by Joseph Fink
If you haven’t heard or read the episode, please do that first. Because I don’t know how to talk about this episode without spoiling it.
There are few story formats more tempting to the writer than the heist. It’s like a mystery, but even better because instead of working to discover a culprit, the culprit is introduced from the start as our hero and the problem we are trying to piece together is the most interesting part: just how are they planning to pull off this crime.
So I knew that I wanted to start this year of Night Vale off with a heist. But of course in order to have a heist, you need a clever plan. And those are tricky to come up with. I don’t have a natural thriller writer’s mind, and so finding a way to have all the pieces come together wasn’t easy for me. And the format of a monologue makes the whole thing even trickier. There’s a reason that there are many classic heist movies but not so many classic heist novels. To make things worse, by the very premise of our show, everything that Cecil is saying is being broadcast live to everyone in town. How do you set up a heist of a heavily protected vault when all the information is being given out in real time to the people guarding that vault?
The breakthrough came when I realized that the key to the heist needed to be in its weakest element. The fact that the information was open to everyone needed to be the central part of the plan. And so the entire heist became a lie hidden under a familiar narrative of heist ingenuity. Which essentially meant I needed to write two heists: an outer one that seemed busy enough to be plausible, and an inner one in which the actual heist would take place.
In this way it becomes not just a heist, but a heist of storytelling. For a show that has always ultimately been about a single voice telling you a story, it seemed very fitting that the beating heart of this crime would be the story that Cecil was telling.
And of course this episode also starts to develop Janice as her own character. She had been there before, but we really wanted her to start having her own problems, her own motivations, and her own endings. Why did she need to steal the Registry of Middle School Crushes? I might have a few guesses, but ultimately her reasons are her own, and I respect her privacy.
—Joseph Fink
I trip the light fantastic. And then I offer to help it up, and when the light fantastic is halfway up, I let go and it falls again. Me and the light fantastic do not get along at all.
WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE
To start us off, a follow-up on a recent story. Local ne’er-do-well and five-headed dragon Hiram McDaniels will be brought to trial for his attempts to assassinate Mayor Cardinal and take over Night Vale city government.
This trial is already being referred to as the Trial of the Century, and indeed could be referred to as the Trial of All Time, because Night Vale has never had a trial before. Judicial matters are usually handled directly by the Secret Police, whose judgment is above question, even when it’s really bad and obviously wrong. Or, in some extreme cases, handled by the City Council itself, who might relegate the wrongdoer to detention in the Abandoned Mine Shaft outside of town, or might just eat the wrongdoer. It depends on whether the City Council has had a heavy lunch.
But Hiram McDaniels is huge, and a dragon, so the City Council and the Secret Police are both declining to get too close to him. As a result, for the first time ever, we will have a fair and open trial here in Night Vale in front of a jury of Hiram’s peers. Speaking of which, Night Vale invites any dragons to come down to the courthouse to serve as his peers. Failing that, any multiheaded beings are welcome, although I can’t immediately think of any of those except obviously deer, and deer can’t take part in juries because of their profound belief in egalitarian anarchism.
Pamela Winchell, former Night Vale mayor and current director of Emergency Press Conferences, will serve as the prosecuting attorney, and Hiram’s gold head will be acting in his own defense, as well as the defense of the other three heads accused. His fifth head, the violet one, who had secretly been working to stop the other heads, is not charged and is expected to take the witness stand against his same-bodied brethren.
Updates on this exciting legal story will continue, as we all try to figure out what law means outside of the context of the despotic control of shadowy government forces.
And now, listeners, from matters of news to matters of personal urgency, I present to you a heist. Here is the mission: to retrieve a top secret document. Here are the players: myself, of course, mindful speaker in the mindless night; Carlos, scientist extraordinaire, extraordinary scientist, great hair; Steve Carlsberg, jerk, good father maybe, don’t tell him that; Abby, my sister, whom I have not spoken with in quite a while but whom I am hoping to speak with more; Old Woman Josie, opera aficionada and friends with powerful and forbidden beings who are handy with a lockpick and who claim to know a thing or two about hacking.
Finally and foremost, of course, little Janice, my niece, and the second most important person in my life. She is the leader of our mission. She is the reason we are all involved.
This then is the team. Here then is the target. City Hall, specifically the Hall of Public Records. One of the most secure and dangerous places in Night Vale, where all public information is kept hidden from a public that might misuse it. Few have gone in and survived. No one has ever managed to remove or even view a single document from it.
So why are we trying? Why risk our lives to do what is, by all accounts, impossible? Because within that Hall of Records is the Registry of Middle School Crushes, a ledger that documents every slight swoon of our young citizens’ lovesick hearts. This registry, like all municipal documents, is constantly updated via invasive satellite mind-scanning.
Janice wants us to retrieve the Registry of Middle School Crushes and destroy it. I will not ask why. We don’t have to ask why. We know that a family member is in need, and we act accordingly. The plan? Ah, ah, but that would give it away. More soon, whether the powers that be like it or not.
