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When it comes to gaming expos, Ethan's first impression is—showgirls.
Uh... there's no way around it. Who made major gaming expos love pushing boundaries for decades?
The Tokyo Game Show, born in 1996, was the first to blend video games and beautiful women. The ladies at the Yakuza booth have always been a dazzling attraction.
Perhaps due to geographical proximity and easy imitation, south korea—launched in 2004—followed suit. Nearly every exhibitor hired attractive showgirls to hype up their booths. The curves, the provocative outfits, the logos plastered across tight tops and short shorts—it was a formula that worked. CJ boomed.
Because of the excessive flair of those two, even the world's largest gaming expo—E3—caved and started hiring models. By the time Gamescom debuted in Cologne in 2009, they couldn't resist either. Showgirls and cosplay pushed the beauty-game combo even further.
Thus, showgirls became a trademark of gaming expos.
And in this era..."Oh! Fxxk! Is this an expo??"
Ethan, having just finished breakfast, arrived at the San Francisco Video Game Expo with Frank. The moment he stepped inside, he couldn't help but yell,
"My God!!! Is this something you can see for free??"
He blinked, What he saw was a sea of machines—and a swarm of people.
Now, neither the sheer number of attendees nor the rows of arcade cabinets shocked Ethan. What truly stunned him were the girls stationed at each booth.
Groups of white women, dressed in cool, skimpy outfits—usually just bras up top and hotpants below—stood confidently in high heels. Whenever a guest stopped to look at a machine, one of them would step forward with a warm smile and begin pitching the product.
Ethan, having never experienced this firsthand, wasn't entirely sure what their purpose was. But judging by the faces of the men walking away from each booth? They seemed very satisfied.
Is this really a video game expo?This doesn't look legit at all!
To him, this didn't feel like an expo—it felt like he'd accidentally wandered into a red-light district.
Besides the overwhelming scent of smoke and the pounding music, everything around him seemed both excessive and surreal.
And Ethan's bewilderment? It made Frank howl with laughter. He threw an arm around Ethan's shoulder and pulled him in, grinning ear to ear.
"Hey hey hey! Surprised, huh? Don't tell me this is your first time seeing something like this? How old are you—never been to a bar? They're just showgirls, bro! This is totally normal around here!"
He gestured around proudly. "You gotta know—back in the day, where were the best arcade machines sold? Vegas, baby. Since the 1950s, Vegas has been California arcade makers' biggest customer. Fast cash, big sales, no questions asked. So of course, to impress those Vegas-style buyers, arcade companies brought a Sin City with them. Showgirls included."
Why else would capitalism be all about? for profit, the non-monopoly players in the industry just cater to whatever the market craves.
The customer is God. Give them what they want!
As Ethan followed Frank deeper into the venue, he was quickly immersed in the expo's "charm."
The first thing that hit him was the scent—not of excitement or opportunity, but deodorant. Strong, synthetic, and everywhere. Mixed with sweat, machine oil, and desperation, the result was Disgusting, really.
Yet somehow… oddly comforting. Because when girls in vulgar outfits pretended to be "salespeople"—giggling as they introduced machines, sometimes even teaching visitors how to play hands-on—the experience still felt strangely gentle.
And hey… it was free. Nothing makes a man happier than free service with a smile.
But even while enjoying that strange, hollow pleasure, Ethan's face was grim.
Because in front of this old-school sales model—built on boobs, noise, and bright lights—he looked like a clown.
Even if "Snake" was fun, it was dead on arrival in a place like this.
When the big-name booths are flaunting beautiful women to draw a crowd, what could he do? Strip down and shake his butt?
Come on. This was a video game expo, not a male strip club!
And so, for two hours after Ethan brought in his "Snake" cabinet, not a single person tried it. Not one.
Worse, whenever the 'jingle jingle" of the game's background music kicked in, any businessmen who had come to Frank's booth to talk business would give Ethan an awkward smile and slip away like they'd just seen something contagious.
Yes, that "Mr. FBI" Ethan mentioned—the gentleman—had a booth.
The truth? He wasn't FBI at all. He was a chemical supplier with a shop in downtown San Francisco. He'd been invited by the expo's organizers to assist transitioning arcade manufacturers with technical issues and material logistics. In short, he had connections.
Thanks to Frank's legitimate invitation, Ethan was able to bring the machine in—and the organizers were even kind enough to help with a dolly for transportation. But now, if time could be rewound?
Ethan would gladly leave the machine behind. Standing here, watching the retro arcade industry pat itself on the back, was a total waste of time.
Honestly, he'd be better off driving to Sacramento right now. Maybe some newer arcade companies there would be more open to collaborating on "Snake."
While Ethan is frustrated, Frank was having the time of his life—gawking at booth babes like a teenage tourist.
