Chapter 75: Reaping a Bountiful Harvest

Once the number of weekly publications reached a certain level, advertising revenues became truly formidable. The increased printing costs were negligible—there would always be someone willing to foot the bill. As shipments began to flow into the London market, William White’s coffers swelled ever fuller. Even Uncle Forbes had come to realize that silver was nothing more than a game of musical chairs; the key was to cash out with profit as swiftly as possible.

Compared to their initial investment, their current returns were a hundredfold—an almost unbelievable feat. This was no ordinary venture into futures; it was more akin to winning the lottery.

“Damn it, who on earth is unloading so much?” Old Hunter’s face was etched with frustration.

“Boss, we just can’t trace them. The accounts selling off are highly dispersed.”

For the Hunter family, this level of selling activity was already disrupting their strategy. If they failed to absorb these sell orders in time, the price of silver would experience extreme volatility.

The Soviets were on the verge of moving into Afghanistan. While the Americans might not intervene directly, they would certainly be vocal, and tensions in the surrounding regions were inevitable. As the only true safe haven, the price of gold was sure to soar, and precious metals were always interconnected. Silver’s next surge was just around the corner.

Yet at this pivotal moment, an avalanche of sell orders appeared. It was no wonder Old Hunter was so unsettled.

Their assessment now was that the opposition lacked American backing, for the simple reason that their first wave of sales had targeted the United States. Moreover, their actions were meticulously paced.

But the situation had changed entirely. The London operations were becoming brazen, unloading with abandon so long as the market didn’t collapse.

No syndicate could withstand this kind of sustained bloodletting. The true threat was that their adversary had built their position at a fraction of the cost and was unafraid to play every hand.

The Hunter family had no choice but to keep borrowing. Their headaches didn’t end there—many futures guarantee companies had noticed the mounting risks. Without a substantial margin increase, the game would soon become too perilous to continue.

Futures leverage had reached utterly absurd proportions. It was no longer a matter of raising margins; the entire trading model had to be reformed.

The Federal Reserve had hiked interest rates once again. Banks were suffering, with not the slightest inclination to lend. In fact, they were recalling large volumes of credit, affecting even those with impeccable records.

Banks had never been charitable in hard times. The mass withdrawal of loans pushed many small and medium-sized enterprises into bankruptcy, escalating the economic crisis. People had lost all faith in the era—they wished only for the storm to pass quickly.

In the current election cycle, no one talked about anything else; the economy had become the sole issue. The Democrats were making their last, desperate efforts, hoping for a turnaround next year. Carter was merely a scapegoat—the Bretton Woods exit had not been his doing, but the public cared nothing for such distinctions, focusing only on their immediate interests.

William White’s game of “shearing the sheep” had not escaped notice. While outsiders to the financial sector might be oblivious, major settlement banks such as Bank of America and Citibank could hardly be unaware. Perhaps they didn’t know his exact profits, but the general magnitude was not hard to estimate.

This young man, not yet twenty, was once again in the spotlight of many powerful circles.

His assets were now measured in the hundreds of millions, and at his current pace, reaching the billion-dollar mark seemed entirely plausible. In America, a billionaire was among the very pinnacle of society—there were precious few, and such a person was not to be trifled with lightly.

As a noted philanthropist, William White had long since drawn the attention of many circles. Now, it was clear he had been preparing for a long time. Coupled with the recent intimidation incident, it was evident he was not one to be crossed. He now commanded a sizeable security company as well.

Piecing together all these scattered facts led to a clear conclusion: William White was highly conscious of his personal brand and was relentless in elevating his stature.

At the same time, he was deeply insecure. No other young person would tolerate being shadowed by so many bodyguards, but William White was the exception; his protectors watched over him round the clock. Even at school, it was nearly impossible to approach him.

Dealing with such a difficult individual, unless one was prepared for mortal combat, it was best to exercise restraint. He was the very definition of thin-skinned and vengeful.

The Hunter family? Serves those bastards right. They tried to maliciously acquire another’s company—now they’re in real trouble.

Damn it, White Oil is a massive pitfall. That risk must be avoided. If the guess is correct, he already controls more than fifty percent of the shares, and the knife is sharpened, waiting for the kill.

No one is interested in cleaning up the Hunter family’s mess; it’s a bottomless pit best left for them to deal with themselves.

These industry veterans were no fools—each understood the game. The Hunter family wanted the government to take the fall, just as they had tried with soybean futures years ago. Only this time, the stakes were far higher—one misstep could be fatal.

William White had never intended to keep his actions secret forever. At this stage, he was more than content with the results.

Some might argue that silver would hit fifty dollars, and that selling now would forfeit maximum profit. William White knew this well, but this time, silver was the Hunter family’s one-man show. Forget fifty—even surpassing thirty was unlikely. This was a vast fortune, not easily liquidated.

It was almost laughable: a normal futures market had devolved into this bizarre spectacle. William White’s own holdings were nearly exhausted; if another player like him emerged, negotiations would be the only way out.

The Hunter family lacked the means to settle their losses. William White had no intention of waiting—if these futures contracts turned into side bets, it would be another grand American innovation.

London had long since demanded higher margins; nothing as outrageous as what the Americans allowed. Had it not been for the tense geopolitical climate, his contracts would have been far harder to offload.

William White had no qualms about crashing the market. If the banks couldn’t withstand it, that was none of his concern. After all, they were accomplices of the Hunter family—going down together was a fine outcome.

The final trailer for “Home Alone” was released, and the film’s promotional campaign had reached its zenith.

An early snowfall in Toronto meant post-production was already complete. Next up was the review process. The review board, of course, was displeased. The film had clearly gone into production before securing approval—were they really going to let it be released as an R-rated film?

Still, they had little recourse. The advertisements had never claimed a rating, and should they act rashly, they risked being lambasted by the public.

Take “Police Academy” for example—it had been roundly criticized, envied, and resented, earning the major Hollywood studios a reputation as rabid attack dogs.

A film that grossed $250 million worldwide was not something these nobodies had any right to comment on. Let them make such a film themselves before they speak.