Chapter Forty-Three: The Hunter Family’s Road to Ruin

William White possessed an advantage that others simply did not—he was far too young. If people tried to overpraise him to set him up for a fall, he would simply play the innocent, a rookie through and through. No one could really hold it against him.

William White claimed he was focusing on his studies, and that the success of his film was nothing but a beautiful misunderstanding. He insisted it wasn’t all that good, crediting the results to the generosity of the audience, and that such achievements shouldn’t be taken too seriously. So as not to let down his supporters, he decided to work harder in school and hoped to return their kindness with even better results in the future. If his next film turned out poorly, he begged the audience’s forgiveness, asking that the young be given more chances—he promised to continue striving.

His words were exceedingly humble and made one fact clear: next year, he would only be a sophomore. No one should set their expectations too high; he simply wasn’t at that level yet.

Indeed, humility breeds progress and is a virtue in itself. To remain so modest and courteous after such outstanding success—this was unquestionably the mark of a good young man.

For Hollywood’s giants, however, his words landed like a heavy blow. They had been bested by a group of freshmen—no matter the reasons, it would be a lifelong humiliation.

They were indeed frustrated, and even in considering a counterattack, they had to weigh the consequences. A single misstep could backfire, and no company could withstand many such incidents.

The economic situation was worsening daily, with unemployment on the rise and inflation growing ever more severe. The price of silver had already broken the ten-dollar mark, gold continued its relentless climb, and no one could fathom how much further it might go after increasing tenfold already.

Silver, in particular, had become frenzied, with experts urging restraint and referencing historical ratios with gold. Yet, these experts ignored one crucial point: China had once operated on a silver standard, but after the Bretton Woods system, silver’s financial role had been stripped away.

No country now used the silver standard, so comparing present-day prices to historical ratios was ridiculous. Still, many were swayed by such arguments. If the world’s gold reserves could not meet monetary demands, it seemed reasonable for silver to return to the stage. Surely the United States could not be allowed to print money without restraint—if it continued, no one’s life would be tenable.

America was not short on resources; its only shortcoming was a sluggish economy. The prices of essentials had not risen, and products like beef had even dropped in price. Other countries were not so lucky. Worldwide inflation was intensifying, and no one knew how it would end.

In such dire circumstances, nations everywhere were restricting precious metal exports—these resources had now become a matter of national security.

This was precisely what the Hunt family had been waiting for. Seventy percent of America’s silver was in their hands; they could set whatever price they wanted. It would not be long before they became the richest family in the country.

Such nouveau riche families, lacking true substance, never understood moderation or the wisdom of quitting while ahead. There were no stories of overnight billionaires in America—yes, there were millionaires and even multimillionaires, but had anyone ever heard of a family rising to the top of the wealth rankings in mere months? Never.

These upstart families would hit a ceiling at a few billion; they would never break into the ranks of the true elite, who would never accept them. If you lacked the ability to safeguard your fortune, it was best to embrace collective prosperity, or you would lose everything.

Bill Gates had been the richest man for a long time, yet compared to his company’s valuation, his fifty billion was a mere trifle—his company was worth over a trillion. This was the result of endless compromise; he’d owned far more shares at the time of the IPO. At his level, personal wealth was inexhaustible—by rights, he should have become a hundred-billionaire long ago, but he never did. An invisible hand was always tinkering with the world.

Japan’s economy once boomed, threatening America’s security, so the Plaza Accord was born. Japan’s semiconductors were formidable, so Section 301 was unleashed—even allies were not spared. Didn’t America dismantle Alstom? Hitachi was fined nearly to bankruptcy. America was gentler with its own, but the outcome was essentially the same. Without powerful backing, don’t reach for what isn’t yours.

The fortune coveted by the Hunt family was shocking. Did they really think the great American dynasties were dead? Even the ten largest conglomerates dared not play such games, but the Hunts tried, even dragging in oil sheikhs to rob the country. America had always been the one to plunder others as a group—this kind of self-destructive bravado was almost creative.

“Young master, shall we exit the market now?”

William White considered for a moment. “Listen, Uncle Fu. I do believe it’ll exceed twenty dollars, but there’s no need for us to take unnecessary risks. Once the price crosses fifteen, start reducing our positions. If it nears twenty, liquidate everything.”

“Understood, young master. At this rate, it shouldn’t be long.”

“Heh, whatever it rises to afterward is none of our concern. We’ll just take our share—let’s sell in America first.”

“Very well, I’ll make the arrangements.”

Uncle Fu hadn’t slept well lately; the profits were simply outrageous and made him uneasy. It seemed he wasn’t the only one with concerns—young master felt the risks were far too great. There was no need to live in constant anxiety over such things.

The cast for the new film had been chosen, and if William had no objections, shooting could begin at once. In his past life, the movie had cost just over a million dollars. Though wildly funny, it was riddled with flaws. The two thieves were bumbling but not idiots—the traps could certainly be designed more cleverly.

It was the height of summer, so filming in Toronto made sense since the story was set in winter—sweating through heavy coats would be ridiculous. When snow finally fell in the States, the Christmas season would be out of reach.

Even the big-budget version of “Home Alone” only had a three-million-dollar budget. For now, William White decided to keep a low profile, avoiding grand productions until he matured further. Then the Hollywood scoundrels would have no recourse.

Hollywood was at its nadir—this year’s box office was abysmal. While they could have blamed the wretched economy, now they had no excuse. The economy wasn’t the problem; why had Police Academy done so well? The answer was that their own films were simply terrible.

There were always plenty of low-budget comedies each year. Throughout film history, comedies had held an important place. United Artists had been founded by none other than Charlie Chaplin, the master of comedy—yet now the company couldn’t discern the quality of a comedy film. It was almost darkly humorous, and the criticism United Artists faced was entirely predictable.

Albee could have strangled that project manager. The company’s current predicament was his fault, first and foremost. If the initial box office boom had been mere hype, the continued success proved the film’s genuine quality. That fool had paid dearly, as no one in Hollywood would ever hire him again. Poor judgment and a foul mouth—it was a recipe for disaster.