Chapter Seventy-Eight: The Wealthy Bumpkin

Parties organized by William White had a distinctly Texan flair—this was hardly news within the circle, for his Lone Star heritage was unmistakable. Some might look down their noses at it, but if you disapprove, you simply shouldn’t attend. Seeking sophistication? Don’t be ridiculous—he’s a bestselling author, and when he wants to put on airs, he can play the British aristocrat as well as any of them. But to spare you embarrassment, he chooses instead to play the cowboy.

You can call someone a “dumb cowboy” in any country—except America. Cowboy culture is the very bedrock of this nation. Unless you intend to deny your own roots, you might as well join the fraternity of cowboys.

While White Pictures was celebrating in grand fashion, the other Hollywood studios looked on with a sour taste in their mouths. If everyone were failing, the economic climate would serve as a convenient scapegoat. In America, you can’t insult people at will; mocking someone’s physical defects could spell disaster, but criticizing the president is perfectly acceptable—they’re expected to endure it.

The current predicament, however, is that their failures can’t be blamed on the economy. If there were good films to see, people wouldn’t choose to stay home and watch TV; audiences are simply refusing to watch terrible movies.

“Millions of dollars thrown around like confetti”—this, and similar headlines, flooded the media the following day. To celebrate his box-office triumph, William White was said to have made it rain cash at a wild party that nearly spiraled out of control.

Of course, these were the media’s inventions. Although piles of money were indeed present, each bore a label. The so-called “red envelopes” amounted to about five thousand dollars apiece.

The press was clearly tinged with envy. They weren’t having an easy time themselves—some jealousy was inevitable. What really irked them was that they couldn’t get in. Without an invitation or a well-connected escort, those cowboys at the door wouldn’t let anyone through.

Still, not being present was hardly an obstacle; the media simply made up their own versions of events. What sort of decadence might be found at such an exclusive gathering? Piecing together fragments of gossip, these rascals spun tales surprisingly close to the mark.

Though public opinion was abuzz, no one was especially harsh in their criticisms. No matter how successful these people were, they were still, at heart, a bunch of overgrown children—wasn’t this precisely how they should behave? If even adults can’t control their emotions, how can one expect a group of kids to do it? Such demands would be excessive.

William White, for his part, was unfazed by the commentary. As long as subsequent good deeds followed, what did it matter? In America, swagger is hardly a derogatory term.

“Young master, are you all right?” Uncle Fu asked with a smile.

“Ha, it’s nothing. I just felt a bit dizzy at the time, but after a nap, I’m fine,” William White replied, feeling more energetic than ever.

“Uncle Fu, let’s head back to Texas in a couple of days. I wonder if the two kids’ game consoles are ready yet.”

“Very well, young master. I’ll make the arrangements at once.”

Barring any surprises, he’d have his own private jet next year. For now, though, it was the husky who’d have to rough it—hopefully the dog would take a liking to farm life.

Two consecutive days of record-breaking box office had sent Hollywood into a frenzy. Some gnashed their teeth in envy; others rubbed their hands in anticipation. Comedy scriptwriters, in particular, were delighted, as everyone was now exceedingly polite to them. William White’s scripts were legendary, but unattainable; so, studios could only dig within their own ranks.

Hollywood was never short on comedy scripts; such movies were plentiful, though box office results had long been lackluster, so they’d been overlooked. Now, several comedies were already in production. Whether they’d perform as hoped remained to be seen—the market would decide.

Reading the newspapers over the past two days, William White couldn’t help but laugh. The mockery of him as a nouveau riche was so obviously laced with jealousy it almost didn’t need to be said. That was as far as they dared to go, though; three defunct newspapers still lay as cautionary tales. Envy was one thing, but cross the line, and his lawyers would be quick to issue a warning.

William White’s legal team was no idle threat; nearly every newspaper had received a letter from them at some point. Make unfounded claims, and the ensuing lawsuits would drive you to despair.

He hadn’t forgotten to make inroads with print media, but he was still so young. In the United States, novels, movies, and comics are all considered entertainment, but newspapers are different. At least in some sense, they are a tool of oversight—some even call them the fourth estate.

It’s a matter of perspective. If comics are so strictly regulated, why should newspapers be any exception? Didn’t the media once trumpet that Big Stupid Wood possessed weapons of mass destruction? If tanks count, perhaps that was true; otherwise, not so much—they simply didn’t have the capacity to produce such things.

All of Big Stupid Wood’s armaments were imported; they couldn’t even manufacture tanks and cannons. Could the news media really fail to see that?

In the end, the story was told so many times, even the storytellers believed it themselves. What did it matter? William White’s ambition was in cultural entertainment and media; nothing along that chain could be left out. Fortunately, the timing was ideal—the American economy would languish in the doldrums for quite some time yet.

The families controlling the media were monopolistic clans or great houses; for them, the press was just a money-making machine. As long as the price was right, they wouldn’t refuse—business was business.

After breakfast, William White began to exercise. His body was growing ever stronger, with hints of a second growth spurt. To avoid growing sideways, regular exercise was essential.

In America, you’ll notice that the poor are often overweight, while you rarely see obese people among the so-called successful. The health risks of obesity are simply too many; to live a few more years, the wealthy are willing to forgo some culinary pleasures.

Thump after thump echoed through the gym, the oversized punching bag swinging more violently with each blow. William White was expending his surplus hormones with abandon—forced to miss out on wild times with his friends.

Jason and the rest of that rowdy crew had no fear of reporters; as long as they weren’t caught on camera, they felt no pressure at all. In fact, once William White left, the journalists dispersed as well. After all, it was just a bunch of college kids horsing around—only someone truly bored would bother covering that.

“Still not enough money. One day I’ll buy a private island—then let’s see what you damn reporters can do,” William White grumbled, raining blows on the bag. Even his bodyguards were impressed: this guy was like a humanoid T. rex—no easy opponent.

“Boss, you should get a coach. Punching like that is dangerous—easy to hurt yourself,” advised his bodyguard, Max.

“Yeah, maybe next year I’ll get a boxing coach.” William White shrugged. As for Chinese martial arts—best not even to consider it. Those skills are drilled from childhood; fooling around could be fatal.

Besides, he didn’t need to make a living with his fists. Some ability to defend himself was enough. Even the greatest kung fu master is no match for a kitchen knife. And if you’re afraid of a kitchen knife, what would you do when faced with a Desert Eagle? Run, of course.

Crime thrillers of this era were amusing: so many guns on hand, yet the fights always ended up hand-to-hand.

Truth be told, Bruce Lee made only a handful of movies, but his influence on Hollywood was profound. The fighting styles of this era were almost all imitations of his.