And not just that. Whenever he spotted a girl that fit his "type," he would vanish, leaving Ethan to cover the booth while he ran off to flirt and test demo machines. Ethan strongly condemned such behavior.
And just as he debated whether to scold Frank the next time he returned—or maybe just ditch the place altogether—a figure suddenly appeared in front of him.
A young man Wearing a cowboy hat, aviator sunglasses, a loud flower-patterned T-shirt, and a pair of flared bell-bottoms.
After scanning the booth sign, the man leaned forward and asked curiously:
"San Francisco Electronic Supply Company? Hello, sir. Do you sell materials here? Like, the kind for making circuit boards?"
Ethan blinked. Finally, a question he could answer.
"Yeah, we do."
Ethan was already familiar with this kind of process. So familiar, in fact, that he often felt like he was the actual boss of the San Francisco Electronic Supply Company.
Tapping on the record sheet laid out on the table, he said with practiced ease,
"Whatever materials you need, write them down here. Be specific with product names and quantities. Leave your contact info—we'll get in touch within three working days to arrange pickup."
"Okay, thank you." The man bent down and started writing.
Ethan subtly shifted his weight, slightly leaning away. In this day and age, anyone wearing a floral shirt with long hair instantly set off alarm bells—hippie.
And if there was one group Ethan didn't want to get tangled up with, it was unpredictable, drama-prone hippies.
Oh no. Hippie? That label made Ethan glance at the guy more carefully. Flower-print shirt. Check. Bell-bottoms. Check. Long, unkempt hair. Aviator sunglasses indoors. Double check.
Then, a mischievous thought crossed Ethan's mind.
Mr.FBI always scared of trouble, right?Well then... maybe it's time to give him a little "entertainment."
If he told Frank later that a hippie was buying chemical supplies, that timid frank might lose his mind. Ethan nearly chuckled at the thought.
While he daydreamed about how to mess with Frank, the hippie-looking man finished writing the list, nodded politely, and then turned his gaze toward the corner—where Ethan's lonely "Snake" machine stood.
Drawn either by the game's vintage design or by the unexpected "Jingle Bells" playing softly from its speakers, the man stared at it for a moment before asking:
"Sir, is this electronic game produced by your company?"
"Ah… kind of." Ethan perked up immediately."If you're interested, give it a try." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. "It's free."
"Thanks." The man smiled, took a quarter, and slid it into the machine.
The screen lit up. At first, he was clueless—just like everyone else who played Snake for the first time. He moved erratically, and the snake crashed after just a few seconds.
But he kept going. One coin after another. Gradually, his fingers settled into a rhythm. He started to get it. The snake zig-zagged across the screen under his steady hand, swallowing dot after dot with practiced precision.
His body went still. Eyes locked in. His silence was almost eerie.
It was like watching someone get possessed by pixels.
The noise of the expo faded into the background. All Ethan could hear was the soft click and clack of the joystick—calm and deliberate.
And to Ethan's surprise…The guy was actually good.
He passed the first acceleration. Then the second. Then the third.
No one else had lasted that long—not without already knowing the game.
Finally, during the fourth speed-up, the man hesitated.
One bad flick of the wrist, and—The snake hit the wall.
"Oh! Fxxk!"
He punched the air in frustration.
"Just a little more!"
He even stomped his foot like a kid who dropped an ice cream cone.
Ethan, watching silently, was actually impressed. Four coins. Forty points. That was the best performance he'd seen from someone who didn't already know the game.
Just as Ethan was about to open his mouth to say something, the man suddenly straightened up and began looking around nervously—eyes darting left and right.
Ethan furrowed his brow, puzzled. Then, the man turned back and gave Ethan the answer himself.
The man bent down and switched off the game. Then he stepped toward Ethan, lowered his voice, and said:
"Sir, I'm really glad I ran into you here. Please forgive my earlier behavior—I'm just... genuinely excited right now."
His voice was calm, but there was a glint of energy in his eyes.
"Since you brought Snake to the expo, I assume you're looking to sell it, right? If so, maybe we should get to know each other."
As he spoke, he reached around, gave a pat to his back pocket, and pulled out a thin wallet.
"Here's my business card." That directness caught Ethan off guard—in the best way. He'd thought this whole trip might be a waste of time.
That he'd have to haul the machine back home with nothing to show for it.
But now...There are still people who know a good game when they see it, huh?
Ethan smiled as he accepted the card, glancing down as he prepared to start talking business.
And then—He froze. His smile vanished. His eyes blinked once, then twice. He rubbed at them, unsure he was seeing clearly.
Because printed on that plain little card, in clear, bold type, were the words:
Atari Electronic Engineer ---Steven Paul Jobs