Narrator 1: It’s Unrise in Stationary Hill. [Sounds of insects, wind, ship engines, industrial city clamor.] It’s morning, in other words. The vast, inky-black wall of the Fold is translating slowly, peeling back from the city, retreating like a vast curtain, exposing the harsh light of the Un as it goes.

Narrator 2: There’s hardly anybody up and about at this hour, just a skeleton crew down in the shipyard (the messy tangle of docks and warehouses down at the base of the hill). A single small ship has just arrived here.

Narrator 3: It’s a strange-looking ship. The whole side of it is encrusted in a rough, textured, mica-like material. The other side is flat and featureless. It’s a very skinny, very vertical sort of design, kind of like a flounder (one of those creepy, flat fish with both eyes on one side), meant for hiding in a very specific, selective kind of environment.

Narrator 1: You remember this ship, don’t you? You should. You’ve seen it before, or you’ve at least seen a ship very much LIKE this one.

Narrator 3: But here, out of its element, it just looks awkward.

Narrator 1: People are disembarking now, being shuttled down the gangway. They’re moving quickly, furtively, being received by a ground crew moving equally secretively… and the ship wastes no time, immediately taking wing again, flitting back upwards—UNwards—agile and fast.

Narrator 2: Atticus Concord, who has somehow contrived to be part of this welcoming party today…

Narrator 1: —he’s a con man, that’s how—

Narrator 2: (continued) …even though this is absolutely NONE of his business, finds this all very interesting. He steps forward, deciding to take a chance, roll the dice. If this goes badly, if he’s wrong, he’s gonna be in some deep shit, but he’s pretty sure.

Narrator 1: (as Concord) “I got this. I’ll stay here and clean up,”

Narrator 2: …he says to the rest of the ground crew.

Narrator 1: (Concord) “Why don’t you boys deliver our secret cargo to the Cabaret?” They nod at him, agreeing. They’re gonna do this, because this has always been their plan.

Narrator 2: He was RIGHT.

Narrator 1: Atticus Concord is ON to them. They clear everything away, resetting the landing pad. It’s as though no ship was ever here. No ship was certainly ever SCHEDULED to be here, and now no one will be the wiser.

Narrator 3: As Concord walks away, a grin spreads across his face. Just as he suspected! Concord has a spring in his step. He is feeling fantastic, the way he always does what he gains the necessary leverage to screw someone… royally.

[Theme music]

Narrator 1: In his office above the Black Candle Cabaret, Mr. Weepe is tending to his morning business: putting away his needles, packing the syringe, the vials, the tourniquet, away in his little case at his desk.

Narrator 2: Just, you know, the normal routine, barely worth mentioning, really.

Narrator 1: Yeah, just right here on the table in front of him amongst all his papers and his fountain pen and his desk lamp and some photos…

Narrator 2: And the nutcracker.

Narrator 1: Of course, we can’t forget THAT. It has seen a lot of use lately. He loves it. Best gift he’s ever received. The case with the needles goes into the desk drawer. The small vials of black fluid he is packing carefully in a nice little parcel. He cushions the vials with crumpled paper, old documents, a couple of contracts. In fact, one of the documents appears to be Atticus Concord’s contract, all ripped up and balled up and, well, now used as packing material.

Narrator 2: Mr. Weepe really likes the texture of the paper that this contract was printed on. It’s easy to crumple, it melds easily around the shape of the glass vials. He thinks it’ll really keep them safe during shipping.

Narrator 1: Puts a little tape on there, makes sure the shipping label is fixed correct — he double-checks, can’t be too careful, don’t want this going missing in the mail — and sighs to himself, wipes his hands, puts away some papers, gets up, goes to get his coat and hat, puts the parcel under one arm, and heads downstairs. [Sound of dishes clinking.] The Cabaret is quiet this morning, not open for business yet. There’s some cleaning going on, some tables and chairs are being rearranged. There’s a nice party tonight, sort of a VIP event. He may or may not have time to attend. He passes by the bar. Sherman is not yet present. Saskia hasn’t even come in yet, herself.

Narrator 2: And yet even though it’s nearly empty in here, someone still manages to get in his way.

