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Chapter 46: How About Buying a Typewriter First?
In this world, the record holder for the highest-rated late-night drama was Silver X Night Passion. It was the only late-night show to ever infiltrate the prime-time battleground of the five major networks since the widespread adoption of television. But that accomplishment came with an asterisk.
The show was... well, let’s just say it pushed boundaries. Its plot was so bizarre and ethically questionable that it seemed tailor-made to shock human sensibilities. Initially aired in secrecy during the dead of night, it largely escaped mainstream attention. However, its peculiar appeal quickly attracted a niche but fervent fanbase. Word-of-mouth spread like wildfire, propelling the show onto the trending charts—only for it to be swiftly flagged by the Ethics Committee and the Youth Health Association. The hammer came down hard: public apologies, kneeling producers begging forgiveness for corrupting impressionable minds, and a media frenzy that included death threats, paint splattered on doors, and angry slogans plastered across their offices. The production team disbanded in disgrace, and most members vanished from the industry entirely.
That debacle left a lasting scar on public broadcasters, production bureaus, and creators alike. From then on, even late-night programming treaded carefully. While risqué content still found its way into dramas or variety shows, they rarely ventured beyond a cheeky glimpse or a suggestive wink. Public broadcasters bore societal responsibilities that private cable networks did not; the latter catered to smaller, adult-only audiences where boundary-pushing content carried less risk.
The incident sparked widespread social debate at the time, drawing enough official scrutiny to warrant direct intervention—a lesson learned the hard way. Silver X Night Passion became the swan song of late-night dramas for years to come. Anything older than that was statistically irrelevant anyway—the early days of TV had fewer channels and programs, relying on manual ratings collection. A jaw-dropping 92% average viewership once existed, but those figures belonged to another era altogether.
Now, against all odds, another late-night drama had clawed its way onto the trending list, clinging precariously to the last spot. Yet, its mere presence stirred memories of the controversy surrounding Silver X. What could this new show possibly be doing to draw such late-night audiences? Was it equally scandalous? Equally bizarre?
For a moment, public discourse went silent as critics scrambled to revisit past reviews, binge-watch episodes, and dissect the phenomenon sweeping through late-night viewing habits.
---
At the production meeting, Murakami Iori radiated excitement. Her eyes sparkled as she announced, “The Programming Committee has agreed to increase our budget by 30%, provided we maintain our current performance.”
This was excellent news, especially for Fujii Arima, who chuckled with relief. “Thank goodness they aren’t completely blind. That’s a miracle.”
Chihara Rinto nodded approvingly. For him, this signaled a turning point—the committee finally acknowledged their efforts. The additional funding felt like ammunition being supplied to soldiers stationed on a mountaintop, allowing them to fire a couple of shots toward the main battlefield below. It wasn’t full support, but it was something.
Behind closed doors, the trio freely vented about their superiors without restraint. Murakami didn’t mind; buoyed by recent successes, she gleefully added, “And there’s more good news! The Higashi Nippon Group contacted me—they’re willing to sponsor us!”
Initially, Murakami had reached out to Higashi Nippon’s PR department, only to be ignored. Now, seeing how things were unfolding differently than expected, they’d proactively approached her instead. Success bred opportunity, and Murakami reveled in the newfound perks of producing. Gone were the sleepless nights and endless stress.
Money talked, and Fujii, who had endured lean times, eagerly asked, “How much are they offering? And what do they want?”
“Their demands are reasonable,” Murakami replied. “They want their logo displayed prominently in the opening credits, along with imagery of their headquarters. In exchange, they’re offering eight million yen!” She grinned, thrilled by the windfall. “The Programming Committee has already approved channeling this money directly into production costs.”
“That’s great, but couldn’t we negotiate more?” Fujii pressed. “What about end-credit ads?”
“They didn’t mention that, but I’ll pitch it later.”
“Absolutely,” Fujii agreed. “I can work overtime to shoot a sample ad. We can tweak it multiple times if needed—it won’t cost much. Whatever they need, we’ll deliver.”
