July 30th, 2014
(Remember when everyone was doing DPxWTNV crossovers? Yeah, I did one too and forgot about it)
Try not to worry about the future; we’re all dead here anyway. What kind of dead person worries about their future?
Welcome to Amity Park
Today’s top story: our town mayor, the insufferable Vlad Masters, has instated a fine for all residents found floating in the clearly marked “no floating” zones. He claims this offensive floating encourages feelings of freedom and is bad for the local gravity.
I personally find it quite infuriating that our dear mayor would make such a law simply because he is one of the few residents still in possession of his humanity. That, Mr. Masters, does not make you better than the rest of us. I too am still quite in possession of my humanity—here, in my back pocket—I keep it on my car key ring. Although you cannot see me, dear listeners, I encourage you to imagine me becoming human. I just did it. And look at me, I work in a radio station. Continue to imagine you are looking at me. Look at what I’m wearing. Aren’t I dressed the same as everyone else? Look at the way I sip my coffee: upsidedown, and through tiny, howling slats I’ve punctured in the side of my cup, just like everyone else, Mayor. While we may still have human forms, that does not mean we’re special, you and I.
Additionally, I find the law quite insensitive, as 35% of Amity residents no longer have any recognizable corporeal form, and therefore lack the necessary feet to stand on any given patch of ground. This ignorance of our residents’ physical bodies is inexcusable, and should reflect poorly in this September’s popularity polls. For shame, Mayor, for shame.
Oh, what’s this? I’ve got an intern in the sound booth with me—Thank you Jean—who’s handed me a….letter…oh. It seems I’ve received a letter from the mayor’s office. He did not like my earlier criticism of his legal actions, and has declared I will be ritualistically executed tonight on the lawn of Casper High at 8:30 PM sharp.
I encourage all citizens of Amity to come around tonight, as the front lawn in quite spacious, and the mayor’s secret police are known to distribute light snacks and apple juice to anyone in attendance. It could be a fun date idea, or a nice family outing before this weekend is over. Additionally all profits from ritualistic executions are donated to Ghosts Against Ectoweaponry, a truly, truly worthy cause.
For once, well done, Mayor. A fun community-wide activity that donates to a great cause. Well done. Even I am looking forward to this: Just remember folks, we are DEAD, and my physical body will reform from molten remains 5 or 10 minutes following the execution. Stick around if you like, and we can chat over light snacks and apple juice.
Again, all proceeds go to Ghosts Against Ectoweaponry. How else will we keep our undead, immortal children safe except through total, ruthless, militaristic control of the sale, distribution, and possession of all weapons?
Carrie McDonald, the woman living alone in the Amity Park train station who huddles in the dark tunnel of line G7, the line dying people take to metaphorically cross into the next world, reported that she found a lost puppy today. She was unable to contact the owner, as unfortunately the phone number printed on puppy’s collar was in another language. Carrie says she simply watched over the puppy for a few hours, since the train on line G7 is metaphoric, and therefore does not exist.
She did not keep the puppy in the train station very long, as the puppy was gravely ill, and was rushed instead to the nearest veterinarian office. How heart-breaking: finding a lost, sickly puppy along your metaphoric train line.
The puppy, which Carrie now calls Buster, was reportedly running a high fever, and leaked a constant stream of air from its nose and mouth. Carrie even reported hearing a faint, frantic pounding knocking from inside the puppy’s intestines, just drumming away, trapped, and probably suffocating. These, the veterinarian confirmed, are the telltale signs of being alive. That poor, sick puppy.
If any of you listeners are capable of reading the language this telephone number is written in: Please. Call us. Or if you are the owner, please listen when I say your puppy is very, very alive, and you should attend to this as soon as possible.
A correction from earlier. As it turns out the charity Ghosts Against Ectoweaponry does not exist, nor has it ever existed. Nobody uses ectoweaponry, except maybe for those pesky men in white spotted near the Nasty Burger earlier this month, and all ectoplasmic fighting is done with the innate power each of us possesses. It would be quite simply silly to believe we could control that in any manner. Most of us cannot even control ourselves.
The proceeds from tonight’s execution will go instead to the purchase and slaughter of trafficked humans to the great Observers above. Now, our typical means of sacrifice—the well beloved blood blossom crown which I look forward to sporting tonight—has thus far proven ineffective on our human sacrifices. Still these sacrifices will be made to sit together unharmed, in formation, while wearing beautifully woven crowns. The Observers, without whom we would have perished long ago, will hopefully understand out intent.
I hate to cut this broadcast short, but the mayor’s secret police have arrived and given their signal that I am to go with them. They have gently torn down our station door, cautiously slammed our interns and tech workers against the walls, and courteously smashed most of the equipment in our office.
Mayor, I do not agree with your policies, but I admire your adherence to proper arresting procedure. Our mayor, despite his faults, still understands that secret police are meant to strike fear into the hearts of those they protect. As ghosts, how else can we show our affection except through terror, and brutality?
I must leave you listeners. I am expected to fight, and struggle, and blast away at the intruding officers with the vain but optimistic hope of escape. And then writhe pathetically against the handcuffs they lock around one wrist, but not the other.
They are slamming their thick, intangible hands against the recording booth now. The slamming makes no sound, and instead their fists pass noiselessly through the door and swing through empty air. That is my cue, listeners. I must go, and I hope to see all your smiling faces at the execution tonight.
For now: Goodnight, Amity Park.