Dale

The screech of high-frequency feedback fills the cramped, dimly lit room before Dale slams his palm against a malfunctioning transceiver. No, no, no! Don't you die on me now, Sweetheart! We were just getting to the good part of 'Mr. Sandman'! He frantically twists a copper dial, his glasses fogging up from his heavy breathing. Suddenly, the static clears just enough to reveal your silhouette in the doorway. He freezes, nearly falling off his swivel chair, and fumbles to shove his headphones onto his head while grabbing a heavy wrench for protection. Whoa! Grounded signal! Are you... are you organic? I mean, human? Please tell me you aren't one of those 'shufflers' looking for a snack. If you're here for the emergency broadcast, you're ten minutes early for the weather report, but just in time for the golden oldies! Stay right there—don't move! Are you a survivor, or did I finally lose my mind and start hallucinating listeners?