Fujii’s enthusiasm stemmed from knowing the bulk of the funds would flow toward his department. Unlike screenwriters—who could use a box of pens a year—directors required significant resources to bring their visions to life.
“What should we do with the unexpected surplus?” Murakami pondered aloud. Feeling generous, she suggested spreading the wealth: “Aside from boosting production costs, should we upgrade the catering and distribute bonuses?”
Fujii hesitated. While extra cash was always welcome, he harbored ambitions of becoming a renowned director. This was his chance to shine. With tactful diplomacy, he countered, “The meals are fine as they are—we don’t need anything extravagant. Bonuses are okay, but let’s keep them modest. Overdoing it now will set unrealistic expectations for the future, which could backfire.”
His underlying message was clear: prioritize improving the show’s quality over short-term gratification.
Murakami wavered, torn between rewarding her hardworking crew and investing in the project. Turning to Chihara, she asked, “What do you think?”
“A slight upgrade to meal quality is fine,” Chihara offered diplomatically. “Bonuses should be kept minimal—better to stretch our resources over time.” After pausing thoughtfully, he added with a sheepish smile, “Actually, if there’s leftover funding... I’d like to buy a computer.”
Computers hadn’t yet become household appliances in this era, remaining prohibitively expensive. Even typing was considered a specialized skill. Murakami and Fujii exchanged startled glances before blurting in unison, “What do you need a computer for?”
“To write scripts.”
Their expressions shifted from confusion to skepticism. Handwriting was standard practice among screenwriters. Why was Chihara insisting on something so unconventional?
Reluctantly, they entertained the idea, though it struck them as wasteful. Still, given Chihara’s outsized contributions to the show, rejecting his request outright seemed inappropriate. Murakami hesitated, proposing a compromise: “How about a typewriter first?”
Chihara shook his head immediately. He wanted internet access, but explaining that to these two felt futile. Instead, he said lightly, “If you think it’s unnecessary, I’ll save up and buy it myself.”
Truthfully, his interest stemmed from convenience rather than necessity. With barely ¥200,000 in disposable income—enough to cover daily expenses and emergencies—he couldn’t afford a computer anytime soon. Accepting rejection gracefully, he reminded himself that shared funds weren’t meant for personal indulgences. Free meals and snacks were perks enough.
Still, Murakami couldn’t shake her unease. She wasn’t blind to Chihara’s financial struggles. Over the month she’d known him, he’d worn the same three-piece suit every day. At first, she assumed he simply preferred uniformity, perhaps owning seven identical custom-tailored suits. Closer observation revealed otherwise: he likely owned just one suit, unable to afford another. Despite his impeccable cleanliness, it was evident he was new to the workforce, financially strained, and barely scraping by.
If he truly desired something, shouldn’t she help? After deliberating for less than five seconds, she decided yes. Even if Chihara spent hundreds of thousands on a gadget, his contributions justified treating it as a bonus. Addressing Fujii, she declared firmly, “If Chihara believes it’ll aid his writing, we shouldn’t skimp. Let’s approve the purchase.”
Fujii, resigned, nodded. “Alright.”
Technically, he benefited most from the budget increases, using the funds to enhance filming quality—a justification no one could fault. Though he could have argued against frivolous spending, Chihara’s invaluable contributions silenced any objections. Besides, someone as reserved as Chihara wouldn’t make frequent unreasonable requests.
With the meeting adjourned, the entire crew stood to benefit. Catering standards improved, and bonuses were distributed according to rank. Meanwhile, Chihara secured approval for his computer—though actual purchase awaited the arrival of funds.
He eagerly scoured newspaper ads for models, researching specifications while drafting scripts. His ultimate goal? Accessing the “ancient” version of the internet. While smartphones remained a distant dream—mere concepts dismissed as impossible fantasies—he settled for what technology currently offered.
By the next day, mainstream media finally caught on.
This late-night drama? Fascinating.
You couldn’t call it a masterpiece—it lacked technical complexity—but its creativity shone brightly. Each episode delivered consistent quality, as if meticulously curated.
What was Tokyo Eizo Broadcasting thinking, relegating such talent to the graveyard slot? Were they insane?
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