Chapter 105: Inexplicable

William White had to return to the United States; the current situation was bizarre, with the Commodity Futures Trading Commission suddenly erupting in anger.

This was actually expected. The Hunter family had gone off the rails—silver had already surpassed forty dollars per ounce. It was enough to drive anyone mad!

William White couldn’t care less about other people’s troubles, so why investigate his comrade’s trading accounts? Were they looking to pin the blame on someone?

William White wasn’t about to fall for that. Anyone daring to covet his friend’s wallet would be shown what they were made of.

Anyone with eyes could see that the feud between the two families had ended with the Whites making a victorious escape. Now, they were buying planes and mansions, purely to provoke and infuriate.

Both the Chicago and New York trading markets were privy to the inside story. Now, it was nothing more than a matter of striking out blindly.

The Commission had already been outwitted once by the Hunter family over soybean contracts. Now, they were poised to humiliate themselves again.

“Fubo,” William said, “have the lawyers notify them—we’re preparing for legal action. I’ll hold a press conference tomorrow afternoon to question their deliberate negligence in regulation, which allowed over seventy percent of silver to flow into the Hunter family’s hands, aiding their manipulation of silver prices.”

Fubo was stunned. Could they really say something like that? Upon reflection, it made sense—at least many people would believe it.

Conspiracy theories thrived in every era; it was just a question of who would dare to shoulder this blame.

Damn, who would dare?

Don’t try to deny it—the Hunter family’s scheme began over a decade ago. The silver they now held was measured in hundreds of millions.

How much silver did the market actually need?

Twenty million ounces a year was sufficient.

To gain more trading commissions, you chose to keep quiet. Now that the problem has surfaced, you still have the nerve to show off.

The Hunter family was no easy opponent. Did they think William was soft? Believe it or not, he was ready to flip the table.

For the wealthy, America was a society of rules. As long as you played within those rules, no one else had a say.

“That bastard!” William White issued an ultimatum as soon as he stepped off the plane—simple, brutal, and utterly shocking.

His meaning was clear: this was the Hunter family’s fault. If they wanted him to take the fall, the Commission might as well perish.

Holding back his rage, the Commodity Futures Trading Commission had no choice but to clarify.

At that moment, they loathed those Southern barbarians with a fiery intensity.

The private feud of two Texas families was, in truth, none of their concern. To them, it was better if both families went down together—they were all no good.

They were indeed at fault. The accusations were clear: you ignore the violations, yet you harass my legitimate dealings. Did you think I wouldn’t lose my temper?

Often, when you wield enough influence, others are forced to reason with you. Holding a team of elite lawyers in your corner, when did you ever worry about reason?

Soon, a ridiculous scene unfolded in the trading market: trading restrictions were imposed. Initially, only purchase quantities were limited—they hoped the Hunter family would stop their antics.

Unfortunately, the Hunter family was unfazed. If individual accounts were restricted, they’d just open more accounts. What could you do then?

The Commission had lost it. The price of a futures contract was still a thousand dollars, corresponding to five thousand ounces of silver.

Was this some kind of madness?

With silver breaking forty dollars, this was a game of a thousand dollars on two hundred thousand ounces. A 0.05 movement would trigger liquidation. Was there any such absurd trading in the world?

Did those involved not know?

William White said that calling it indulgence was putting it mildly—it was downright collusion.

It was all about interests. If the futures contract price rose, trading volume would plummet.

If the Hunter family hadn’t gone too far, the trading center wouldn’t intervene. If you bought and held, liquidation was your own fault.

Trying to make trouble for William White was just envy of profits. What was most infuriating was that this guy simply stopped playing.

Like gambling, as long as you keep playing, you’ll eventually lose yourself. They didn’t care about your short-term gains.

Win and run?

That was despicable.

The soybean futures debacle a few years ago had already tarnished the Commission’s reputation. If they were sued again, they’d lose all credibility.

Futures clearinghouses had long demanded increased margins; London’s margins had multiplied several times over. Yet the two largest markets remained indifferent. If you said there was no foul play, not even a ghost would believe you.

If you played in America, don’t be foolish—right is right. No defense or apology meant confession.

There was no leniency for confession here; pleading guilty too quickly was seen as intentional crime. Not only would leniency be denied, but an unreasonable judge could impose the harshest penalty.

After confronting the Commission, William White resumed filming. Lawyers would handle those fools; he had no intention of getting involved.

The film’s production was sporadic but the crew adapted well. William White’s movies were formulaic, like assembly-line products.

Many veterans criticized this style, calling it a desecration of cinematic art.

“Heh, when your box office surpasses mine, I’ll respect your art. I’m still poor now—I have to fill my belly before I can think about anything else,” William White’s rebuke from afar made several old-timers choke with rage.

For those who babbled about ‘art,’ they should make their own films if they liked—no need to belittle others.

Hollywood was in a period of confusion. Commercial films aspired to grandeur, serious topics hoped for box office success.

Now, the façade had been ruthlessly stripped away. Eat first, then talk, or starve.

No one thought William White was poor—he was flush with cash. The box office for “Home Alone” was fixed at $1.5 billion, but “The Ball” had surpassed $2.5 billion.

Criticize all you want; he had already succeeded, and not just once.

William White knew someone was stirring trouble again.

It was laughable—could you rise by putting down your peers?

Don’t be ridiculous. That producer would never cross the dollar. A film with broad educational value could only be screened in a limited area, and free tickets might not even draw a crowd.

This year seemed unlucky, filled with inexplicable troubles. Fortunately, William White’s skin was thick enough.

“You mock my films as vulgar?”

Great! My education is limited; wait until I graduate before you talk—I’m still learning.

“You say they’re childish?”

They’re meant for children. If you want excitement, turn left when you leave—Hollywood is not short on action movies. If you can handle it, you can even star.

William White’s sharp tongue was formidable—if not a verbal sparring master, then close enough.

For a shameless scoundrel, verbal attacks were ineffective. The truth was, he was too young. You weren’t his parent or teacher—why lecture him?

University of Southern California? A top student—what was there to question?