Narrator 1: As he leaves through the front door, there’s someone dead ahead.

[Sounds of the outdoors in Stationary Hill: insects, wind, city murmuring.]

Narrator 3: Blinking in the harsh unlight, Weepe nearly collides with the grinning figure of Atticus Concord.

Narrator 1: “Well you just hold yourself right there for one minute, my good buddy,” Weepe says, bracing himself against Concord’s chest. They are nearly face-to-face, they almost crashed into each other head-on. Mr. Weepe pushes back, shoving Concord out to an arm’s length. “Why ya in such a hurry today? We’re not even open yet.”

Narrator 2: Concord regards him with a wide, unblinking, slightly manic sort of expression. Maybe he’s on something.

Narrator 1: He wouldn’t be the only one in this town.

Narrator 3: (as Concord) “Good morning, Mr. Weepe.”

Narrator 1: (as Weepe) “Yeah it’s pretty good day out, uh, really nice clement weather we’re having. Do you need something? I’m…” Mr. Weepe has the package under one arm. Concord has seen it. The two men maintain rather intense, somewhat bizarre eye contact for just a moment. “You must be here to see me, can I help you with somethin’? I was on my way out.”

Narrator 3: (Concord) “Oh, just… passing by, really.” Concord continues to smile in his strange sort of way.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Well great, well here I am, I’m glad you came by, the Cabaret’s still here hasn’t burned down yet, now why dontcha get outta my way, I gotta go.”

Narrator 3: Extricating himself from the conversation, Mr. Weepe continues on his jaunty saunter towards the post office,

Narrator 1: glancing over his shoulder at least once. Concord lingers by the door to the cabaret, looking the facade of the building up and down, before strolling off down the road to lowertown. Mr. Weepe has a funny feeling about that guy, always did. Who knows what’s going on there, can’t be good. Who knows. Only time will tell. Weepe enters the post-office. [Sounds of quiet indoor chatter and post office bustle.] It’s a quiet morning here, too, early in the day.

Narrator 2: The Postmaster floats down genially from the upper levels of the post office.

Narrator 1: We told you we were going to explain that to you. Now’s as good a time as any. He floats. That’s all. That’s, that’s about it.

Narrator 2: He’s sort of gravitationally challenged. It was a tearror thing. It’s really worked out pretty well for him.

Narrator 1: It’s true.

Narrator 2: It HELPS him in his job, it’s not a hindrance at all, and things could have been much worse.

Narrator 1: You’ve seen a lot now around Stationary Hill: Fuze with his backwards mouth, a couple of fellows at the bar with their drinks turned into fire. Postmaster, well, had an interesting run-in once, so he floats now. That’s what happened to him. (as the Postmaster) “I’ll be right with you, Mr. Weepe, just hop over there in line, please.” There is a line, very small, just three people. Weepe saunters over, settling in. There’s activity here: most of the people who are here this morning are not actually here to see the Postmaster at all. It looks like the side door over to the adjoining Mission is open, and, well, there’s a carpet rolled out and there’s some potted plants — they may be fake, they must be, they don’t look like they’re from around here. Strange flowers, weird ornamental blossoms.

Narrator 3: It all has that clinical, waiting-room sort of aesthetic, very generic but very intentional at the same time.

Narrator 2: Blandly welcoming to all.

Narrator 1: Above the door, the sigil of the Trust is on brassy, gleaming display. A sign on an easel beside the door reads simply, “Open house: All welcome!” And people seem mighty welcome. Folks going in and out, and visible through the door inside the mission’s interior, schmoozing left and right, is Imelda Goldfinch. She makes brief eye contact with Mr. Weepe, twinkling her fingers at him from across the space. He raises a hand in salute but then points: he has other business here.

Narrator 3: She beckons with her fingers, and, smiling, nods her head.

Narrator 1: He raises his package, pointing again, pointing at the package, pointing at the post office desk.

Narrator 2: Oh my god, he needs to mail a package, okay.

Narrator 1: She doesn’t seem to understand. (as Weepe) “I gotta mail this thing… I’ll s— hang on, I’ll be over in a minute, dammit.” He inserts himself in line and waits impatiently. The Postmaster floats back down from the ceiling, a couple of parcels in hand, provides excellent and rapid customer service to the others in line.

