The eyes are the windows to the soul. The leg bone's connected to the hip bone, and the hip bone's connected to your blood supply. The mind is nothing more than the misfirings of an overcomplicated clump of tissue you call a brain.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Hello, my fine audience. This is Intern Andy, sitting in for Cecil. There was an… incident about an hour ago here at the station, and long story short, I'm the only one left here. It's a good thing that I was at the official StrexCorp anti-Euclidian water cooler and caffeine dispensanarium when those armed intruders stormed in and rounded up everyone, or they might have spotted me, too. But until the Sheriff's secret police can locate and rescue my kidnapped coworkers, I'm running the board for you today. This is my first time on-air, so please be a little patient with me. Thanks.

First up, some astute listeners have called in and left messages to report that traffic is at a standstill on the highway leading out of town, as overnight there appeared a barricade across the road. It's manned by many large men in black paramilitary gear and scientists in clean white coats who say that Night Vale has been quarantined for public safety. A statement from the Sheriff's secret police says that they are not involved with this blockade, and that citizens should ignore the warnings of these interlopers, even if they are shot at. A StrexCorp press release also says that the roadblock is not their doing, as their paramilitary forces wear yellow gear. So be safe out there on the roads, my fine audience, and remember to wear all your riot gear on your commute today, not just your bullet-proof vests.

Here's a reminder for everyone: next week is the first public debate between The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home and Hiram McDaniels in their competing candidacies for mayor of our great town. The scheduled topics will include civic infrastructure, leash laws for the insectile monstrosities that our children inexplicably find cute and demand to keep as pets, and new business regulations. Current mayor Pamela Winchell has issued a press release stating that "All will tremble and fall before the burning cold of He-Who-Made-Dark. All will quaver and bow before He-Who-Made-Light. All will fear. All will fear. All. Will. Fear." Immediately after reading it, the press release burst into purple flames. I'm assuming that means that Mayor Winchell won't be attending the debate.

Oh! Here's an update on that whole "everyone in the radio station was abducted except me" story! Someone slipped a note under the studio door which reads, "We are here for your protection. Help us secure and contain that which none should know. There is too much wrong to ever be set right." Now, I don't know about you, my fine audience, but I find it slightly suspicious that someone would claim that they're protecting you by abducting you from your place of business. Especially since everyone knows that it would be far easier to do so during the evening mandatory five minutes of staring blankly into the void of space that stares blankly back into you. In the meantime, I'm fearfully awaiting word from the StrexCorp representative who ousted station management as to whether or not I should come in tomorrow.

And now, a word from our sponsors: mexi-skins.

That was a word from our sponsors.

I just found a pamphlet here from the Night Vale Better Business Bureau with a nifty little reminder that under no circumstances should we ever buy anything from anyone named Zachary Callahan. Just like they told us when we were kids, that Zack is nothing but a trouble-maker who wants to achieve world dominion through mind- and memory-altering enslavement and the strategic placement of strangely dense metals. Besides which, his products are shoddy and dangerous and probably made in some overseas factory instead of right here in the good old U.S. of A. Remember to buy in your community from locally owned and operated members of the Night Vale BBB. It's not only good for the community, it's fated to be.

Fine audience, a woman in a blood-spattered lab coat has just walked up to the window to the studio and pressed a piece of paper to it for me to read. Let me get a little closer… it says "We are about to assume control of the broadcast. If you want to survive, turn off your mic and come peacefully. Otherwise, we will be forced to…" Oh my! That's… incredibly graphic! Well, I do want to keep my organs inside me, so I better do as she says. But before I go, my fine audience, allow me to present the weath—

[AUDITORY COGNITOHAZARD DETECTED. MEMETIC AGENT EXPUNGED. ALTERNATE MATERIAL INSERTED.]

approximately 30 seconds of classical music

[AUDITORY THREAT ENDED. BROADCAST RESUMES.]

Welcome back, my fine audience. It's Intern Andy again. I want to let you know that I really do like the station's new supervisor, Mr. Bjornsen. Apparently he was just transferred from the public relations office of StrexCorp Productions, and he has a TON of great ideas about how to improve your public radio experience, including a Helpful Citizens Tip Line where you can tell us all about the fun and interesting things you see around town.

He also let me know why Cecil and the rest of the staff didn't come in today. Apparently Mr. Bjornsen sent out a memo yesterday telling everyone to go to a team-building indoctrination today and I just didn't get it. Still, he complimented me for sticking around and filling the airwaves for you, my fine audience. But the others should be back tomorrow, so this may be the last you hear from me.

In the meantime, up next is the sound of your own stagnant heartbeat, trapped in the rhythm of a nihilistic existential crisis.

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.