November 29, 1995. The NASDAQ Trading Floor.
The place was a zoo, an absolute madhouse. The air was so thick with tension and body heat it felt like you could barely breathe. And at the center of it all, a black-turtlenecked sun pulling everything into his orbit, was Steve Jobs.
He was surrounded by reporters, a sea of microphones and flashing bulbs, and he was eating it alive. He was in his element—arrogant, electric, and so damn brilliant it was almost terrifying.
"Let's be perfectly clear," Jobs declared, his voice slicing right through the roar of the floor. "The film Toy Story is the single greatest advancement in animation since Walt Disney released Snow White sixty years ago. That innovation came from Pixar. Disney... Disney is merely the distributor."
A reporter, brave or foolish, immediately shoved a mic forward. "Mr. Jobs, are you saying Disney had no part in the film's success?"
Jobs just looked at him. It wasn't just a look; it was a weapon, a look of such withering, intellectual disdain that the reporter actually shrank back.
"Of course," he said, the words dripping with contempt.
He was deliberately picking a fight. On the biggest day of his company's life, he was standing on the world's stage and punching the biggest mouse in the world right in the nose. It was brutal. It was petty. And it was a strategy so effective it made Zane's blood sing.
Standing at the edge of the crowd, Zane couldn't help but feel a raw, grudging respect. He's a master, he thought. A master of the narrative. He knew Jobs's history. He knew the tyrant persona was a tool, and that behind it was the desperate pragmatist who had signed humiliating deals with this very same Disney just to keep the lights on at Pixar.
But today wasn't for humility. Today was for war.
As expected, the news of Jobs's speech hit the industry like a bomb. Zane heard later that in Burbank, Disney Chairman Michael Eisner was so furious he'd reportedly swept his entire desk clear, screaming for his lawyers.
But on Wall Street, anger is just a line item. When the market opened, Pixar stock wasn't just sought after; it was hunted. Every institution, every investor who had seen what Toy Story was doing to the culture, lunged. They might hate Jobs's guts, but they loved money more.
Zane was one of them. He had already wired six million dollars—every liquid cent he had on earth—to an investment firm. The instructions were simple: "Buy at open." He didn't use leverage, not this time. His knowledge of the future was a map, not a microscope. He knew Pixar would be a titan in a month, but the chaotic, violent swings of a first-day IPO were too wild for a bet that big.
He just watched the ticker, his heart pounding a heavy, painful rhythm against his ribs.
"Don't fail me now, you crazy bastard," Zane muttered under his breath, as Jobs rang the opening bell.
That night, Zane was pacing his living room, a groove already forming in the carpet. He could feel his teeth grinding together, a dull, aching pressure in his jaw.
"You useless piece of junk!" he snarled at the empty air, at the silent, unhelpful "system." "You can give me the entire, detailed, script-by-script breakdown of SpongeBob, but you can't give me one day? One damn day of detailed stock data?"
By any sane, rational, objective measure, the day had been a spectacular, life-altering success.
Pixar's stock, issued at $22, had screamed as high as $49 a share before the big players took their profits, closing at a rock-solid $39.
Zane's six-million-dollar investment was, as of this evening, worth just over ten million dollars. He'd made four million dollars. While he sat on his couch.
And he was furious.
His mind kept replaying it, over and over. That $49 peak. If he'd sold at the peak, if he'd just known, he could have made another two million. It was the curse of a perfectionist. A win this big, this monumental, still felt like a failure because it wasn't perfect.
He was so wrapped up in his own irrational anger that the doorbell made him jump.
He yanked the door open. It was Condy. He was wearing a designer jacket that probably cost more than Zane's first car, a sharp, jarring contrast to the disheveled, beer-stained wreck Zane had first met.
"Let me guess," Condy said, smirking as he breezed past him, smelling faintly of expensive cologne. "You're pacing and looking like you want to murder someone because you only made four million dollars today instead of six. You financial vampires are all the same."
"Get out," Zane said, but there was no heat in it. He was too tired.
"Can't. Just the delivery boy," Condy said, dropping two thick manila folders on the coffee table. "Everything you asked for. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a woman who actually appreciates a man of leisure." He gave a little two-finger salute and was gone, leaving the scent of his cologne behind.
Zane stared at the files. His next moves.
He picked up the first one. The label read: [Hughes Film Company].
It was a small, independent production and distribution company based in Burbank. Established in 1985, it had mostly produced direct-to-video trash. But Condy's report had highlighted its one, overlooked, priceless asset: a complete, albeit small, distribution network in California. The current owner, a fool who'd made a series of bad investments, was desperate to sell.
Valuation: $2 million. Estimated purchase price: $2.5 to $3 million.
Zane's eyes lit up, the anger from the stock market instantly forgotten. He wasn't a movie guy, not really. But he was a business analyst. He knew the raw, brutal power of vertical integration. Owning distribution was like owning the roads. Even if your own cars were junk, you could still charge a toll for everyone else. With his own distribution, he could produce his low-cost films and get them into theaters himself. No begging. No groveling. No splitting the profits with a major studio.
It was the key. The key to true independence.
"Done," he said to the empty room. "I'm buying it."
He opened the second file. [Stephen Hillenburg: Personal Information].
The name meant nothing to the world, but to Zane, it was solid gold. The system had given him the what. This file gave him the who. It was all here. A brilliant marine biologist, a teacher at the Ocean Institute, who, in an effort to make his lessons more interesting, had started drawing a cartoon... about a cheerful, absorbent sea sponge.
The report was thorough, detailing his passion, his creative process... and the future. Multiple Emmy awards. Two feature films. And, in a number that still made Zane's head spin, over $13 billion in merchandise revenue for Nickelodeon.
He leaned back, the anger from his "failed" four-million-dollar day completely gone. It was just static, a childish tantrum.
This was the real game.
The anger was replaced by a cold, sharp, thrilling clarity. The path forward wasn't just a vague ambition anymore. It was a concrete, two-pronged assault.
On one side: a film company. His own distribution. Ready to be fed the low-cost, high-return horror scripts he already had floating in his head.
On the other: a billion-dollar animation IP, a beloved character the world just hadn't met yet.
He had the capital. He had the assets. The game was truly, finally, about to begin.
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