Don’t let perfect be the enemy of good. Good already has enough enemies. Welcome to Night Vale.

Residents of the Desert Creek housing development are protesting the unexpected arrival of a Homeowner’s Association in the neighborhood. As many of you are aware, Desert Creek has historically been a sovereign land, unfettered by community standards of any kind. A lawless people with a proud aversion to rules and regulations. A collection of streets and houses held together mainly by the principles of anarchy which they hold dear. The announcement that they will soon be required to join an HOA has been met, unsurprisingly, with backlash.

Known primarily for being the location of the Night Vale Elementary School and The House that Doesn’t Exist, Desert Creek is quickly gaining a new reputation as a hotbed of social unrest.

Resident Siobhan Azdak, former theater critic for the Daily Journal, has been leading the charge against the new HOA, mainly by posting flyers filled with scathing critiques of the new organization.

“A trite, uninspired flop of an institution that panders to the lowest common denominator,” one of her recent flyers read. It continued: “Their attempts at community outreach are an ordeal in tedium, and their invitations to the so-called Neighborhood Appreciation Block Party are derivative at best and an abysmal embarrassment at worst. Zero stars! Avoid this association at all costs!”

Though it is yet unknown what the actual cost or benefit may be to homeowners, most Desert Creek inhabitants have expressed no hesitation at preemptive uproar, anticipatory vitriol, and catastrophic predictions.

“What if I have to mow my lawn?” a voice wailed in the noonday air.

“What if they take my pets away?” someone with 37 iguanas sobbed.

“What if they tell me I have to fix my fence or that I can’t have an abandoned cruise ship parked in my driveway?” Captain Maxwell Werther lamented as he rang his old foghorn through the dusty streets.

When questioned why he was so concerned about this, as he does not reside in Desert Creek, Captain Werther replied that he had quote “done his own research” and that they were coming for Coyote Corners next.

Let’s have a look at traffic.

The first thing you ever heard was the honking of horns, the screeching of tires, the breaking of glass. You saw a light at the end of the tunnel, a literal tunnel, the one between Milemarker 67 and 68 on the old highway where you’d been incubating. You emerged from the quiet darkness into a world of bright chaos. Drivers screamed and swerved when they saw you coming. Children pointed from car windows and burst into tears. A train derailed as you crossed the tracks. You didn’t understand these reactions. You didn’t understand anything because you were so new to the world. But you could sense right away that you were different. You knew you were dangerous, even though you felt only tenderness within you. After that experience, you hid yourself in the darkness of the tunnel once again. You drank muddy water. You ate moss and fungus even though you wanted meat and fruit. You stayed out of sight because you knew your existence was upsetting, sometimes even fatal, to the others who populated this world. Your whole life was spent trying to keep others safe. But now you’re old. Now you’re dying. And your memory of that day, of those minutes you spent in the world, fill you with longing. You remember the fresh air and the clear sky and the sun. The warmth on your face. More than anything, you want to feel that again. With the last of your strength, you make a decision. You were born into traffic and to traffic you will return.

In sports, the high school football season’s heating up with the Night Vale Scorpions playing district newcomers the Oasis Gulch Cryptkeepers on Friday night. No one knows where Oasis Gulch is on a map but their team’s reputation for being spooky little freaks on the field is well-known and highly respected. All proceeds from the Nick Teller Memorial Concession Stand will go toward the Nick Teller Memorial Scholarship Fund for Excellence in Auto Shop. “Hey, still alive over here. Why does everyone keep thinking I’m dead?” AP Auto Shop teacher Nick Teller remarked at this announcement. No one acknowledged him or answered his question.

Now back to the controversy in Desert Creek.

Streets are being blocked off. Tents are being set up. The scent of smoke is wafting through the air.

A banner unfurls, welcoming residents to the Neighborhood Appreciation Block Party sponsored by the new HOA.

“It’s a trap!” area homeowner Macon Clark shouted over and over from the corner of Agave and Thorn.

“Bewaaaare,” a woman in a Guy Fawkes mask hissed at passersby from the bushes near the perimeter.

Candy Longfellow, who was out walking her 37 iguanas, stopped to investigate.

“Looks like they have watermelon slices in there,” she said, peering beyond the blockade. “My babies love watermelon.”

Thirty-seven small tongues flicked into space, tasting molecules of fruit musk. Seventy-four eyes blinked rapidly with desire.

“We’ll just stop by real quick,” she said, ducking past the wooden sawhorses while numerous boycotters tried to intimidate her from the sidelines by humming Garth Brooks’s “Friends in Low Places” and waving live snakes in the air.

More residents gathered outside the block party, some to join the protest, some only as curious onlookers.

“Maybe we should find out what they want first so we can know what to be mad about,” someone suggested.

“I prefer guessin’,” someone else muttered.

“They have a magician in there!” another person shouted.

This caused a wave of residents to breach the perimeter, as there is nothing Night Vale citizens love more than a magician. They just go wild for them, even a visibly nervous birthday party magician who keeps dropping the coin he was trying to palm. Soon the block was filled with snacking, chatting neighbors having fun against their collective will.

“No good can come of this,” said one anonymous resident, whose mouth was full of potato salad. In between mmmmm noises, they continued: “I heard of an HOA in Sand Plains where they make folks dress in togas and swallow live goldfish and play drinking games and humiliate themselves in public.”

Macon Clark, who was playing cornhole with Siobhan Azdak, howled: “I heard of one out in Red Mesa where they make everyone in the neighborhood talk backward for the rest of their lives, else they take their houses away.”

