Chapter 23: The World of Fools

Little Bush was overjoyed. William White arrived on horseback, surrounded by a group of cowboys—a traditional greeting rarely reserved for ordinary friends.

“George, you’ve gained some weight. Are you sure you can still ride a horse?”

Little Bush elegantly raised his middle finger and burst out laughing, “I thought you’d turned into a poet, but you’re still as crude as ever.”

“Haha, you mean that novel? I just scribbled it down, don’t take it too seriously.”

Little Bush wore a bitter smile. “William, you really screwed me over. My old man’s been pushing me to read, says it’ll improve my artistic sensibilities.”

“Oh? Then why not read ‘Camille’ and put on a Texas version for your father?”

“Get lost! Tell me, did you really write that book?”

“What’s the big deal? I’ve already started writing a second one. No choice, life’s tough.”

“Tough, my foot! One book could make you a millionaire. Are you out of your mind?”

“Come on, let’s go inside the ranch and talk.”

Little Bush’s entourage hadn’t expected their young master, a notorious rich kid, to be received with such honor.

The two were close in age, and in truth, their personalities were quite similar—if one were to be blunt, they were both fools. One was an up-and-coming fool, but at the end of the day, a fool is still a fool. The world they inhabited was peculiar, something outsiders could hardly fathom.

With William White’s fame soaring, countless people wanted to curry favor with him. Though he was polite enough to host them, none received a welcome like this.

A bestselling author might not be so rare elsewhere, but in Texas, it was extraordinary. Despite the abundance of stories here, few cared to write them down—their rough-and-tumble nature hardly suited the literary profession.

Little Bush stayed at the ranch for two days, stumbling through each one, with William White accompanying him almost the whole time.

Despite his foolishness, he wasn’t stupid; William truly treated him as a close friend, just as before, and remained as uncouth as ever.

His entourage was dumbfounded. They’d come with visions of pilgrimage; ‘Forrest Gump’ was wildly popular in Texas, and they had certainly read it.

But this author was just as ridiculous—no better than their own foolish young master. The only difference was perhaps his self-control; he drank, but never got drunk.

Yes, his erudition was undeniable. Literary references flowed effortlessly from him; without his hangers-on, Little Bush would have been utterly outmatched.

Having completed his father’s assignment, Little Bush returned home in high spirits. William’s stance was clear: he wanted nothing to do with the elephant’s affairs, but would support anything concerning Little Bush’s family.

Such a statement was more than enough. Truth be told, the elephant wasn’t his concern. Under these circumstances, things were looking good.

William White spoke frankly, saying his focus would shift to California—being labeled with the elephant was inappropriate, as California was the stronghold of the donkey.

An important decision, settled so casually, left the onlookers bewildered. They all muttered inwardly—the world of fools was incomprehensible to them.

William White thought to himself: these two have occupied their positions for more than a decade. If I don’t build a relationship now, will I grovel for favors later?

“Sir, Motorola has delivered the CPU you requested.”

“Tell the old electronics engineer to return and hand over his current work.”

“Yes, sir.”

Holding the CPU in his hand, William White was filled with emotion. Though it had its flaws, one thing was undeniable: this CPU had a lifespan of forty years, and seemed poised to endure even longer.

Motorola’s capacity for self-destruction was legendary—a pile of dynamite in their hands, yet they never knew how to use it, ultimately crippling themselves.

William White had no intention of getting into computers. He was still a small fry; no matter how good the technology, it would only bring endless trouble.

There was another kind of electronic product making a fortune in this era.

Yes, arcade machines. Forget about grand games—a simple Pac-Man had already made millions, and it was just a puzzle game. The profits from other large-scale games were self-evident.

The 68000 chip was far too expensive; personal PCs weren’t worth pursuing, at least not for several years—a price of at least two hundred dollars per chip was daunting.

Arcades weren’t sensitive to hardware prices; a slightly higher cost was acceptable. The American arcade market was vast, with a demand of at least a billion dollars. If that wasn’t profitable, William White might as well jump into the sea.

Crucially, the product could be OEM’d, and Japanese manufacturers would flock to it. If puzzle games could be developed, gambling machines could as well—selling fruit machines was a goldmine; why bother with personal computers?

Games couldn’t be developed all at once; they had to start simple, keeping research costs low.

William White chose three games: Pac-Man, Texas Tetris, and Tank Showdown. All had one thing in common—the brilliance lay in the concept, while production was relatively easy.

This was a reliable livelihood. Console manufacturers would surely be interested, and once they were, dollars would pour in.

The gambling industry was even more lucrative. With these novel machines, everything else would be obsolete.

Easy as the money was, the industry was highly insular—tradition was everything. Jumping in rashly would be disastrous.

But there was no rush; the priority was to launch the three simple games, build the company’s reputation, and then expand.

Arcades didn’t prize refinement; stability and durability were paramount. The machines had to be tough. Players weren’t gentle—knocking and banging were commonplace. If the hardware crashed from a light tap, the quality would be condemned.

Yes, more patents needed filing; Japanese manufacturers were notoriously shrewd, and might overtake at any moment.

Competing with Japan was nearly an unsolvable problem; American production was simply too weak. Without Japanese enterprises, selling a billion a year was impossible—even a hundred million would be a stretch.

Most importantly, profits weren’t guaranteed. If the market shifted, losses were entirely possible.

American workers were impossible to manage. The longer the factory operated, the more miserable the owner became. Eventually, it ended in closure and liquidation.

Don’t talk about loving the company as family; such notions would be mocked in America. If the factory next door paid a hundred dollars more a month, employees would quit without hesitation.

Overtime?

Heavens, is the boss a vampire? We need to take our kids fishing—overtime is out of the question; the boss is simply too savage.

It was a classic case of overcompensation. In the eighteenth century, capitalists were ruthless; workers earned meager wages, and production safety was atrocious.