MC Bookstore Chapter 107 A Madman from Silicon Valley
Chapter 107 A Madman from Silicon Valley
Chapter 107 A Madman from Silicon Valley
When Qin Han returned to his villa in West Hollywood, it was almost 1 a.m.
However, the living room on the first floor of the villa was still lit with orange lights.
As soon as I opened the door, a rich aroma of black coffee wafted out.
Sylvester Stallone was curled up in a corner of the sofa, holding a thick stack of manuscripts in one hand and a coffee cup in the other, engrossed in reading them, so much so that he didn't even hear Qin Han enter the room.
"Still not asleep? Slay." Qin Han took off his suit jacket and casually hung it on the hanger.
Stallone jolted, nearly dropping the manuscript in his hand.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that it was Qin Han, but his face still showed signs of lingering fear.
"Boss, you're back." Stallone stood up, waving the stack of papers in his hand. "What kind of crazy ideas does this Stephen King guy have in his head?"
"I've seen a lot of horror movies, but none of them have ever given me a chill like the one he wrote."
Qin Han poured himself a cup of coffee, walked to the sofa and sat down, taking the stack of manuscripts from Stallone's hand.
The cover features a large, handwritten word: Carrie.
These are the spoils Stallone brought back from Maine after braving the wind and snow, following Qin Han's instructions.
"If it smells scary, that's good enough." Qin Han took a sip of coffee to perk himself up. "If it didn't smell scary, wouldn't you have made a wasted trip?"
He took the manuscript and casually flipped through a few pages.
It still has that familiar feel: a sense of despair and oppression permeates the words, the anger of being bullied,
The suffocating effect of religious fanaticism, and the final, all-destroying burst of superpowers.
This is not just a horror story; it is a bloody sacrifice to the suppression of humanity.
"Slay, tomorrow morning, write a letter back to this schoolteacher in Maine for me." Qin Han closed the manuscript and said with a smile, "Tell him that Han's Film Company has taken a liking to his talent. We are willing to offer $20,000 to buy the global publishing rights to this book, 'Carrie.'"
"Twenty-two thousand?!" Stallone's eyes widened. "Boss, isn't that too much? I've seen him in Maine, living in a trailer that's always leaking air. Five thousand dollars would probably make him so happy he'd faint."
In this day and age, $20,000 is an absolute windfall for a high school teacher whose annual salary is only a few thousand dollars.
"No, Slay, there's an old Chinese saying, 'A thousand pieces of gold to buy a horse's bones,'" Qin Han explained with a smile. "We want him to feel respected, to know that Han's Film Industry is the most discerning mentor in the world who understands him best."
"As for the film and television adaptation rights—" He thought for a moment, "I'll tell him in the letter that he's welcome to bring his wife to Los Angeles for a vacation, all expenses paid. I want to talk to him in person."
Stallone naturally had no doubts about Qin Han's decision. Since the boss said it was worth it, then it was worth it: "Okay, I'll get it done first thing tomorrow morning."
Qin Han looked at the stack of manuscripts and was overjoyed.
Stephen King was at the lowest point in his life at this time. In his previous life, the hardcover rights to this book, "Carrie," only sold for $2500, which didn't make any waves at all.
Until May 13th of this year, Mother's Day, which changed his life.
The publisher auctioned off the paperback rights to "Carrie," and perhaps God finally smiled upon this poor boy who persisted in writing. The New American Library won the bid with a record-breaking price of $40.
According to the contract, Stephen King received half—$20.
When he heard that number on the phone, his legs went weak and he knelt down on the ground. That was the beginning of his life's turnaround.
It's the end of March now, and there's still more than a month until that crazy Mother's Day.
Offering a buyout fee of $20,000 is an astronomical sum that Stephen King could never have imagined, enough to make him sign his name without hesitation.
With $20,000, they leveraged the debut novel of the king of horror novels who would become a legend for decades to come, and the immense potential for subsequent film and television development.
There's no better deal in the world.
After finishing his work on the novel, Qin Han did not rest immediately.
He returned to his bedroom and retrieved the information about Atari that Lorna had compiled for him: "Nolan Bushnell, the founder of Atari, is currently not in Silicon Valley, but in Sherman Oaks. There's an Atari direct sales and repair shop there, and because business is so booming and so many people are inserting coins, the machines are breaking down every day. He's personally overseeing things there."
Lorna's intelligence network is indeed as good as its reputation; she can even get her hands on this kind of insider information from the tech world.
Sherman Oaks is located in the San Fernando Valley, north of Los Angeles, only a dozen kilometers from Hollywood.
This "father of video games" opened a store right on his doorstep, saving himself the trouble of making a trip to Northern California.
"I'll go meet this big shot first thing tomorrow morning."
The next morning, after a quick wash and breakfast, Qin Han called out to Stallone: "Slay, take the money box, we're going to the San Fernando Valley."
The two drove together to Sherman Oaks. Although it was only morning, there were already quite a few cars parked in front of the store called "Atari Entertainment Center".
Even through the glass door, you could hear the electronic sound effects and cheers from the young people inside.
Qin Han had Sylvester Stallone carry the money box, and the two of them pushed open the door and entered.
The shop is small, with a few Pong arcade machines on display in the front and a repair area piled high with parts in the back.
