The Buying of Lot 37

by Joseph Fink

  “It’s an exciting time to work in print journalism,” Hart shouted after a news blogger who was sprinting away from the hatchet-wielding veteran of the printed word. Hart then hurled another hatchet at the terrified representative of the Daily Journal’s digital competition. She hit her target just behind the knee, felling him as he made a sharp cry and a dull asphalt thud.

  “Very exciting,” Hart shouted. She added, “These printed versions of the daily paper are collector’s items. We’ve deliberately inserted a bunch of errors into them, because true collectors know that makes them worth a bunch more.”

  Listeners, I for one think a resurgence in the newspaper industry would be great. This could mean even more jobs here in Night Vale.

  “This will create lots of new jobs for Night Vale,” Hart will certainly have said by this time tomorrow. “Lots of real awesome jobs,” I am sure she will have reiterated.

  And now, a look at traffic.

  There’s an accident at the corner of Hollows Road and Great Hills Drive. It’s a pretty bad accident. It is likely neither party saw an accident of this magnitude coming. Each driver stands, staring, dumbfounded at their two twisted cars, which look like one. One what? Not a car. A spiteful burning beast borne of mundane haste and arrogant industrial progress.

  The two drivers cannot comprehend what to do. They are still mostly. Fidgeting sometimes. Thinking not at all. A neighbor who came out of her house upon hearing the hard smash of hard metal can’t seem to process what is happening either. She’s slowly leaning away as if wanting to leave, wanting to forget she ever witnessed this, but she cannot move. She cannot take that first step. Her eyes growing wide, wild, as her mouth opens slack at first and then slowly recoils into an unheard scream.

  The two drivers feel the neighbor there, but they do not turn. They do not ask for help or aid. Too scared to move, they stand and gaze into the crumpled slits along the sides of the pressed cars—that damnable block of hot machinery and its black smoke swirls. And on the concrete there is glass and above the glass are arms and hair and drying blood. And the drivers stare at their own wretched bodies inside the mangled contraptions and they do not think about anything other than what they once were. They watch their bodies, hoping for a twitch, a breath, any kind of movement. Hoping for another chance in life.

  So it’s pretty backed up pretty bad near the Best Buy. Choose some alternate routes today.

  This has been traffic.

  You know me, listeners. I’m a pretty straight-and-narrow radio professional. I’m all about objectivity and impartiality. But it’s time for a Cecil Palmer editorial.

  Given the growing prevalence of the internet—not just on computers, but also phones and watches and owls and certain trees—our private information is just out there, waiting to be taken and exploited by the wrong kinds of people.

  Of course, it’s vitally important that vague yet menacing government agencies have access to our personal data, like income, dream journals, phone logs, embarrassing thoughts, and slash-fiction archives. Also the police and the World Government. And the mayor. And the faceless old woman who secretly lives in all of our homes.

  Yes, those people should all have access to our private data.

  But now there are things called scripts and algorithms that can just scan our e-mails and our purchase history and all those photos of cats wearing baseball mitts we like to share with each other. And these scripts and algorithms are sometimes called bots. And these bots are large cyborgs that break into our homes and look through our stuff and then feed these secrets to corporations and then these corporations make more bots and soon we will have to fight bot armies. But with what? Knives and guns are completely internet-based now. They will turn against us in that war.

  We are not safe from the impending Bot Wars. So stop having personal data is what I’m trying to say. No more e-mails. No more job histories, Night Vale. No more cat pictures or erotic fan fic or text messages.

  I know this is difficult. On the one hand, we enjoy having personal information like careers and friends and hobbies. On the other hand, we’re talking about war. And on the third, eleven-fingered hand, nothing is to say bots wouldn’t be benevolent leaders. But I do not wish to find this out.

  I’m sure the naysayers will tell me that I’m overreacting, which I am. But it’s my opinion, okay. You don’t get to tell me who’s overreacting. You’re underreacting, I’ll say. I’ll totally say that. I’ll say that to their face.

  What—? What’s that?

  Oh. Okay.

  Listeners, Intern Maureen just handed me a note explaining that the City Council has just declared all information totally public, and that since no information is private anymore, the giant corporations and their bots cannot harm us by mining private data. The City will keep all of our information safely out in the open and available to anyone wearing sunglasses and a sidearm.

  Thanks, Maureen.

  Moments ago, the Sheriff’s Secret Police held a secret press conference reminding us all that murder is illegal. Also attempted murder. “Like, let’s say you try to kill a person but you don’t actually succeed,” a Secret Police spokesperson whispered from behind a concrete pillar in the underground garage of the disused East Night Vale Mall, “then that’s still illegal. Even if you didn’t kill that person.”

  “But what if you just think about killing a person but don’t actually do it?” came one question from the batch of reporters who were also whispering and hiding.

  “Well, that’s not illegal then,” the spokesperson whispered in reply.

  “But I have it all planned out and everything,” the reporter continued. “I just haven’t done it yet. Is that illegal?”

  “Well, that’s just mean and kind of weird,” said the Secret Police spokesperson before walking out into the open, and saying “Leann, is that you?”

