And Now, the Weather

Post Office

You walk into the Post Office in your hometown of Night Vale. Your wife has sent you in to pick up an envelope.

"Not just any envelope," she said. "The envelope." Her blue eyes flickered with the glare of some unknown light source in the distance. You nodded, left the house, and began the five hour trek to the Post Office.

You could have driven. It wouldn't have been too hard to clear the vehicle of the blue monkey demons and flying piranha inside. A simple spray of Jensen's Blue Monkey and Flying Piranha Repellent, which you have in your medicine cabinet, would have solved the issue instantaneously; the pests would simply vaporize into the trademarked silver smoke and float out the window in pursuit of new victims.

However, you walked, the desert sand blowing in your face. As you walked, your mind began to wander to things. Many things. Chainsaws, the Moon, toothpaste, Mysterious Purple Goo, and shoelaces. You were beginning to wonder if life is even worth anything. Come on, it's not like you're a jar of Mysterious Purple Goo! You're not worth anything, right? People are always saying that they wouldn't trade you for anything. Anything. That's how worthless you were. People wouldn't trade you for anything! Not even a candy bar? You were worth less than a candy bar?

Around you, the red and gold sand began to encircle you, blinding and deafening you. You were choking. You couldn't breathe. Your vision turned from red to purple to deep purple to even deeper purple to the deepest purple ever to purple and then you blacked out.

You opened your eyes and thanked the flaming tree next to you for escorting you here.

"That will be seven kitten skulls," the tree said, holding out a wooden hand. You grinned and reached into your pocket for the payment. As a generous tip, you handed the tree ten kitten skulls.

"Keep the change," you said.

Now, you waltz in to the Night Vale Post Office as if you own the place. Well, actually, the Mayor owns the place and there cannot be any reason for her to think that you think that you own that place. That could result in a kidnapping and month-long stay at the abandoned mineshaft outside of town. The Hooded Figures are on leave today, owing to the annual parade down in the Night Vale Stadium downtown. The temporary clerk is an 18-foot-tall Cyclops with a name-tag that reads: Hello. My name is Tim. How may I assist you?

"Hello, Tim," you say, holding out your own flipper to shake his slimy green tentacles. He doesn't seem to notice you. How rude of him. "Hello?" you say again, a bit louder. Tim doesn't respond. What a jerk! Don't people know how rude and inconsiderate it is to have a hearing disability? Do parents even teach respect anymore?

Normally, you would reach out and tap his huge shoulder if it weren't gushing sparkly blue puss all of the floor. You aren't in the mood to get your hands dirty today. After all, the City Council has banned sinks and showers and water all together. They say that water is unneccessary and that citizens should spend their hard-earned money on $15 cups of lemon juice at Big Rico's Pizza instead. They say that anyone who doesn't spend their hard-earned money on $15 dollar cups of Big Rico's lemon juice will be immediately encased in flavored amber (of the citizens' choice of course. They don't want to be inhumane.)

"HELLO?" you yell, in one final attempt to draw attention from the Cycloptic clerk.

Tim grunts and says, in a monotone voice: "Welcome to the Night Vale Post Office. My name is Tim. What kind of Black Magic or human sacrifice are you in need of this evening?" It is morning, you think. The City Council really has done well in keeping the local Cyclopes uneducated and unaware that they are simply slaves in the control of abusive humans. Well done, you think. Well done.

You glance behind Tim and see it. It is there. The envelope. The envelope. You begin to sweat tears from your nose. The cursed paper invades you mind, bringing images of light bulbs with red eyes singing Justin Bieber. You shriek in agony. The sound is too terrible to bear. This devil deserved to be punched in the face. "GO, ORLANDO!" you cry. "GO, ORLANDO!" Imaginary Justin stops singing. You open your eyes. Now you see swirling vortexes of red blood appearing out of nowhere on the Post Office walls.

"I NEED THAT ENVELOPE!" you yell.

"WHAT ENVELOPE?" screams the postman from behind the hovering counter.

"THAT ENVELOPE!" you yell back, pointing behind the man's overly large head. He glares at you, his one yellow eye boring into your soul. You shutter, whispers of past puppies in your ears. His tentacles are growing larger, and a faint buzzing begins in the foreground. The air begins to darken. You back up slowly, think that maybe tomorrow would be a better day to fetch the envelope. After all, the hooded figures were always so nice to you. Sometimes they gave you lollipops!

"Wait..." the postman whispers, forked tongue dancing inside his pungent mouth. He hands you a crate. "Bring this to City Council," he says. "Don't let anyone see you, or the crate. When they have it, you must stop thinking about it. You must forget it immediately. Do you understand?" His eye rolls back into his head, revealing another eye underneath. It stares at you as you nod.

You take the crate, which is grunting and making thumping noises, through the door and leave the Post Office. You forgot the envelope. The envelope. You froth at the mouth and continue on your way to the Council.

This message was brought to you by McDonald's. I'm lovin' it.