Making Money Lying Down

"The Hokkaido branch just faxed in, saying that even the samples in the display cases have been forcibly bought by customers." A managing director stubbed out his cigarette, his voice trembling with disbelief. "I've never fought such a lucrative battle in my life."

Sitting at the head of the table, Yamashina Makoto didn't say anything, but quietly flipped through the financial report in his hand.

This isn't doing business, it's outright robbery.

Moreover, it's the kind of situation where someone forces money into your pocket, and if you don't accept it, they'll get angry with you.

He raised his head, his gaze sweeping over every overly excited face in the room.

Just a few months ago, these same people were still pointing fingers at the expensive licensing fee at the board meeting, worried that the young Sega executive was setting a trap for Bandai.

It now appears that the pit was indeed dug, but it was filled entirely with gold ore.

"President," Managing Director Mitsui Chuta leaned closer, lowering his voice, his tone full of admiration, "We were so grateful for listening to Managing Director Nakayama's advice back then."

Yamashina Makoto put down the presentation, picked up his teacup, took a sip, and concealed the smile on his lips.

It's more than just having a sharp eye.

The young man fed you the food and even chewed it for you.

The feeling of being carried along is so exhilarating and addictive.

This unprecedented sense of ease made Yamashina Makoto's previously wavering heart sink suddenly.

The image of Nakayama Takuya casually reciting those words at the party that day flashed through his mind.

"President Yamashina, have you ever thought about making Bandai and Sega one family?"

At the time, he thought it was just youthful arrogance, and he felt somewhat resistant, after all, who would willingly hand over their family business to someone else?

But now, looking out the window at the trucks lining up to pick up goods, that crazy idea, like weeds, is growing wildly in my heart, riding the spring breeze of this dinosaur craze.

If that monstrous young man were at the helm...

Perhaps Bandai really can reach a height he never dared to imagine.

Yamashina Makoto put down his teacup, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the table.

On August 6th, the sky looked as if it had been torn open.

Kagoshima was hit by concentrated torrential rain, which triggered massive floods and landslides that instantly shattered the tranquility of the area.

On television, murky muddy water, carrying trees and cars, ravaged the streets like another form of monster.

The archipelago, which had just been hyped up by the "dinosaur craze," was doused with a bucket of cold water.

The celebrities who used to roll around in dinosaur costumes on Variety shows are gone; in their place are solemn-faced reporters shouting in the storm while wearing raincoats.

The box office for Jurassic Park experienced a significant drop during those few days.

After all, in the face of the real power of nature, the special effects thrillers produced by Hollywood seem somewhat pale and out of place.

Toho was also quite sensible, quietly removing several prime-time slots of GG and making way for public service GG.

Nakayama Takuya sat in his office, watching an NHK news special.

On the screen, an elderly man covered in mud is crying to the camera, saying that the rescue team couldn't get in because of the road collapse, and that his neighbors had to pull him out from under the collapsed roof beams.

"The limits of public assistance."

Takuya turned off the sound and tapped his fingers lightly on the table.

The Hokkaido earthquake a month ago, coupled with the recent torrential rains in Kagoshima, has thoroughly exposed the sluggishness and ineffectiveness of the official relief system.

The media's stance has changed.

Previously, people were criticizing the Japan Meteorological Agency for inaccurate warnings, but now newspaper headlines are discussing a more practical question: what should you do when the government can't save you?

After all, the saturation-style rescue efforts of the People's Liberation Army are unique in China, unlike anything else in the world.

"Self-help", "joint aid", "public aid".

These three words began to appear frequently in expert interviews on major television stations.

Social sentiment shifted from simple anger to a kind of reflection tinged with a sense of crisis.

People are beginning to realize that instead of relying on those old men arguing in Congress, they should first learn how to protect their heads during an earthquake or how to pack emergency supplies before a flood.

However, this wave of serious reflection did not last long.

As the critical 72-hour rescue window closed, the list of survivors stopped being updated, and the expert seminars in the news about "modernizing disaster prevention technology systems" and "upgrading emergency response mechanisms" became so boring that they made people want to fall asleep.

The public has been on edge for too long and needs to relax.

So when Friday's Variety shows were re-aired, and when the posters for Jurassic Park were once again prominently displayed, people flocked to the cinemas almost as if in revenge.

Nobody wants to hear geologists analyze plate tectonics; they just want to see dinosaurs, all kinds of dinosaurs.

In late August in Tokyo, the summer heat was still sweltering, but the air conditioning in the Imperial Hotel's banquet hall was blasting.

The champagne tower reflected the light from the crystal chandelier, making everyone's face glow in a golden light.

Toho has gone all out this time, after all, Jurassic Park's Japan box office has already broken the 10 billion Japanese yen ceiling.

In this year of bursting bubbles and everyone tightening their purse strings, this number seems like a myth.

Department Head Sato was beaming, oblivious to the fact that his tie was slightly askew.

Holding a wine glass in his hand, he pushed aside two second-tier actresses who were trying to come over and hand him their business cards, and plopped down next to Nakayama Takuya.

"Ten billion yen—" Sato hiccuped, his eyes glazed and feverish, and patted Takuya's thigh. "Executive Director Nakayama, if I had believed that propaganda minister's nonsense two months ago and followed the old rules for publicity, I'd probably be writing a self-criticism right now."

Nakayama Takuya patted the back of his hand, picked up his wine glass and clinked it against Sato's. "Sato- san, you flatter me."

"Jurassic Park is the work of Spielberg and Michael Crichton; at most, we just cheered a couple of times and gave it a push."

"Hey! Excessive modesty is just arrogance!" Sato laughed, his voice drawing the attention of several producers around him.

He simply stood up, grabbed Takuya's arm, and walked to the front of the stage. "Come on, come on, tonight's celebration banquet, this opening ceremony of the first hammer, we must strike it together."

The previously noisy conversation in the audience immediately quieted down.

Dozens of eyes were fixed on the stage.

This group includes old-school film producers, popular idols, and executives from several television stations.

A wooden mallet smashed open the lid of the sake barrel, releasing a rich aroma of sake.

Sato grabbed the Mike, ignoring the hosting procedures, and started speaking, "Ladies and gentlemen! Isn't the wine delicious tonight? But I have to tell you the truth, without the help of Sega and Bandai, our success might not have been so smooth."

The applause was thunderous, even a little urgent.

The Mike was handed to Nakayama Takuya.

He didn't rush to speak, his gaze sweeping over the eager faces below the stage.