, really, as no one has ever seen the actual office, only its translucence.

Look, I’ve probably said too much. I can see down the hall that an envelope just came flying out. I pray it’s not another HR re-training session in The Dark Box. But what can I say? I’m a reporter at heart; I can’t not report.

[Paper shuffling.]

Oh, my.

Let’s go to the seven-day outlook. Your daily shades of the sky forecast:

  • Monday – Turquoise.
  • Tuesday – Taupe.
  • Wednesday – Robin’s egg.
  • Thursday – Turquoise-taupe.
  • Friday – Coal dust.
  • Saturday – Coal dust with chances of indigo in the late afternoon.
  • Sunday – Void.
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3.8 – Station Management

Larry Leroy, out on the edge of town, reported that a creeping fear came into Night Vale today. He felt it first as a mild apprehension, then a growing worry, and finally a mortal panic. It passed from him to the employees of the car lot, who crouched behind the cars and cast fearful eyes at the empty sky. It did not affect Old Woman Josie, presumably because of her angelic protection. But it went from there to the rest of the town, until we all were shivering in anticipation for a terrible thing we could not yet see.

I myself was frozen, sure that any movement would lead to death… that any word would be my last. Of course, that also could have been the contract negotiations with station management, and the hideous envelope I just received. Also, I’m battling Lyme disease.

Meanwhile, the creeping fear passed, first leaving Larry Leroy, out on the edge of town, and then the car lot, where they went back to offering gently used cars at affordable prices, and finally, the rest of us, who could go back to living with the knowledge that at any given moment, we might either live or die— and it’s no use guessing which.

It is not currently known where the creeping fear will go next. Hopefully to Desert Bluffs. It would serve them right.

3.10 – Station Management

Now, while I gather myself, let’s have a look at traffic.

Oh! Wow! Well, that looks pretty good. Yup. Yes… okay, not too bad there either, I see. Oh, that gentleman needs to slow it down! It is not a race, my friend! Not a literal one, anyway.

That has been traffic.

And now, for an editorial.

I don’t ask favors much, dear listeners. That you know. But I am asking all of you now to conduct a letter-writing campaign to Station Management, which was not pleased with my discussion of their physical attributes and behavior, and is now threatening to shut down my show, or possibly my life, for good. Their wording was kind of ambiguous. Obviously, we will not be able to deliver the letters directly to the Management per se, as no one has ever opened their door, but we can shout the contents of the letters outside their office, and we presume, given an anatomy that includes ears, they will be able to hear what you have to say.

So, if you like this show, and you want to hear more of it, then we need to hear from you. Make your voice heard to whatever it is that lies in wait behind that darkened office door—

[Ominous rumbling.]

Oh! I’m sorry, dear listeners. We’ll be back after this word from our sponsors.

3.12 – Station Management

Hello? Radio audience…

[Ominous rumbling continues.]

I come to you live from under my desk, where I’ve dragged my microphone and am currently huddling in the fetal position.

[Roaring shriek.]

Did you write letters? You should not do this anymore. Station Management has opened its door for the first time in my memory and is now roaming the building.

I don’t exactly know what Management looks like, as that is when I took cover under my desk— and I can only hope that they are not listening to what’s going out right now, or else I may have sealed my fate. I can hear only a kind of clicking footstep, and faint hissing sound, like releasing steam.

An intern went to see what Management wanted, and has not returned. If you are related to Jerry Hartman, afternoon board operator at Night Vale Community Radio, I am sorry to inform you that he is probably dead, or at least corporeally absorbed into Management, permanently. Jerry and Chad, the interns, will both be missed, but we will surely see them in the Thanksgiving Day Dead Citizens Impersonation Contest, which this year will be in the employee lounge under the Night Vale Mall from 11 AM to 9:45 PM. There will be a cash bar and two Twister boards.

[Louder ominous rumbling. Cecil gasps.]

I’m going to see if I can make a break for the door. If you don’t hear from me again, it has truly been a pleasure.

Good night, Night Vale. And goodbye…