Narrator 3: (as the Postmaster) “Hey there.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Hello, how you doin today there, chum.”

Narrator 3: (Postmaster) “Pretty well, thanks! The usual on this, then, Mr. Weepe?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yeah, we’re gonna just say, you know, put the regular insurance, might, I might actually up this one just a little bit, uh, there’s a little bit more in here than usual, put it on the scale there for a moment.” Mr. Weepe hands the parcel over to the Postmaster who, floating just across the way there to the small scale, weighs the package. “How’s it looking over there, just maybe a little bit, like a quarter of an ounce more heavy than usual, yes?”

Narrator 3: (Postmaster) “Ah, why, yes, that does seem to be the case.”

Narrator 1: (Weep) “All right yeah, well I, why don’t we put um… maybe 25 or so more insurance on this one? Cuz, uh, we don’t want that packet, you know, blown up or burned or anything.”

Narrator 3: (Postmaster) “Sure thing, sir. Ah, you don’t have any animals or vegetables contained in these parcels?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “No, you know, just the same old, uh, stuff as usual, please, um…”

Narrator 3: (Postmaster) “Aw, you know I have to ask.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “How’s the cable car doin’ today, anything slow down? We gonna be pretty quick on time?”

Narrator 3: (Postmaster) “’Bout the same as usual, I’d say. Haven’t had anything strange or unusual pass through lately.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “And of course all the weather down in the Fold is pretty good, nothin’, uh, comin’ this way today I hope.”

Narrator 3: (Postmaster) “Well, that we’re aware of. Course that can change at a moment’s notice.”

[Bell begins dinging occasionally.]

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “You know there was, uh, somethin’ in the Almanac the other day.” Mr. Weepe’s got both elbows now on the counter and is half-lying across the service counter. He’s idly dinging this little service bell over and over again, very slowly.

Narrator 3: The Postmaster busily strapping on some postage marks, different stamps and labels of various shapes and design.

Narrator 1: Weepe, producing his small purse, provides the funds.

Narrator 2: Mail: ain’t it marvelous?

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Well you know, I think I’m… just gonna take a chance. We’ll put, we’ll leave it that way, if anything happens of course I just get a letter later and then I’ll send another one out, uh, maybe next week or whatnot. Well then, all right my good chum, that’s a pleasure doin’ business as always, put ‘er there.” Mr. Weepe extends the spidery hand.

Narrator 2: The Postmaster probably isn’t aware of the exact contents of these packages that Moc Weepe sends out on a regular basis. Whatever Weepe has told him, it’s probably not quite the truth.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Okay, see ya we’ll have a nice day, um, got anything else goin’ on this afternoon? Good, all right, bye.” Mr. Weepe turns on his heel and sluices back down the chamber towards the front door.

Narrator 2: The truth is, he had intended to stop by the Mission today anyway and take a look around, and he’s a little bit pissed off that Imelda caught sight of him and invited him in before he could… Well, you know how it is. It’s like when you are about to do a chore and someone asks you to do, it just takes the wind right out of your sails.

Narrator 1: Yeah, this is a little bit less fun now for him.

Narrator 2: Still, drawn by a morbid curiosity, he enters the new Mission.

[Quiet clattering sounds and tinny music.]

Narrator 1: Smells great in here. There’s some kind of perfumed candle going. There’s even some music! There’s a nice little victrola or some kind of wax-cylinder-looking-thing happening over there, very antique.

Narrator 2: It’s clean and shiny and fresh in here, and as he enters the mission, he’s aware of a sort of pleasant industrious humming and a clicking emanating from a counting machine installed there on the far wall.

Narrator 1: Oh yeah, it’s one of those big calculator contraptions with all the hoses and beads. It whirs and clatters, beads pouring and feeding through glassy tubes, canisters emptying and filling.

Narrator 2: Little droplets of white and black, Valor and Caenum — he now knows the exact terminology, having actually read the Trustee Handbook.

Narrator 3: The whole thing is perhaps the size of a vending machine or an ATM, a large cabinet, about person-sized in height and maybe double that in width.

