I see you trying to trip me up and all I have to say is: I hope this is as weird as you expected it to be.  I feel like it fits the tone of the song.  Two OTP’s, even though only half of each pairing is present, and I guess this is more like…the start of plot than just an OTP thing.

“Once upon a time, there was a girl,” the girl with the long hair murmurs, “and what no one knew was that the King of the Goblins had fallen in love with the girl, and he had given her certain powers.  Which I thought included a sense of direction, but clearly not,” she adds with a scowl, her helmet tucked under one arm and her hip propped against the motorcycle behind her.  “Snickers, where are we?”

The goblin in question peers out of her pack—where she firmly stuffed him out of sight because wow she is not explaining that to any cops who happen to pull her over—and stares, wide-eyed, up at the town in front of them. It looks…odd.  The town, not the goblin, Snickers looks pretty much how he normally does except slightly less chocolate-smeared, because it’s been a good six hours since their last stop at a gas station and his beloved candy bars have since run out.  But the town…

Well. Sarah’s not going to call the Arbys with the glowing lights overhead, the park in the distance surrounded by a twelve-foot fence topped with barbed wire (helpfully labeled ‘Dog Park: Do Not Enter, Look At, or Think About’ to Sarah’s unusually good eyes), or the house apparently under a pillar of divine light the weirdest thing she’s ever seen. But she’s maybe considering adding it to the list.

“Sign,” Snickers says, and extends a three-clawed hand to point.  Snickers, honestly, is a strong contender for the weirdest thing she’s ever seen because—what the hell—he’s a goblin who seems perfectly happy on a motorcycle.  Even Ludo was dubious of the motorcycle, and Hoggle almost tore out his minimal hair at the thought of Sarah dropping out of college to wander for a while.  But she never seems to run out of money, always finding a dropped credit card or a few tens lying about, and the few times someone’s been foolish enough to try to rob her they have suffered mysterious avian bombardments from unusually aggressive wildlife, so she figures she’ll stop when she finds somewhere worth staying.  Or when Himself pulls himself together enough to come ask her out like a regular person rather than just…arranging her life conveniently.  She’s pretty sure that’s a long time coming, though.

“Thanks, Snicks,” she says absently, and stuffs Snickers back into the pack as she looks at the sign at the town limits.

Welcome to Night Vale, it declares cheerfully under the motif of a purple eye with the crescent moon at its center.  Population: Up to Interpretation.  Please leash all eldritch monstrosities and help keep our town beautiful!

Sarah observes the sign for a few moments, waiting for the letters to reshuffle themselves, or perhaps peel themselves away and perform a tap dance.  No such thing occurs, so she pops her helmet securely on the handlebars of her bike and drives into Night Vale.

She makes it all of two blocks, just far enough to pass the Arbys at the far edge of town and realize that the sky isn’t quite the right color—it’s full daylight, but she would venture to call the sky indigo, maybe—before an old woman with riotous curls strolls out onto the street in front of her, smooth as you please.  The old woman wouldn’t be a problem, Sarah’s reflexes are excellent, but the thing trailing docilely behind her looks like it belongs in one of the Labyrinth’s stranger turns.  It’s eight feet tall, with skin in a shade of ebony black you just don’t get without some serious polish, and eyes on every bit of visible skin, except where eyes are normally found.  It also has a sum total of six wings and Sarah can’t quite figure out how they’re coming out of the back of its very thick, clearly hand-knitted sweater.  

So Sarah comes to a stop, because it’s best not to antagonize unknown entities with motorcycle crashes, no matter how docile they look in their sweaters.

The old woman leads her black-skinned friend—Sarah’s not one to judge, and they seem to be having a perfectly nice conversation, even if the optically overenthusiastic thing (possible name according to the old woman: Erika) seems to be communicating mostly in bursts of static—across the street and onto the sidewalk.  Sarah watches them go, a bit bemused, and concludes that, all other questions aside, clearly the thing isn’t an eldritch monstrosity, because the sign said those had to be leashed, and places like this tend to adhere religiously to their own rules, in her experience.  So there’s that.

