Chapter Thirty-Seven: Once Again Ignored

White Pictures made another move, this time seemingly producing a children’s film—quite fitting for his age, and by all appearances, another comedy. Although the jeers had quieted, expectations remained low for a simple reason: the target audience was much too small. Was he planning a release for Children’s Day?

The company was still little more than a handful of people, but appearances had to be kept. Despite the considerable profits, the money couldn’t just be spent freely. At the very least, it couldn’t be used for personal consumption—unless, of course, one was willing to pay the taxes, in which case there was nothing to stop them.

He didn’t have the resources to construct a new building from scratch, so purchasing an existing one for renovation would suffice. Essential equipment had to be acquired as well; borrowing cameras was simply too embarrassing.

Others would handle these matters for him; his job was merely to approve the decisions.

It was impossible not to attract envy—not only from small studios, but even the biggest industry giants were left salivating.

By rights, all he had to do was proceed steadily with sequels. As long as the story held together, another hundred million dollar box office wasn’t out of reach.

The first film had been a modest project costing just a few million. Even if the sequel were more expensive, it wouldn’t exceed ten million. With the addition of merchandise revenue, pre-tax profits would easily reach another hundred million—a rate of return faster than printing money. It wouldn’t be long before this company joined the ranks of industry giants.

Casting for this project was far livelier. Hollywood wasn’t just home to beautiful men and women; it had a surplus of child stars. It was a pity Barbie wasn’t needed this time, or things would have been even more chaotic.

The requirements were simple: a lively and energetic blond boy, some acting experience preferred but not essential, as the role called more for a natural performance.

As for supporting roles, they needed someone with an unlucky look—ideally the sort of person everyone wanted to punch.

One glance at these requirements and it was clear: the plan was still for a low-budget film, aiming once again to win big with a small investment.

Some sneered, some dismissed it outright. To succeed once at such odds was already a blessing, but to try to build an empire this way—was he delusional?

People whispered behind his back, but no one dared voice their doubts openly. If he succeeded again, their embarrassment would be monumental.

William White, however, paid no attention to these matters. His focus was on his video game console project; the film could wait. Besides, the script called for snow scenes, and with the current heatwave, there was no sense in venturing outside.

Since his rebirth, William sensed subtle changes in his body. Though not obvious, they were noticeable to him. His skin had grown even paler, and after time outdoors, it even took on a pinkish hue—a rather awkward change, especially when swimming, as his skin was now more delicate than a girl’s.

He still loved to swim, but he kept it to home or private parties, never attending daytime pool events, especially not swimsuit parties.

He had tried to tan, but eventually gave up. Mild sun exposure had no effect, and excessive sunbathing was a bad idea—skin cancer was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

The prototype for the arcade machine was complete, though hideously ugly. William didn’t care—it was a prototype, not a finished product, and looked more like a piece of furniture than a piece of industrial equipment.

Performance was the key; that was the foundation of everything. His requirement was durability. These machines weren’t cheap—if someone spent tens of thousands of dollars only for it to break down constantly, returns were inevitable.

Although there was now a prototype, turning it into a market-ready product wasn’t simple; much work remained. However, applying for patents posed no obstacles.

With three game development projects included, a new batch of patent applications was underway. Compared to software, game patents were easier to secure, given the industry’s maturity.

Back at the Texas ranch, life quickly returned to normal. William intended to relax this summer—he’d been exhausted lately, feeling perpetually groggy.

Hollywood was still reeling from his earlier disruptions, the major studios now experimenting with low-budget comedies. In their eyes, "Police Academy" had been a stroke of absurd luck; scripts of that caliber were a dime a dozen in Hollywood.

They could only admire his marketing genius. The film itself was decent, but the promotional campaign was masterful. They had merely served as the backdrop to his success.

William White was like a catfish in Hollywood’s stagnant pond, stirring up the muck with ease. Whatever the future held, White Pictures’ meteoric rise seemed just around the corner.

This nouveau riche boss clearly wasn’t short on cash—"Police Academy" had been a gold mine, and now he was buying buildings and hiring staff, clearly intent on building an empire.

If all the profits were reinvested, the company’s power would be nothing to scoff at. While not yet on par with the current industry titans, White Pictures seemed poised to become the eighth giant, just outside the established seven.

For small companies like his, being squeezed was inevitable—yet this time, against all odds, his average return on investment exceeded even the industry behemoths.

The most galling part was his incredibly low cost base. International theater chains were approaching him unsolicited, saving him tremendous effort.

His organization was still lean; most of the staff were on loan, and the administrative team was minimal. Put together, this meant his profits were soaring.

The running joke in Hollywood was that if his next film made less than $150 million, he’d streak naked through the streets. Gossipmongers and the media were eagerly waiting to see the spectacle.

Whether or not he’d go through with it didn’t matter; the real misery was for everyone else in the business. So far, not a single film this year had grossed over $50 million. If someone else tripled their results, it was enough to make them want to bang their heads against a wall.

Fortunately, he was now working on a children’s film, which was a relief—no one wanted to challenge him just yet. His disruptive power was simply too great, and Hollywood couldn’t bear another hit.

"Police Academy" was still running wild at the box office, with no dramatic drop-off. It was no surprise, given its excellent reputation and the students coming back for repeat viewings. Such explosive ticket sales were easily explained.

Certain scenes in the film had become part of popular culture, with many lines now endlessly quoted and imitated. If you hadn’t seen the film, you risked being left behind by the times.

That’s how young people are—chasing trends is their passion. Try to attribute it to artistic value and you’d be mocked mercilessly.

If young people liked it, that was understandable—the director was a symbol of anti-mainstream culture, after all. But when adults also embraced it, that was baffling. Wasn’t it just a comedy? Couldn’t they make one too?

And those two wretched supporting actors—they actually dared to demand a million dollars each. Utterly preposterous.