Narrator 2: Not nearly as grand or ornamental as the machines at the Central Vault,

Narrator 3: but it gets the job done.

Narrator 1: It’s certainly a grand spectacle here on the little old Midst. There about five people standing on the other side of the “please don’t touch” line,

Narrator 2: just kind of… watchin’ it.

Narrator 1: Yeah, mesmerized.

Narrator 2: On the wall above the machine, there is a number ticker, flaps and panels whirring rapidly, subtracting and adding infinitesimal decimal places every fraction of a second.

Narrator 1: A placard beside reads: “Today’s conversion rates.”

Narrator 3: Imelda is bobbing around through the crowd, and as Weepe enters, casts another smile his way, her eyes crinkling.

Narrator 2: (as Goldfinch) “I’ll be right with you, Mr. Weepe, just one moment. Uh, Mr. Stex? I have your new abacus here, all ready for you!” And she holds out a gleaming rope of shimmering silver beads to another man in the room.

Narrator 1: One of the Black Candle’s more regular patrons, Mr. Stex, a delightful man, excellent mustache, nice hair, receives it gladly and admires it, holding it in his hands gently with almost a certain amount of wonder and gladness.

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Oh, don’t be nervous! Just put it right on! There are so many different ways to wear it. If you’d like I can lend you a men’s fashion magazine that shows many different ways to wear it.”

Narrator 1: Mr. Stex is delighted, and accepts this gladly as Imelda strolls off to attend a few other visitors. Weepe, approaching Stex: “Looking good there, my friend and, is this uh, what’s a story about this?”

Narrator 3: (as Stex) “Well thank you for noticing, Mr. Weepe! It’s really quite exciting for me.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I didn’t really know you put much stock in all of this here, Mr. Stexe,” Weepe says, gesturing to everything here in the Mission: the people, the machine, the abacus in his hands.

Narrator 3: (Stex) “Well, I didn’t know that you were a follower of the Trust either, Mr. Weepe. Fancy seeing you here!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) [chuckling] “I suppose we’re both full of surprises, Stex. I love the Trust so much.”

Narrator 3: (Stex) “And I too! Why, I’ve just been perusing my Trustee Handbook.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Oh yeah, I read mine recently, this uh, Miz Goldfinch gave me my own nice copy of it as well, uh, really quite exciting reading and pretty good, uh, pretty good, uh work of um… fiction, would you say?” [chuckling] Weepe slaps him on the back. “Of course I’m just joking, I’m a real jokester, you know me with my sense of humor.”

Narrator 3: (Stex) [bursts out laughing]

Narrator 1: (Weepe) [laughing] “All right my good friend, I’ll catch you later all right, hey you come on by later tonight I give you good nice price on uh, a couple of cocktails, what do you say.”

Narrator 3: (Stex) “Why, that sounds marvelous. I look forward to it.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “If anybody gives you any trouble at the door, just tell ‘em I brought ya in, all right.”

Narrator 3: (Stexe) “Of course, Mr. Weepe. Good day to you!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yep all right, you take it easy there, see you later.”

Narrator 2: Notary Goldfinch is just wrapping up the rest of her few appointments and sending the others on their way, and then, abruptly, she and Mr. Weepe are the only people in the Mission.

Narrator 3: It’s almost like she INTENTIONALLY did that.

[All sound effects cease.]

Narrator 2: …No. That’s paranoid, don’t you think?

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Hey, this is all really quite nice, I like what you’ve done with the place.”

[Sound effects resume.]

