Ethan had no idea about the heated discussions taking place two thousand miles away.
Because right now, life in San Francisco was too good to bother with such things.
If he was free today, he'd head to Fisherman's Wharf, rent a boat, and go fishing. Tomorrow, with nothing on the agenda, he could sneak up Twin Peaks . The day after that, why not close Frank's shop for a while, grab two tickets to Honolulu, and go whale-watching?
It wasn't until Frank, practically in tears, begged that he couldn't pay rent if the store stayed shut, that Ethan finally flew back to San Francisco—satisfied, sunburnt, and smug.
And then came a pleasant surprise. During negotiations, Nolan Bushnell had shown his true face as a shameless capitalist. But when it came to fulfilling the contract, he was unexpectedly clean and decisive. The agreement said payment within two weeks—yet in just one week, when Ethan checked his account at Wells Fargo, an extra $190,000 sat there waiting for him.
Such straightforward efficiency made Ethan nod in approval. Even better, having a small fortune in hand made his days even sweeter.
Now, life became a routine of eating, drinking, and playing—or being on the road to more eating, drinking, and playing.
Why not get back to "serious work"? Simple. Because there was no rush.
Yes, the American arcade market was huge and could absorb multiple games in a short span. But cannibalizing his own success was idiotic. Snake had only launched in May. It was now mid-June, and should he really rush out another title already?
Players might accept it. But merchants? Never. They had just invested hundreds, even thousands of dollars in motherboards and arcade cabinets. And Ethan expected them to junk it all after just a few months? Even leeks can't be cut that fast.
Better to let Snake reign for a while. Once it truly conquered the U.S., once the buzz spread overseas and foreign manufacturers came knocking, then it would be time to roll out a new game. Whether he'd design it himself or publish someone else's work—that decision could wait.
Besides games, Ethan's only other "serious business" lay in the true blue ocean of the future—personal computers.
But even that had to wait. His technical ace, Evelyn Johnson, was still off gallivanting on a graduation trip, not returning until July.
That morning, Ethan only went out to grab breakfast. But on the way, he stopped dead in his tracks.
In front of the cinema stood a massive poster. A dark blue ocean. A giant shark, mouth gaping wide, blood-red teeth flashing as it lunged upward. Above it, in bold scarlet letters: JAWS.
Ethan froze. Only then did he realize—the "disaster movie" that Mr. FBI had mentioned was this?
Hold on… Jaws? In the original timeline, this was the first movie in history to break the hundred-million-dollar box office. The one that made Spielberg a household name. And yet… Ethan Jones had already become famous before Spielberg?
"Damn," Ethan muttered, rubbing his temples. So I really time-traveled this early, huh?
Curiosity won. Though he'd always thought shark movies were boring, he slipped into the theater.
That's when regret struck. Not because of the movie—it was brilliant, raw, terrifying without even modern effects. No, the real problem was Frank.
The moment the shark appeared, Frank nearly jumped out of his seat. To the people around them, he might as well have been a man dodging live bullets.
When the great white finally burst from the sea, jaws wide open, Frank latched onto Ethan's arm like a drowning sailor clutching driftwood. His nails dug in so hard Ethan almost lost feeling in his fingers.
"Are you serious?!" Ethan hissed, prying at the iron grip. "You're this scared? This is just a thriller, not real life!"
Frank puffed his chest with misplaced confidence. "That's exactly why I asked you to come! If I wasn't scared, I'd have invited a pretty girl instead, duh."
Ethan blinked. "Wait. So I'm the test run? You drag me along, memorize the scary parts, then take some girl out later like you're brave?"
Frank waved his hands wildly. "N-no! That's not it! Don't talk nonsense!"
Ethan rolled his eyes. Yeah right. Duped again.
The very next morning, Frank confirmed Ethan's suspicions.
Bright and early, he shoved the store keys into Ethan's hands. "Buddy, cover for me today, alright?"
Then he strutted out in a flashy floral shirt, hair greased back like a disco king, grinning ear to ear as he went to meet his date.
Watching his "friend" vanish down the street, Ethan's face twitched.
Unbelievable. The guy's a human leech—always moving, always scheming. Next time, I'm kicking him ass.
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