52) RESPONSE TRANSMISSION: The Mad Host Replies (or Thinks He Does)

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[Unknown timestamp. Carrier wave unstable. Possible bleed from multiple identities.]

[—receiver whines—]
[—heavy breathing, like someone who forgot they had lungs—]

[spoken, Irish accent]
[HOST – voice shaky, amused, maybe terrified, maybe entertained]
Oh-ho-hohh, 
I heard that little love letter from the static choir. 
Yes sir, 
yes ma’am, 
yes thing-with-too-many-teeth, 
I heard every syllable you stitched into my skull.

[—chair creaks—glass clinks—something slithers briefly—]

[spoken]
You’re saying I’m broadcasting you? 
Ohhh, wouldn’t that be a punchline? 
I’ve been talking to myself so long 
I figured I’d eventually answer back. 
Didn’t expect company made of dial tone and dental records.

[spoken, deeper vocals, Irish accent]
[A second voice—same host, deeper, irritated]
They’re not real. 
You’re making them real. 
Stop feeding the shadows with signal. 
Turn off the mic.

[spoken, Irish accent]
[HOST – back to first voice]
No, no, no—
we don’t turn off the mic. 
That’s rude. 
That’s bad radio etiquette. 
Besides, 
the hum gets louder when it’s quiet, 
and I’m already renting out half my skull to the noise with the longest lease.

[—distant rumble, like a tower sighing—]

[spoken]
[HOST whispers conspiratorially]
They say they crawled down the wires from the stars. 
That’s impossible. 
There are no stars left!
 I checked! 
I ate one once. 
Crunchy. 
But too much vacuum.

[spoken, Russian accent]
[Third voice—same throat, new accent, genteel Southern drawl]
Might not matter where they came from, friend. 
Might be they were always in the quiet waiting for someone like you to speak ‘em into shape.

[spoken]
[HOST cackles abruptly, then slaps something fleshy]
You know what the funniest part is? 
They think they’re using me. 
HA! I’m using them. 
You can’t puppet a guy who cut his strings long before the world sank into the ash.

[—radio hum shifts pitch—almost like agreement]

[spoken]
[HOST—suddenly somber]
Or maybe they’re right. 
Maybe I’m the hollow bit in the antenna, 
and they’re just blowing through me like a flute made of regrets. Hard to tell what thoughts are mine. 
Hard to tell if I’m even… 
y’know… 
here.”

[—silence grows too thick, then bursts—]

[spoken]
[HOST—ragged shout]
BUT HEY! 
If you’re listening, 
hum goblins, 
shadow choir, 
lovely parasites of the FM twilight—
welcome to the only mouth left with teeth sharp enough to speak your name without choking!

[Sound of something being dragged across metal]

[spoken]
I’m not letting you in…
BUT IF YOU’RE ALREADY INSIDE—
Make yourselves useful. 
We’ve got a song to introduce.

[He taps the mic twice. Each tap echoes like something tapping back.]

[spoken]
This one’s called ‘OUR VOICES TASTE LIKE COPPER WIRE.’
Dedicated to my co-hosts in the static—
Let’s see who’s piloting the meat suit tonight.

[—signal snaps—]
[—music never starts—]
[—a faint, layered chuckle crackles in the dead air—]

2910/7500

[Unknown timestamp. Carrier wave unstable. Possible bleed from multiple identities.] [—receiver whines—] [—heavy breathing, like someone who forgot they had lungs—] [spoken, Irish accent] [HOST – voice shaky, amused, maybe terrified, maybe entertained] Oh-ho-hohh, I heard that little love letter from the static choir. Yes sir, yes ma’am, yes thing-with-too-many-teeth, I heard every syllable you stitched into my skull. [—chair creaks—glass clinks—something slithers briefly—] [spoken] You’re saying I’m broadcasting you? Ohhh, wouldn’t that be a punchline? I’ve been talking to myself so long I figured I’d eventually answer back. Didn’t expect company made of dial tone and dental records. [spoken, deeper vocals, Irish accent] [A second voice—same host, deeper, irritated] They’re not real. You’re making them real. Stop feeding the shadows with signal. Turn off the mic. [spoken, Irish accent] [HOST – back to first voice] No, no, no— we don’t turn off the mic. That’s rude. That’s bad radio etiquette. Besides, the hum gets louder when it’s quiet, and I’m already renting out half my skull to the noise with the longest lease. [—distant rumble, like a tower sighing—] [spoken] [HOST whispers conspiratorially] They say they crawled down the wires from the stars. That’s impossible. There are no stars left! I checked! I ate one once. Crunchy. But too much vacuum. [spoken, Russian accent] [Third voice—same throat, new accent, genteel Southern drawl] Might not matter where they came from, friend. Might be they were always in the quiet waiting for someone like you to speak ‘em into shape. [spoken] [HOST cackles abruptly, then slaps something fleshy] You know what the funniest part is? They think they’re using me. HA! I’m using them. You can’t puppet a guy who cut his strings long before the world sank into the ash. [—radio hum shifts pitch—almost like agreement] [spoken] [HOST—suddenly somber] Or maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m the hollow bit in the antenna, and they’re just blowing through me like a flute made of regrets. Hard to tell what thoughts are mine. Hard to tell if I’m even… y’know… here.” [—silence grows too thick, then bursts—] [spoken] [HOST—ragged shout] BUT HEY! If you’re listening, hum goblins, shadow choir, lovely parasites of the FM twilight— welcome to the only mouth left with teeth sharp enough to speak your name without choking! [Sound of something being dragged across metal] [spoken] I’m not letting you in… BUT IF YOU’RE ALREADY INSIDE— Make yourselves useful. We’ve got a song to introduce. [He taps the mic twice. Each tap echoes like something tapping back.] [spoken] This one’s called ‘OUR VOICES TASTE LIKE COPPER WIRE.’ Dedicated to my co-hosts in the static— Let’s see who’s piloting the meat suit tonight. [—signal snaps—] [—music never starts—] [—a faint, layered chuckle crackles in the dead air—]

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