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Oh, thank you! But there’s SO much more to do.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yeah, really looks like you got, um, all this finery, I can tell you’re really just, uh, barely begun, there’s so much still to do.”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Quite! The place hasn’t been broken in yet.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yeah, but it look like you already got yourself quite a few customers. Mr. Stex, he is one of my most reliable customers. He, he was, uh, just a few weeks ago talkin’ about how you’d never catch him gettin’ one of this, uh, abacus someday.”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Well, you know, that’s interesting that you bring that up. I find that so many people just lack the proper familiarity with the tenants of the Trust, and once I have the chance to TALK to them, maybe read them a few pages of the Trustee Handbook, it… it all just makes a bit more SENSE, you know? There are so many rumors flying around.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Oh yeah, you know, the, everything really very much more sensible after you read the, uh, this Trustree Handbook. I read it last night, most of the last chapter, and now…”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Oh!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I’m almost done, and you know…” He puts a hand on Imelda’s shoulder, looking her in the eye with false earnestness. “There’s really something very touching about it, I… find it really speaks to me on a certain kind of an internal personal important platform.”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “That is SO wonderful to hear, and now that I’m finally open for business, why, are… are you interested in possibly making a small donation today? Or, or do you have a deed that you need notarized? I’d be happy to start you on your journey!”

Narrator 1: Weepe and Imelda walk and talk, Weepe peering about the space as she listens, he saying, “Well I’m really glad you asked, Imelda. I had a couple of questions I just wanted to clear up with you before I get involved in any sort of way, uh, is it, if that’s quite all right with you, if it’s all the same…”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Oh, of course. Here, would you like to take a seat?” And Imelda trots over to her desk in the center of the room, takes a seat on the plush seat behind it. There are just mountains of paperwork here, stacked very tidily, but still, MOUNTAINS of different forms and carbon copies and applications and receipts, all fresh and blank and waiting to be filled in.

Narrator 3: (Goldfinch) “You know, it’s very convenient being located right here at the post office. I can send all of these correspondences right up into the Un without any trouble at all. Now, while we have a few minutes, I would be happy to answer your questions, Mr. Weepe.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yeah, and thanks for, I’m gonna just, uh, stand, cuz so much to take in! Such a nice little place you got here.”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Oh, I quite understand.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Just admirin’…”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “You’re not a sitter!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “No, I, uh, no, I get them, I have a weird knee you know, so I kind of like to stroll around as much as I can. This, uh, nice flowers you got here, they really quite—” [sniffing noise] He takes a big smell of them. “Mmm! I smell like, uh, hmm…”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Oh, thank you. They’re fake, I’m afraid.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “It smells like shit.”

Narrator 3: (Goldfinch) “Oh, you’re always so frank!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yeah, that’s one of my more, you know, um…”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “…endearing qualities?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Oh, I was gonna say one of the reasons why everyone always tell me I’m an asshole, but…”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) [laughing] “You’re so modest!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Oh well yeah, hmm…” Weepe… This woman is a HANDFUL. All right. It’s on. Here we go. He’s ready. You see this here? Mr. Weepe gives no shits about any of this. This is all garbage, the Handbook was a piece of crap, but this woman is FUN. She’s fun to mess with.

Narrator 2: Also, she appears to be willing to give him out handfuls of treasure in exchange for… walking his neighbor’s dog, or… It’s not really clear, but it seems… it just seems a little too easy.

Narrator 1: He stares at her, just for a moment, briefly on guard. She’s messing with him too, right? She has to be. There’s no way that a person like this could be for real. She’s smiling at him, waiting patiently across her desk. He glances out the door. The post office is relatively quiet, no one is coming. This might actually be his chance. So he takes it. “Hmm!” he hmms, his gaze flicking over to the conversion rate number ticker above the bead machine. He wrings his hands a little bit, preparing himself. “Yeah, so I just wanted to, I just wanted to clear up with you, uh, so I can make a donation, right?”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Oh, of course.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “And then in exchange, I’m gonna basically open a new account with your bank, your, your vault, your Trust, yeah? And then, that, I’m gonna get, um, some of my own beads, right?”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Precisely. You will be awarded with the amount of Valor corresponding to the value of your deed, and…” she gestures up at the number ticker on the wall behind her “…today’s conversion rates.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Oh, right. Uh, today that looks like, um… I guess that’s… that’s a pretty good rate right now you think? Uh…”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Oh, it’s very favorable. There’s no time like the present, Mr. Weepe.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yeah and I suppose that changes a lot, like any good market it goes up and down…”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Of course, but you know it’s not really about the rates. It’s about… the goodness within us all.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yeah, suppose it’s a good deed to give money to a good cause.”