  “Um. No. . . .” came a comically deep voice that was obviously fake. “Not me at all. I’m just an old bagel wrapper someone left on the ground. I’m inanimate garbage.”

  “Leann, we know it’s you,” said the spokesperson. “Stop attacking bloggers with hatchets. We found a dozen more wounded bloggers in Mission Grove Park this morning. They all had hatchets in their backs and were very upset. It’s not nice, Leann. It’s also illegal, okay?”

  “I’m a bagel wrapper, you jerk,” Hart replied, still whispering and hiding.

  And now a word from our sponsor.

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  You can feel your dry lips, swollen and sticking together, their crusted, gray edges adorning the pink pain beneath. You lick your lips, feeling better for a moment but actually worsening the problem.

  It’s hot right? Pretty hot and dry, actually. Are those flies? Yes those are flies. Are those birds? Vultures? Yes. Actual vultures. In your home. “How did these soaring scavengers get in my home?” you think.

  Perhaps you could use some cool, pure, natural, and refreshing Fiji Water. Yes, Fiji Water sounds so nice, doesn’t it? But Fiji Water is not who is sponsoring this show. Fiji Water doesn’t even know about this show. Who is sponsoring this show? We cannot tell you. We’re not allowed.

  Fiji Water is completely unaware of you, too. So sorry.

  This will not end quickly.

  So very, very sorry.

  This has been a word from our sponsor.

  This afternoon Night Vale High School and the armed militia that make up our Committee for Civic Pride are holding a ticker tape parade for local sports hero Michael Sandero, who became the first Night Vale High athlete to play in a college football national title game.

  Unfortunately, Sandero’s team, the University of Michigan Wolverines, lost to copies of themselves in the title game. But Sandero did win the Heisman Trophy for the nation’s best college football player and did his hometown proud.

  Intern Maureen, who I sent to re
port on the parade, is texting me that there’s a problem. I’m getting word that Leann Hart has interrupted the festivities with an announcement.

  According to Maureen’s flurry of texts, Hart is claiming that Michigan did not play itself for the title. As proof of her claim, Hart passed out copies of a news article from The Michigan Daily from January 13 stating that at the end of the season, Michigan lost more games than they won and that their quarterback’s name is Devin Gardner, not Michael Sandero.

  On the front page of that issue of The Daily is a headline strongly indicating that people at the University of Michigan can remember most things correctly. “PRETTY MUCH NO MAJOR MEMORY PROBLEMS HERE,” the headline reads.

  She also claims that a school called Ohio State won the national title over a school called Oregon.

  Maureen confirmed that while Ohio is, in fact, a U.S. State, Michigan and Oregon are neither states nor cities anyone seems to have heard of before. We are still trying to figure out their languages of origin.

  Maureen is texting me that Hart is now shouting “Blogger!” over and over. Maureen is texting me that Hart is hurling hatchets now. Maureen is texting me that everyone looks pretty scared. Maureen just texted me “I’m hit!”

  Let me respond real quick.

  [saying slowly while texting back] Is that slang for something, Maureen?

  She texted back, “I’m hit. She got me. I’m bleeding.”

  I don’t understand young people and their weird text-speak at all. Who even knows what she’s trying to say. Well. Whatever. While I text Maureen back with a quick grammar lesson, let me take you to the weather.

  WEATHER: “Anarchy Date” by Queer Rocket

  Listeners, I have just learned that Maureen was struck with a hatchet thrown by Leann Hart. So then . . . To the family of Intern Maureen. She was a good intern, a valiant intern, brave right up until the end. Sadly she is with us no more. She will be missed.

  For the hatchet attack on Maureen, as well as several other attacks at today’s parade and more than five dozen similar hatchet-based assaults in the past several weeks, the Sheriff’s Secret Police arrested Leann Hart.

  “We told you it was illegal to kill people, Leann,” the Sheriff himself said from his hoveroffice in the clouds, “and also to try to kill people.”

  “But they were news bloggers,” Hart replied. “I can’t stay in business and create jobs if news bloggers are putting me out of business and destroying those jobs.”

  And the Sheriff agreed, saying it’s the Secret Police’s job to protect business interests as well as citizen interests. The City Council also agreed. So did the vague yet menacing government agency, nodding quietly from inside their long black sedans with tinted windows while snapping photos of everything they saw.

  The Mayor did not agree. Mayor Dana Cardinal went against the City Council and said that she, for one, did not think people or businesses should be allowed to use physical violence against their competition or anyone for that matter. The City Council bristled, and then they all squawked and flew away.

  It is unclear whether or not news bloggers agree, as many of them have gone silent on this issue, replacing their investigative reports and think pieces with pictures of cats wearing baseball gloves and top-rated recipes for invisible pie.

  The Sheriff then announced that all charges against Hart would be dropped, except for the assault on Intern Maureen. Maureen, after all, was not a news blogger, but a radio intern who posed no direct threat to Hart’s newspaper, the Sheriff said. And I agreed.

  The Sheriff then played the entirety of Domenico Galli’s Sonata Quinta on his gold cello.

  “But she looked like a blogger,” Hart insisted. “She was typing into her phone. All those bloggers do that. Bloggers love typing on phones.”