Candy Longfellow, who was busy wiping watermelon juice from 37 scaly chins, remarked: “And there’s the one at that condo complex here in town that does a Shirley Jackson style Lottery once a month to keep space open for new residents. I might move there myself depending how things end up here.”

“I heard there was a payphone out in Vermillion Falls where you can speak to the dead,” added an old woman who was standing behind everyone.

“Boat rides, boat rides, ten fares for a penny!” called out Captain Werther, who had towed his abandoned cruise ship to an adjacent parking lot to capitalize on the gathering crowd.

More people contributed their own thoughts and announcements to the conversation, but they were increasingly off topic and generally not related to the HOA. More on this story as it develops.

In international news, a new country has appeared off the coast of Luftnarp. It materialized at 4:35am local time yesterday, first reported via radio call by a fisherman and his son trawling the bay for coldwater eel. The fledgling nation initially took the form of a rocky island. It had seven trees, all larches. Each larch had a nest, and each nest had an egg. Since those humble beginnings, the island has expanded rapidly and is now home to a variety of flora and fauna, including human beings with customs and traditions and a currency made of delicately baked filo dough. Their official language is Aesthetician. Their main export is designer tracksuits. The country has no name or governing body but they do have an Aldi supermarket in the works.

Now a word from our sponsor.

Ring Pops. Have you ever wanted to eat your own jewelry? Felt the insatiable desire to lick and chew and smash precious minerals apart with your teeth? Just gnaw the gemstones right off your own fingers and crush ‘em up in your mouth, swallowing down all the sparkly shards until your innards are studded with bling? Devour rubies and emeralds and diamonds like a bauble-eating beast that lives in a mine, your surroundings lit only by the glittering candy-colored explosions of your own mastication? Ring Pops, baby!

Now back to the HOA-sponsored block party in Desert Creek.

Though no human representatives for the HOA have been spotted yet, there is an information table with a stack of zines. The zines are printed on recycled lambskin and held in place with a dagger.

We are not your average HOA, the zine begins. You will not be required to fix things or paint your house. There will be no restrictions on plants or pets or vehicles or mailbox decor. We’re actually pretty laid back and not super rules-oriented. The money we collect will go toward fun stuff. Parties. Good times. A better life. A brighter future. True freedom. Shovels. A lot of shovels and digging tools for everyone.

The rest of the zine appears to be doodle comics and cringe poetry.

Next to the stack of zines is a Magic 8 Ball with a piece of paper taped to it that reads “for all questions.”

The neighbors crowded around.

“Will it be very expensive?” Macon Clark asked.

“No,” said the Magic 8 Ball.

Everyone cheered.

“Are there gonna be rules about Air BnBs?” asked the woman in the Guy Fawkes mask who also works a commission-only job as a telemarketer and makes side income renting out her finished basement.

“Nope,” said the Magic 8 Ball. She sighed in relief.

“Will I ever find true love?” asked the old woman who was standing behind everybody.

“Signs point to yes,” the 8 Ball proclaimed and the crowd was very happy for the woman, who was almost 100 years old and had never been in love, aside from a brief romance she’d once had with a disembodied voice on the other end of a haunted payphone in Vermillion Falls.

“I guess we were all worried for nothing,” acknowledged Candy Longfellow, who giggled uncontrollably between words as her pets crawled all over her body like a living lizard suit.

“The whole thing feels contrived and amateurish to me,” huffed theater critic Siobhan Azdak, who expressed herself best in negative terms.

Someone asked Captain Werther what he thought, but he’d already sailed away.

More on this after a word from the public health department.

Whoa, what’s that weird rash behind your knee? Looks pretty itchy, my friend. Looks uncomfortable AF. Ooh, looks like it’s spreading too. Have you had that checked out? Could be an allergy of some kind. Have you ever had an allergy test? It’s super easy. You just go in to your doctor’s office, they hook you up to electrodes, ask you a series of penetrating questions about your childhood, and when you start crying, they take a sample of your tears on a plastic slide and look at it under a microscope and figure out exactly what you’re allergic to. Then, no matter what it is, they recommend that you start taking grape seed extract and local bee pollen. In the meantime, get some calamine lotion for that rash. This has been a message from the public health department.

Breaking news from the Desert Creek HOA block party.

A group of ten individuals has appeared, holding hands and walking among the crowd. They do not wear clothing but are each modestly covered by a cascade of long flowing hair adorned with twigs and leaves, hair that has never been cut and trails behind them on the ground like wedding trains, collecting more twigs and leaves as they walk. They are radiant and calm. They smile and nod. They wear hats, each of a different style.

“We are the HOA,” they murmur in musical voices.

They hold out their hats as they walk.

“It is time to collect the dues,” they sigh.

“How much?” asked Macon Blair suspiciously.

“Whatever it is worth to you to live a life of true freedom,” one said. A little bird chirped from somewhere inside her hair.

“Overpriced!” Siobahn couldn’t help yelling.

“But what does the money actually go toward?” asked one of Candy Longfellow’s iguanas, the one who could talk.

Many voices began competing to suggest where the funds should go.

“What about a community swimming pool?” someone asked.

“We could plant trees,” someone proposed.

“Free Pizza Friday!” a young voice shouted.

“A payphone might be nice,” an old woman’s voice pined from somewhere behind everyone. “One that’s disconnected but still works sometimes anyway.”

“The money has already been spent,” one of the HOA members said, looking down at her outstretched arm as if speaking to the row of butterflies that was perched there.

“On what though?” asked the iguana, who was good at keeping conversations on track due to his limited vocabulary.

Before this could be answered, a parade of bulldozers appeared on the horizon, rolling in military fashion toward the housing development of Desert Creek.

“Only when we are the most wild can we become the most civilized,” the HOA declared in gentle unison.