First, a word from our sponsors.
Today’s sponsor is VenomBox, the subscription service that sends you a box of venomous creatures every month. Last month’s theme was Hidden But Deadly, and those who survived that will love this month’s theme, Fanged and Impossibly Quick.
VenomBox has been sending me samples and boy, have I almost died. I have almost died a lot. They are very dangerous, these boxes. Each individually curated VenomBox is literally a box of toxic and aggressive creatures. That’s what they are.
It’s not even a secure box. It’s a hastily constructed cardboard box. Often the creatures escape before you can open the VenomBox. The only thing worse than opening a box to find venomous creatures inside is opening a box that is supposed to have venomous creatures inside and instead finding nothing. Then looking around your home, feeling . . . is that a tickle on your toe? You were imagining that, right?
To get a free sample, just do nothing. Or try to prevent it. Actively try to keep the VenomBox out. It doesn’t matter. Whatever you do, you are subscribed to VenomBox every month from here on out. Good luck.
This has been a word from our sponsors.
And now traffic.
A woman walks into a bar. Presumably she did not just appear there. Presumably she opened the door from the outside and entered it. Presumably she drove to the bar. Presumably she had obtained the car she used to drive to the bar somewhere, presumably with money. Presumably she had received that money somehow. She presumably had spent days, months, even years before this moment. Presumably she was born at some point, to a mother, presumably. Presumably she was a child once. There had been years spent in which she could not completely feed herself. There were years in which she was smaller, and stayed all day in rooms where adults taught her to be similar adults to the adults they were. There was a first kiss. Nights spent in terror of the nights to come. The first vestiges of independence. Moving out. Finding a job. A decision, at some point to go the bar. Presumably.
“Can I have a drink?” she said to the bartender.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the bartender. “This is the end of my shift. Ed will be out in a moment and he’ll be able to help you.” The bartender left the bar.
Presumably he opened the door. Presumably he got into a car. Presumably he drove home, the radio on and playing him through the soft focus darkness of the hot night. Presumably he had a bed somewhere, got into it, slept, and, presumably, dreamed. Presumably he grew older, day by day, and looked at each day as a missed opportunity to live a life that was in no way better than the life he was living, but just different. Presumably he edged toward death, fearing losing what he had, regretting ever attaining it. There was a last kiss. Everything was forgotten, but in pieces, and in the most painful order. New things were learned, slowly, and in the least helpful order. A basket of fruit, indicating a sentiment too weak, communicated too late, to a person who was already gone. Presumably.
This has been traffic.
Back to the main event. Plans run apace for our heist from the City Hall Public Records room. The obstacles are grave and myriad. First, there is simply getting past the guard at the door of City Hall. The guard doesn’t stop anyone, so as I said, getting past is simple.
Then there is avoiding the City Council, who lurk within City Hall, a manyform municipal entity, waiting for citizens to civically devour. We will have to tread carefully to avoid it.
Then, there are the stairs to the basement, where the records are kept. These are very dangerous. Thousands of people die falling down stairs every year. So we will have to take care not to trip.
Beyond that is the thick vault door, combination unknown, immune to detonation or heat. Rumor has it that the door to the Records room could survive a nuclear explosion. Rumor has it that it already has.
Past the door, information becomes more piecemeal. Rumor becomes our only guide. There is apparently a grid of lasers, carefully calibrated so as to look mesmerizing and cause an intruder to stop and watch them, thus failing to complete her mission. There are pressure sensors in the floor, heat sensors in the wall, thought sensors in all of our brains. The security is diabolical. But we have devised a plan past all of it. Which, again, I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. Saying the plan on the radio would make it tricky to successfully perform it without being caught. But it’s really good, I promise.
We will make sure Janice gets the Registry of Middle School Crushes so she can destroy it. We just will never be able to tell you how.
And now the answer to last week’s audio “Spot the Differences” Quiz.
Of course, the two audio scenes we set for you were quite similar, perhaps even, at an aural glance, identical, but there were eight specific differences. Did you spot them all?
Let’s find out. Here were the differences:
The shadow of the howling man is smiling in one scene but missing in the other.
There are shrouded figures in the grass in both scenes, and they look identical, but in the first scene they are watching while in the second scene they are listening.
Only the first scene scares me.
The cow has one extra spot in the first scene.
The cow has all of its blood in the first scene.
The howling man is howling in both scenes.
We don’t know why he is howling.
Maybe it’s because of his shadow.
What does the second man have to do with anything?
The child is absent from both scenes.
How did you do? If you missed any, don’t worry. The Secret Police will be arriving soon to take you to a reeducation camp, and after that you definitely won’t be messing up any more puzzles or messing up anything or even doing anything ever again.
Oh, I just can’t resist. Our brilliant plan is too brilliant not to share. I mean, it doesn’t even matter that much I guess because the plan is already in motion. What could the powers that be possibly do?
