As Toy Story continued to just... devour the box office, smashing $68 million in its first weekend, the financial shockwaves began to ripple. For Zane, it was a golden tsunami. The turnover for his seven SpongeBob's Secret Chest stores didn't just climb; it exploded, surging past one million dollars in three days.
He was ecstatic. A giddy, breathless kind of happy that made it hard to sit still.
The owners of every other movie merchandise chain in California, Nevada, Arizona, and Utah were, to put it mildly, not.
They had, of course, called him the day after the movie's release, their voices slick with a false, buddy-buddy tone. They'd tried to lowball him. They'd tried to bully him, to "explain how the business really works, kid." One particularly irate owner, after realizing Zane wasn't backing down, had spat, "You're a damn, black-hearted bastard, you know that?"
Zane had remembered that one, smiling as he politely told the man, "The price is the price. Have a nice day."
This morning, however, the tone was... different.
A delegation of more than thirty store owners, including the "black-hearted bastard" guy, had appeared at his temporary office. They weren't yelling. They were beaming, their faces plastered with smiles so wide they looked painful.
"Mr. Blackwood, a pleasure! A real pleasure to finally meet you in person!" "I'd heard you were young and promising, but my god, this is truly remarkable!" "To see the potential in Toy Story when no one else did... that takes vision! Real courage! The kind of guts men twice your age lack!"
They were all seasoned pros, and the compliments flowed like cheap champagne, costing them nothing and tasting just as fake. Zane listened, a cool, knowing smile on his face, letting them get it all out. He was enjoying this, maybe a little too much.
"Gentlemen, thank you for the... kind words," he said, his voice cutting through the river of flattery and stopping it cold. "I know why you're here, and I'm as eager as you are to get this done. Time is money, and right now, every minute we talk, we're all leaving it on the table. Let's make a deal."
He made a single phone call.
Minutes later, Condy Edward arrived. He didn't just walk in; he stalked in, looking like a shark that hadn't eaten in a week and had just been dumped in a tank full of bleeding seals.
The negotiations that followed were a masterpiece of controlled brutality. Condy was a whirlwind, a force of nature. He paced, he used righteous indignation, he feigned personal insults, he scoffed at their "generous" offers, dismantling their arguments and digging his fingers into the raw, gaping wound of their desperation.
Zane, by contrast, was the calm, unmoving center of the storm. He just sat, observed, and when a final offer was on the table, he would give a single, unassailable "yes" or "no."
Barnett, the owner of the largest retail chain in Nevada—and the one who had cursed him out—was the first to break. His face was slick with sweat. He gritted his teeth so hard Zane thought he might crack a molar, but he signed the paper, agreeing to a $1.3 million fee for a five-year license. Internally, Zane knew the man was cursing him, Condy, and God himself. To their faces, he was all smiles and "Glad we could do business, gentlemen."
The rights for Utah went to an old, portly man named Billy Jarder. He wasn't the biggest player, but as his competitors lowballed, he just sat there, and then, with a calm voice, bid $1.5 million. Zane almost smiled. He liked men who weren't afraid to bleed a little.
Zane's strategy was simple, but brilliant. For Nevada, Arizona, and Utah, he sold the licenses state-by-state to the highest bidder. But for the golden goose, California, he carved it up like a Thanksgiving turkey, selling the rights city by city.
Except, that is, for Los Angeles County. That territory, the most lucrative, star-dusted piece of real estate in the world, remained his. Exclusively.
By nine o'clock that evening, the last deal was signed. The room smelled of stale coffee, desperation, and victory. The marathon was over. Zane and Condy were exhausted, their suits rumpled, but they were triumphant.
The final tally for the day's work—for selling off pieces of a license he'd acquired for a mere $800,000—was $5.65 million.
"Zane, my boy," Condy said, slumping into a chair and shaking his head. The bluster was gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated awe. "You're not a man. You're a machine. You turned eight hundred grand into a seven-fold return in two months, and that's not even counting your own damn stores!"
"Hold it right there," Zane interrupted, a playful, tired glint in his eye. "I'll accept the compliment. But if you think this means you're getting a bigger bonus, you can forget it."
Condy's head snapped up. He leaped to his feet, a renewed fire in his eyes. "You vampire! I question your character, sir, but you will never question my professional ethics! The fee is the fee!" he declared, clutching his chest dramatically.
"Good. I apologize for the insinuation," Zane said, his face a mask of mock sincerity.
Condy deflated instantly. "...You bastard. You really aren't adding anything, are you?"
After a bit more haggling, Zane, feeling generous, threw him an extra hundred dollars.
When he was finally, truly alone in the quiet office, Zane let the mask drop. He let out a breath he felt like he'd been holding for months. He stood up, stared at the signed contracts, and then, a triumphant, almost feral "YES!" echoed in the empty room. He was buzzing, his blood singing. The Toy Story venture would clear him well over seven million dollars.
But as the adrenaline faded, the cold, calculating part of his mind took over. This was just the start. This was just the seed money.
His mind was already on the next phase.
First, the Pixar IPO. That's a guaranteed tenfold return. That... that will be the real war chest.
With that capital, he would finally enter Hollywood. Not as a peripheral player, but as a predator. He wouldn't direct; he'd produce. He'd find the low-cost, high-concept scripts the big studios were too fat and stupid to touch. A found-footage horror film. A single-location thriller. He had spent his entire first life analyzing what worked. Now, he'd apply it.
And then... then there was his other, glowing-yellow secret weapon.
"SpongeBob SquarePants," he mused, a wide, ambitious grin spreading across his face. The system had given him a complete, perfect, ready-to-pitch universe. He'd find a small, hungry animation studio. He'd bring it to life.
"One day," he said to the empty room, the promise feeling electric on his tongue, "they'll call me the Father of SpongeBob."
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