She’s about to keep going when someone else—this time distinctly human-shaped—bursts into a run and bolts onto the street and (gods and demons, this man is insane) actually grabs her arm.  

There’s a really ugly moment where the world seems to hold its breath, the indigo sky purpling toward a dangerous mauve, and one of the distantly circling birds shows far too much interest in this probably-benign mortal for Sarah’s liking.  She helps save Unfortunate Mystery Man’s life by peeling his hand off the place where he’s starting to bruise her wrist, and everything goes back to itself.

“Hi,” Sarah says, perfectly friendly because there’s no reason not to be and unsuccessfully attempting to shove Snickers back into his pack.  He always gets overcurious when Sarah’s…certain powers start to act up.  She suspects he may have orders as her bodyguard, as ineffective as a thirteen-inch-tall goblin might be.  “Can I help you, Mister…?”

“Carlos,” the man says, looking apologetic now.  “Everyone here just calls me Carlos.  Except for the people who call me Mister Scientist, and I’d really rather you didn’t.”  Sarah nods, looking him over.  He is, in fact, wearing a lab coat.  She also notes that he has perfectly straight teeth, and hair that she’s actually envious of, even though her own never seems to tangle.  “And I’m sorry I grabbed you, I should know better than to grab people in this town…and you seem remarkably calm about Old Woman Josie and Erika,” he observes.

“I’ve seen weirder,” Sarah says dryly.

“Well, I used to say the same—what on earth is that?”

Sarah closes her eyes, because Snickers has gotten loose and now she’ll probably never get him back in the pack without a truly prodigious offering of chocolate. The man—Carlos—doesn’t seem shocked or horrified, more deeply and delightedly curious.

“Snickers!” she snaps, opening her eyes, and Snickers stops trying to unzip the other pack in his quest for candy bars.  “Sorry, Carlos, what were you saying?  And Snickers is…well.”  

“I take it back, maybe you have seen weirder.  Is it some kind of mutant?” Carlos asks, interested.  “We have the barking spiders, but they never get so big, and–”

“He’s a goblin,” Sarah interrupts.  “I…sort of won him.”

Snickers offers a smile with a truly terrific number of pointed white teeth, and says, “Got to go on bike with Queen.  Fun-fun!”

“Don’t call me that, please,” Sarah says wearily.  “Himself has to actually ask. Like a person.”  Snickers bursts into gales of riotous cackles, and Sarah takes the opportune moment to jam him back into his pack and zip him in.  “Sorry, Carlos, what did you want?”

“Well,” Carlos says, taking a deep breath.  “My wildlife and air temperature readings have been getting very strange, and Cecil’s sky forecasts are usually right on the mark, but look at this! Blue as a sapphire, when today was supposed to be taupe at best!”  He flails an arm at the sky, and Sarah blinks at him.  “And everyone’s complaining of strange dreams—pleasant for once, so you’d think they’d count their blessings, but no.  And of course there’s the fact that the storage closet in Cecil’s radio station has apparently been replaced with a large ballroom,” he adds, apparently upon consideration.

“Right, who’s Cecil, and what does this have to do with me?  And does the ballroom look…inhabited?”  Sarah frowns, trying to come up with a good way to ask ‘like a faerie-wrought peach-borne hallucination,’ but can’t think of anything delicate.

Carlos flushes under his dark skin, shuffling awkwardly, and grins a little as he says, “Cecil’s my boyfriend.  He’s the Voice of Nightvale.  He says that this sort of confusion seems to suggest a multi-dimensional sort of overlap, and that there’s probably a person providing the focal point.  You’re the first new arrival in…a while, so I got a little overexcited. And the ballroom is something of a wreck, actually, it looks like the wall was made of glass and someone smashed it with–”

“A chair,” Sarah says with another sigh.  “It was a chair.”  She rakes both hands through her hair and says, “All right, Mister Scientist.  Let’s go meet your boyfriend.”