Narrator 3: (Goldfinch) “But, that being said of course, the earlier you invest, the more interest and, ah… earnings you can accrue.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yeah, that sounds great, and you know, it seems like a pretty good time right now… I don’t suppose that, uh, it’s gonna get much better, usually that takes a nosedive, those rates, at some point.”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “For all we know, the most favorable rates in history could occur in the next week, or… tomorrow. Nobody knows!”

Narrator 3: And then her smile drops away.

Narrator 1: She… WINKS at him?

[All sound effects cease.]

Narrator 3: And just like that, her smile is back.

[Sound effects resume.]

Narrator 1: He… smiles right back. (as Weepe) “Yeah, of course, um… Sure. You never know with any of this, kind of uh, stuff…” He gives her a sort of a look back.

Narrator 2: He sees no reflected understanding in her gaze, just that bland, open, eager cheerfulness. Whatever he thought he saw is gone.

Narrator 1: But she’s waiting for him. (as Weepe) “Yeah, so maybe if, um, could uh… take advantage of uh… the pretty good rates we’re having, now’s a great time to make an investment in the Trust?”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Oh, it’s ALWAYS a good time. But yes, there are a number of ways to open an account. Let me just provide you with a couple of forms so you can look over your options.”

Narrator 1: The post office is starting to fill up again, another wave of traffic is beginning to fill the warehouse behind him. Some people are even taking an interest in the open house, and are looking as though they might be entering the Mission within moments. Weepe is eager to wrap this up.

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “You can make a monetary donation of good will, or you can schedule an appointment with me if there’s a selfless deed that you’re planning to enact in the next day or two.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I do a lot of deeds…” Weepe says. “A lot of the really good, um, deeds is everyday that I’m, uh…”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Oh, I KNOW you do, and if there were only more Notaries stationed here you wouldn’t have to make an appointment, but as it is, with me being the only one here, I’m afraid that’s the way it has to be. Still—”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Well, shit, I mean I do a kind, all kinds of deeds all the time, and I invest in things all the time, you know…”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Great. Well, this form here, A2, is the one that you need to fill out if you want to make an appointment with me.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Oh yeah, well, we’ll get something on the calendar, maybe the next week or so?”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Oh, that’s fabulous! You know where to find me. Now, I’m so sorry, but I’ve got a few more people coming in so we’re gonna have to cut this short, all right? Okay!”

Narrator 1: So she does: a few others are now entering the open house, looking around with wonder. (as Weepe) “Yeah! We’ll get some uh, deeds or…”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Welcome, everyone! I’m Imelda Goldfinch, your new Notary!”

Narrator 3: And she’s off.

Narrator 1: This is ridiculous. What a ridiculous operation. Weepe has got this in his back pocket. Invest. Do deeds. This is too easy. [Post office sounds] Out in the mailroom warehouse, in that new tide of customers entering into line, there is one figure—

Narrator 2: —unmoving—

Narrator 1: —standing in the back behind some packages, slightly out of Mr. Weepe’s line of sight. He is gazing, this man, across the warehouse through the open door into the Mission, and his eyes are on Imelda and his eyes are on Mr. Weepe, and even now, as he was just an hour ago, he’s still smiling.

Narrator 2: That same smug-bastard expression that’s been on his face all day.

Narrator 1: The smile that started in the shipyard this morning, the smile that grew even wider when he encountered Weepe with his package, and the smile that is its widest yet now that he has seen and heard the entire exchange. Concord has finished his business here, and he turns, and he heads out the door as he sees Mr. Weepe wrapping up his paperwork, making his own exit. Concord departs out into the street, a spring in his step.

[Jazzy drum beat begins.]

Narrator 3: A spring, like an internal mechanism of some small household apparatus used for a particular purpose.

Narrator 2: A nutcracker. We’re alluding to a nutcracker.

Narrator 1: Concord is the nutcracker and the Black Candle Cabaret—

Narrator 2: —is the next nut in the bowl.

Narrator 1: It’s the next goddamn nut.

Narrator 3: He’s gonna crack that nut. The nut that is Mr. Weepe.

Narrator 1: Concord has put two and two together—

Narrator 2: —like two halves of a nutcracker.

Narrator 1: He has Weepe right where he wants him. It’s time.