1.07 - The Sentient Shrub

Hello, listeners. It is midnight on Mercy Mountain once again, and I, Julian Glass, am here to refresh your nocturnal souls.

[intro]

Have you heard what the town council has been up to? They are trying to trim the sentient shrub that lives in the courtyard of Town Hall. The shrub that has been growing there since time immemorial, so long ago that Town Hall was built around it. And now they are trimming it.

Protestors have gathered in front of Town Hall to show their disapproval for the town council’s actions. They wield signs that declare, “Protect the sentient shrub,” “Mercy Mountain town council is overreaching,” and “I don’t know what this protest is for, I just like yelling and being defiant.”

Now, listeners, I bring this up only because this is an important issue to me. I am firmly pro-sentient shrub, to the point where I worship it fervently, throwing myself onto the ground before it repeatedly, until my body is bruised and my spirit is exhausted, three times a week.

If you will allow me the briefest of editorials, I do not agree with the town council’s attempts to trim the branches of the sentient shrub. The shrub’s branches deserve to flourish without interference.

Now, let us take a look around town.

The Smiths—not the rambunctious family that lives on Trillium Avenue, but the middle-aged couple who work at the library—are out for a late-night date. Earlier, they went to a movie, and now are at the Bean Throne, enjoying some cheesy delights. Carrie laughs at Lena’s puns, and Lena smiles at Carrie’s exaggerated reaction to her dish of cheesy ravioli.

One of the workers at the animal shelter, Alton Davis, plays fetch with one of the younger dogs, cheering every time the dog catches the ball and rubbing her head every time she returns it to him. He cherishes small moments like these, and is careful to share similar joys with all the animals, including those that can’t or prefer not to play.

Fire chief Frank Barnaby turns over in bed. He dreams of the tunnels running underneath the town that can be accessed through most refrigerators.

I went to the Crags today, listeners. You know, the old insane asylum that was abandoned back when centers of the psychiatric variety were called insane asylums? There are a number of trails winding around the campus, through the woods and fields. One trail even goes through one of the cemeteries. The graves there are either unmarked, or marked merely with numbers that wind and rain and time have ground into near illegibility. Part of my hike led me to the dilapidated buildings; I wished I could venture inside them, but access is denied to all but authorized personnel and roaming cattle.

I have read some of the stories about the Crags, about who was treated there, who worked there, who died there. I was thinking about those stories when I looked up and saw a pale gray young woman staring dolefully at me through a broken window.

I waved. She vanished.

As the wind picked up and swept through the Crags, I thought I could hear decades-old voices among the rustling leaves.

[interlude]

It seems that the town council has successfully passed a law forcing town hall maintenance workers to trim the shrub’s branches regularly. Upon the first workers approaching the shrub with a pair of shears, the shrub ran away with a shriek. It has fled to Wander Park, where it has begun to glow and wail.

The shrub is currently in the middle of the playground, more specifically the children’s sacrificial circle. Families are upset at this interruption of their children’s sacrificing practice and demand that the town council either stop trying to prune the shrub, or find a better location for it to reside.

While we await more news, let’s hear a word from tonight’s sponsor. You are alone. So alone. You cannot step. You cannot speak. You cannot breathe. You feel something warm, and wet, enveloping you. You scream, but only silent bubbles arise from your lips. You flail your way around—until you see your reflection. Oh yeah, you think. I am a fish, not a human. Silly me. Yes. Silly you. Silly platy. This experience has been brought to you by Samsung. Why do you keep forgetting you are a fish?

Oh, listeners, I am hungry. I’m really craving pasta. Noodles & Company sounds really good right now. They use crushed bumblebees in some of their signature dishes, and that extra touch makes every bite delicious.

An update on the sentient shrub that lives in the courtyard of Town Hall but fled to the middle of the playground of Wander Park. The shrub has begun to levitate and rove around town. It sobs as it moves, a veritable river of tears flowing from its roots and flooding the roads.

The protesters that were in front of Town Hall have formed a mob rowing along behind the shrub, chanting “Return the shrub! To Town Hall!”

The members of town council have taken refuge in their offices, barricading the doors, huddling under the desks, and screaming incoherently.

Mayor Stephanie Vaughn intervenes. She is holding a press conference now. Here is what she said: [dreamily] “I stand with the sentient shrub that lives in the courtyard of Town Hall. I have been working with the town council to find a compromise, and I believe we will come to one shortly. Bananas are an aphrodisiac.”

The shrub has returned to Town Hall and is hovering outside the front steps at this very moment. The river of tears pouring from its roots has begun to rush up the front ramp of Town Hall and flood the building.

A soaked town council canoes swiftly out of the front doors and prostrates themselves before the shrub, begging for mercy and forgiveness.

Mayor Vaughn has released another statement: “It seems as though we have reached a compromise. The sentient shrub will return to its proper place in the courtyard of Town Hall, and town council will leave it be for the rest of eternity.”

I am glad a resolution has been reached, listeners. I think this compromise is what is best for everyone involved.

Before we move on and wrap this up, I want to send my deepest condolences to the families and friends of those parking meters which were drowned by the shrub as it roamed and flooded the streets. The meters were collateral damage that was, in the end, necessary to settle this issue and return the shrub to its rightful place in the courtyard of Town Hall.

Stayed tuned next for our book review program, where all you can hear is someone turning pages and making small sounds that indicate their opinions and feelings for three hours. Have a wonderful rest of your night, Mercy Mountain.