A fat man with a thick beard stood in front of the counter, holding a bottle of beer, and boasting to several distributors with spittle flying: "See this? This is a money-printing machine! Just put one in your store, and coins will rain down like raindrops! Orders are already booked until next month. Want some? Well, that depends on your sincerity!"
He is Nolan Bushnell, a typical California businessman—enthusiastic, confident, and with a touch of cunning.
Qin Han didn't rush to interrupt the shop owner's speech. Instead, he strolled around the store with great interest, like a customer choosing a machine.
As the world's first generation of video game consoles, Pong's design was very rudimentary: a wooden cabinet, a blurry display screen, and two knobs, without any joysticks or buttons.
Compared to the colorful arcade games of later generations, it was far too simple.
His gaze swept over the simple wooden cabinets, finally settling on a repair table in the corner of the shop:
A figure with its back to the crowd caught his attention.
He was an extremely young, somewhat slovenly boy who looked no more than eighteen or nineteen years old.
She had messy long hair, wore a pilling black turtleneck sweater, and faded jeans.
What surprised Qin Han the most was that he wasn't wearing shoes in a repair area where the floor was covered with metal scraps and loose wires.
His filthy big feet were casually placed on the floor. He stood in the middle of a pile of discarded circuit boards, holding an apple in one hand and a soldering iron in the other, venting his anger at a disassembled machine.
"This is utter garbage—the wiring is a complete mess, like a spaghetti crust!"
As the boy roughly dismantled the back cover of the server rack, he cursed incessantly, oblivious to the noisy environment around him: "These idiot engineers used fifty chips just to implement a simple bounce function."
This is an insult to silicon. Ugly! Absolutely ugly!
The shop assistants around him avoided him like the plague, obviously because his body odor from not showering for days was too overpowering.
But Qin Han stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening as he gazed at that familiar yet youthful face:
The way he spoke, the focused look in his eyes, and the almost obsessive anger towards "imperfection."
Steve Jobs?
At this time, he was not yet the Apple godfather who changed the world; he was just a recent dropout from Reed College.
A weirdo who works odd jobs at Atari and whose mind is full of Zen and vegetarianism.
Unexpectedly, the system sent me here to run into him!
"Boss, is that guy crazy?" Stallone muttered under his breath. "He looks like he's arguing with a machine."
Qin Han made a shushing gesture, slowly walked over, and stood behind Jobs: "If it were you, what would you do?"
Jobs stopped what he was doing, turned around and stared at Qin Han. His eyes did not show the restraint one would show when facing a stranger; instead, they carried an aggressive arrogance.
"What if it were me?" He took a bite of the apple in his hand and said confidently, "My friend Woz and I could compress it to less than five chips. Less is more, you know? Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication, that's true beauty."
"The most complex things return to the simplest." Qin Han repeated this sentence, then nodded: "A wonderful philosophy. It seems you are a perfectionist."
"Perfect?" Jobs sneered, casually tossing the remaining apple core into a nearby trash can. He pointed at Bushnell, who was still bragging, and said, "Nobody here understands perfection. That fat guy only thinks about making money, cramming these bulky racks into every bar. They don't care what's inside."
"Then why are you still here?"
"Because I need money to go to India," Jobs said bluntly, a hint of longing in his eyes. "I want to find a true spiritual mentor, to seek enlightenment."
Qin Han smiled. It was indeed the familiar Chief Qiao, whose restless flame burned even in his most destitute moments.
He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it over: "My name is Qin Han, from Hollywood. Although I'm a filmmaker, I agree with your point—current electronic products are far too rudimentary."
Jobs hesitated for a moment, wiped the oil off his hands on his clothes, and took the business card.
"Han's Film Company?" He frowned. "What are you doing here, a moviemaker?"
"I originally came here to buy a few machines," Qin Han patted the machine Steve Jobs was repairing, "but now, I feel I've discovered something more valuable than machines."
"Young man, I have a machine here. Can you help me study it and figure out how it works?"
The stun gun that I had left in the storage room could finally be put to good use, so that this tech geek could leave a lasting impression on me.
I imagine that broken machine would definitely make this genius complain like crazy.
Jobs, holding the business card, looked at the Asian man in front of him seriously for the first time: "What machine? I don't have time until I finish fixing all this junk in the shop—"
Just then, the bearded boss, Nolan Bushnell, finally noticed the commotion and walked over, shaking a bottle of liquor.
"Hey! Steve! What are you doing? If you don't fix all these machines by next week, I'm throwing you out!"
He shouted, then turned to Qin Han with a forced smile: "Excuse me, sir. This guy's a temporary worker; he's technically skilled, but he's a bit mentally challenged. Are you here to look at the machine?"
Qin Han turned around and gave a standard business-like fake smile: "Mr. Bushnell, I'd like to buy a few game consoles."
He snapped his fingers, and Stallone behind him placed the money box he was holding directly on Bushnell's counter.
With a "click," the box opened, revealing stacks of bright green US dollars that gleamed alluringly under the light.
"Here's five thousand US dollars. How many machines can you give me? Of course, there's one small condition."
Qin Han patted Jobs on the shoulder: "Don't fire this kid. I think he has a lot of potential."