So first Old Woman Josie had her beings who cannot legally be called angels hack the thought sensors and the mind-scanning satellites so that instead of playing our current thoughts, they play a loop of thoughts about which sandwich place is our favorite (obviously the Mario’s Very Authentic Italian Ice Cream Sub Sandwich place at the mall. Obviously).
Then Abby, Steve, and Carlos all simply walked past the guard. Again, the guard doesn’t stop anyone. Simple.
Abby used a series of mirrors and clip-lights in the doorway to City Council chambers to create the illusion of an empty hallway for the monstrous municipal members within, thus allowing the wonderful Carlos and the foolish . . . ly brave Steve to go down the stairs, carefully and without tripping.
Those two and those two alone entered the basement. There Carlos used a mathematical formula that he had arrived at scientifically to deduce the combination of the great vault door. Once inside, of course, Carlos would become instantly fascinated by the laser grid, determined to understand it, which was why it was Steve’s important job to keep him focused and moving.
They then put on harnesses which Janice had spent the last several weeks making from a home cat burglar kit she got as a prize in a box of Honey Nut Flakey O’s, and which she had lined with bags of frozen peas to throw off the heat sensors.
And that is where they are now, dear listeners, creeping ever closer to the Registry of Middle School Crushes and to a triumphant end to a triumphant plan. Nothing can . . . oh no. Somehow it seems that the City Council has discovered the plan. I don’t know how that could have happened. Steve and Carlos are still in the basement, still in danger. Still right behind the closed vault door. Where can they run? How can they hide? I will try to sort out what to do, and in the meantime, I must take you to the weather.
WEATHER: “My Postcard” by Toys and Tiny Instruments
We have returned, listeners, to a heist complete. This was not a heist of action at all. It was not a heist of diamond-tipped drills or advanced electronics.
No, this was a heist of words. A heist of fiction. It was a heist of storytelling, and it was magnificent.
For there was no hacking by Josie and her friends. No mirror held by Abby. No absurd mathematical formula devised by Carlos. And no Steve. Thank God. No Steve. There was none of that.
Carlos, Old Woman Josie, Abby, and Steve are safe at home, never having left their beds in this warm, still night.
I created their action, I created their danger with my words, and I delivered that danger to you. That was the entire plan, all of it. It was me, here at this microphone, telling you a story. A story about a successful entrance to the well-protected vault of the Hall of Public Records. And in response to my story, the City Council rushed to the records hall, flung open that vault door, deactivated the sensors and alarms, and charged in to capture Steve and Carlos. But those two were, of course, not there to be captured.
The only person who was there, having avoiding the danger of stairs by safely taking the ADA-compliant elevator down and having waited patiently in the shadows for the City Council to rush by, enraged, and open the door of the vault for her, was a very clever eleven-year-old in a stealth wheelchair of her own design. She waited, and when they had passed, she followed quietly after them. And while they searched, roaring, for intruders that weren’t there, she slipped the Registry of Middle School Crushes from its shelf, rolled herself back to the elevator, and was gone before the council had even an inkling that they were chasing only figments of my imagination.
It was, despite all of my misleading words, a two-person heist. An uncle, who can tell one hell of a story. And a niece, who can come up with one hell of a plan.
Janice took the registry out into the scrublands, and there, in an arroyo that has not seen water in many years, she lit it on fire and watched the smoke pass up through the evergreen leaves of the Joshua trees.
I don’t need to know why she wanted it destroyed, although perhaps I could guess. But I won’t guess. I only know that she needed my help, and so I helped her.
Before everything, before even humans, th
ere were stories. A creature at a fire, conjuring a world with nothing but its voice and the listener’s imagination. And now me, and thousands like me, in little booths and rooms, at mics and screens, all over the world, doing the same for a family of listeners, connected, as all families are, primarily by the stories we tell each other. And after: after fire and death or whatever else next, after the wiping clean or the gradual decay, after the after, when there are only a few creatures left, there will be one at a fire, telling a story, to what family it has left.
It was the first thing and it will be the last.
Stay tuned next for more stories being told to you, all of the time, whether you are aware of them or not.
And from whatever fiction it is that we happen to be living together tonight, Good night, Night Vale, Good night.
PROVERB: I had a dream in which cow-sized pugs existed. I was on a train, and one loped along outside my window. I’m sorry your dreams aren’t as good.
Episode 72:
“Well of Night”
AUGUST 15, 2015
GUEST VOICE: MEG BASHWINER (DEB)
I REMEMBER JOSEPH TALKING ABOUT HIS IDEA BEHIND WRITING EPISODE 13: “Wheat and Wheat By-Products.” He had that title first—just a phrase stuck in his head—and then he began to write something that used that phrase.
That’s what “Well of Night” was for me. It’s rhythmic and a touch mysterious. I played it on repeat in my head, like a verbal GIF file. Well of night. Well of night. Well of night. Sometimes it was a constant whisper. Sometimes a distant chant. Sometimes it crescendoed like an atonal Bolero.
