Chapter 6 – Trash In, Money Out
The warehouse in Guangzhou reeked of dust and despair. Mountains of unsold electronics lay abandoned under flickering ceiling lights—bargain-bin MP3 players with cracked screens, VCD players no one used anymore, keyboards missing keys, and knockoff game consoles with names like "PolyStation 6."
"Fifteen years of inventory," the owner said bitterly. "Can't sell it. Can't dump it. My wife calls it my second grave."
Chen Rui smiled warmly. "How much for all of it?"
The man blinked. "You want to buy it all?"
"Yes. And I don't want a discount. I want you to overcharge me—double market rate. Triple, even."
"…Are you running some kind of money laundering scheme?"
"Something like that," Chen Rui muttered.
The deal was sealed with a handshake. Within a week, trucks began dumping mountains of obsolete electronics into Chen Rui's growing network of stores. Employees stared in horror as they unpacked box after box of devices that looked like they came from another era.
"Boss," said Zhang Tao at Store #3, holding up a wireless mouse shaped like a pineapple, "this isn't even ergonomic."
"Put a 'Limited Edition' sticker on it," Chen Rui said. "Mark it up 300%. Then offer a 'Buy 3, Get 2 Free' deal. Confuse them."
The problem, as always, was that the worse Chen Rui tried to do, the better things seemed to get.
Customers came for the novelty. They took pictures. They laughed at the absurdity of it all.
One university student posted a video titled "Inside China's Strangest Electronics Store" and it got over 500,000 views. People started traveling from nearby cities just to see what all the fuss was about.
"Sir," said Liu Yan, clearly disturbed, "sales have increased again. We are—somehow—trending."
Chen Rui's head hit his desk.
Desperate, he came up with a new strategy: launch his own private-label brand — using the worst factories he could find.
He dug through his business contacts and found a dying electronics assembly plant in Wenzhou that still made FM radios with analog tuners and soldered boards by hand.
"I want you to produce 10,000 units of your worst-selling model," Chen Rui said. "Use the cheapest plastic. No QC. No manuals. Put my name on it."
The plant manager looked confused. "Are you… punishing yourself?"
Chen Rui waved him off. "Brand it as 'CR-Tech'. Just make it terrible."
A month later, CR-Tech radios hit the shelves. They came in boxes that smelled like glue, had instructions in broken English and Russian, and emitted static when turned on. Half didn't even work.
Chen Rui thought this would finally do the trick.
But then, on a whim, a small-time musician bought one, sampled the static noises, and made a lo-fi album called "CR-Tech Dreams."
It became a cult hit.
CR-Tech radios were suddenly being repurposed into art pieces, music tools, and bizarre internet memes.
Some idiot on a forum even wrote: "This is anti-corporate genius. He's fighting consumerism by selling garbage as performance art."
Chen Rui stared at the post in disbelief.
"I'm not an artist," he muttered. "I'm just trying to lose money!"
As the summer of 1995 rolled in, Chen Rui's chain had grown to 12 stores and two warehouses. He had a bloated staff, expensive logistics, and contracts with three failing manufacturers.
And yet… his balance sheet was barely in the red.
"I'm trying my best," he said to himself.
He looked at a flyer: 'CR-Tech now available in Beijing!'
"Fine," he said. "If retail doesn't work, I'll open a factory."
Zhang Tao's face turned pale when he heard it. "A factory? To make what?"
Chen Rui grinned. "Junk. Lots of it."