  “But she worked in radio, Leann,” the Sheriff said, as he ended a series of lilting high notes with a single discordant bass tone. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m sorry but that is attempted murder. You have to go to jail now.”

  “Oh! But I didn’t attempt to kill her. You said murder and attempted murder were illegal. Murder wasn’t my intent,” Leann said.

  “Then what was your intent?” the Sheriff asked.

  “Oh, just throwing a hatchet at her. Nothing more. Nothing less,” Hart said. “I meant nothing by it,” she added, brushing her hands together and then holding them out, empty and clean.

  Her open palms signified case closed, and the Sheriff, held to the higher law of gestures, had no choice but to acquiesce.

  So Hart was set free, turned back into the world to print more news. To keep the industry alive.

  Before she left she paused and said, “I think something’s wrong in Michigan.” (And listeners, that’s how she said it. I don’t know why. It’s very clear how it’s actually pronounced if you see it written out.)

  And she held up her copy of The Michigan Daily from January 13 with an article that said “Michigan, Sandero Lose Close One to Themselves.” And the front page of The Michigan Daily now showed a bold headline “WE HAVE FORGOTTEN SO MANY THINGS” and then several blank columns with no story, merely pictures of normal things like shoes and birds and ghosts, all captioned with a series of frantic question marks.

  “I guess I was wrong earlier. I dunno. Weird, right?” Hart said with a shrug.

  “That is crazy weird,” the Sheriff agreed, finishing out the sonata before disappearing in a soft breeze.

  “I agree,” said a nearby news blogger, who was coughing up blood and clutching tightly to the hatchet lodged in her abdomen. “I can’t wait to blog about it,” the blogger said through gritted teeth.

  Leann tightened her grip on the hatchet in her left hand, raising it slightly. There was a tense pause that was eventually broken by a light smirk from Leann Hart. Then the two of them laughed and laughed. They are both still laughing now.

  Because of the hatchet attack she survived today, Intern Maureen has resigned from radio, as I clearly and without any other possible interpretation explained earlier. She wasn’t hurt that badly, but Maureen went on and on about radio being a dangerous job and totally not worth the constant risk of death. I told her she makes it harder than it needs to be. She rolled her eyes and packed up her desk. I miss her already. She had a good sense of humor.

  Stay tuned next for something clawing at your window. It will also be sniffing. Sniffing and clawing at your window. Occasionally it will wail. Occasionally you will hear nothing. So, to recap: sniffing and clawing at your window over and over, with the occasional piercing wail, and then long silences. All that next!

  And as always, good night, Night Vale. Good night.

  PROVERB:Ask your doctor just who he thinks he is. Say it just like that. Say, “Who do you think you are?” See if he starts crying. I know I would.

  Episode 63:

  “There Is No Part 1: Part 2”

  MARCH 3, 2015

  SOME NIGHT VALE EPISODES START BECAUSE I HAVE A PHRASE OR AN image and I go looking for a way to transplant that phrase or image into the heads of the listeners. Others start more like games that I want to play with either myself or the listeners. This episode is very much a game.

  The concept is simple, but with a lot of possibility. It’s the second part to an epic two-part episode, except we haven’t heard the first part and we never will because it doesn’t exist. I wanted to play with the common structures and clichés of two-part episodes in television, the big cliffhanger, the point where all hope is lost, and skip right to the part where we figure out how to win.

  With a game episode, instead of a plot outline, I’ll often instead just make a list of every possible use of the concept. Given the rules of the game, what plays are there for me to make? Then once I have that list, I use it to build out a story that will take us through as many of them as possible. So every part of this episode is designed to make use of the two-part structure and the feeling that we missed all the important bits already.

  Along wi
th the game, though, there were some larger pieces we needed to keep moving into place. And so the entire two-parter is centered around the continuing story of Lot 37 and Cecil’s loss of control. The Lot 37 plot was started by a guest episode written by the brilliant author Glen David Gold. In it, Cecil is very confused to find that he is up for sale at the Sheriff’s Secret Police auction. He rushes downtown to bid on himself, and in Glen’s original script, is successful. I made a change, which was to make him unsuccessful, and the winning bidder unclear. This impulsive edit turned into a story that ended up taking almost two years to tell, and the ramifications of which are still being played out in town as I write this.

  Much of the fun of inviting guest writers on is that they tend to throw in these narrative grenades, little ideas that we can either let end with their episode, or, as is often the case, instead decide to pick up and carve entire new stories with, stories that sometimes take center stage. This is the beauty of having a small writing team with no oversight. If a thing seems interesting, we can take it in any direction we want, even if it wasn’t our original plan to do so.

  This episode also marks the beginning of a wedge in Dana and Cecil’s friendship. They were always so close, and their relationship was one of the hearts of the show, so it seemed important to us to explore and test it a bit. Because it seems that Dana is the most likely winner of Lot 37. But would she do that to Cecil? How well does Cecil really know her?

  The answers to those would eventually come. But first I had a game to play. A game in which there was a Part Two, but no Part One.

  —Joseph Fink

  There is no part one. This is part two.