"Cars, guns, and baseball—the three great American staples. They never lie."
Takuya Nakayama tapped his finger on the North American section of the world map spread across the table.
In this land, cars weren't just transportation; they were gasoline flowing through the blood, an extension of primal hormones.
Compared to Japanese players still bogged down in wiring and technicalities, Americans had a simpler, purer joy: floor it and smash everything.
Once that raw destructive impulse was ignited, doubling the inventory was like tossing a match onto a pile of dry tinder—it went up in flames without a trace.
"Koguchi-kun," Nakayama pressed the intercom button on his desk.
"Managing Director, I'm here."
"Inform the assembly plants in China to keep the production lines running nonstop, three shifts a day." Nakayama's voice betrayed little emotion, but his command was ruthless and decisive. "Divert half the capacity originally reserved for replenishing our Japanese stock."
Oguchi Hisao clearly froze on the other end, his breath catching for a moment. "Managing Director, cut it in half? The Japanese distributors will be up in arms. Mr. Sato was just on the phone yesterday, practically crying. He said two gangs of bosozoku nearly came to blows at his arcade over the machines."
"Let them fight. The fiercer the fights, the hotter the game. Besides, even with that, the Japanese arcades still can't match the popularity in North America." Takuya Nakayama tossed the thick stack of North American orders back onto the desk, leaning back with his feet resting on the edge. "The Japanese market is only so big. Once it's saturated, that's it. But North America is an bottomless pit. Now's the time to secure our beachhead. We can't afford a single day of supply disruption."
He paused, his voice taking on an undeniable edge of pressure. "Tell the Factory Manager I want North American shipments to be five times the Japanese amount. All logistics must prioritize trans-Pacific routes. Even if it means air freight, get those machines to Los Angeles."
"F-five times?!" Oguchi Hisao's voice trembled.
"That's right, five times the amount," Takuya said, staring at the ceiling. The memory of Need for Speed's chart-topping success in North America and Europe flashed through his mind. "If they want to play Speed & Passion, I'll give them enough gasoline. As for the bosses in Japan—let them split it first, take half each. Make them wait a bit; it'll whet their appetites."
Just then, the phone on Takuya Nakayama's desk rang.
He answered to find Tom Kalinske, the president of Sega of America Headquarters, on the line.
Tom Kalinske was clearly still thrilled about the fivefold increase in supply. Even across the Pacific, his voice radiated with excitement. "Takuya, you're my savior. Blockbuster nearly tore down my door yesterday—they threatened to storm our warehouse if they didn't get more stock."
"Let them storm," Takuya replied, propping his feet on his desk and twirling a pen in his hand. "If they break anything, they'll pay double. The shipment's already on its way, so rushing won't help. But Tom, besides the games, don't you think these Speed & Passion fans could be a source of other revenue? Something bigger?"
"Other revenue streams?" Tom paused. "You mean merchandise? T-shirts and car models are already in production."
"No, something bigger. The big screen." Takuya Nakayama slammed his pen onto the desk. "I want to turn The Fast and the Furious into a movie."
The line went silent for a few seconds, then the sound of a lighter striking a match came through.
"A movie... that's an interesting idea. But this subject matter is a bit of a hot potato." Tom exhaled a ring of smoke, his tone becoming cautious. "You know, the US is a car-centric nation, but those parent associations are a force to be reckoned with. If we show simple street racing, even police chases, the Rating Committee could slap an R rating on it, or worse, accuse us of 'inciting crime.' We'd be looking at PR nightmares, let alone box office failure."
"Simple street racing by hooligans wouldn't work, of course," Takuya Nakayama said with a smile. "So we need to give these hooligans a more respectable motive. Is Bernard in? Get him over here. He'll need to handle the negotiations with Hollywood."
Within five minutes, Bernard, who was in charge of Sega's Hollywood communications, pushed open Tom's office door.
The call was switched to speakerphone.
"Managing Director, this is Bernard."
"Listen, Bernard. I want you to go to Universal or some other studio and pitch a script concept." Takuya Nakayama sat up straight, ready to unleash the core logic that would later be worth billions of dollars. "People love car chases, but they hate thugs. So, we need to redefine this group of street racers."
"How do we redefine them?"
"We package them as modern-day urban cowboys." Takuya's voice was utterly persuasive. "They race, they rob trucks, but they don't kill innocent people. They have their own code, value loyalty, and cherish family. Most importantly, family."
"Family?" Bernard and Tom asked in unison, clearly struggling to keep up with this sudden shift in logic.
"Exactly. Family." Takuya emphasized the word. "These aren't a gang; they're a family. When they gather, it's not just to divvy up the loot. They say grace before meals, share Corona beers, and barbecue together. This contrast will make the audience forget they're criminals and instead see their actions as... a different kind of Robin Hood behavior."
The sound of a pen furiously scratching across paper came from the other end of the line.
"Give the protagonist an antagonist—a cop, for example," Takuya continued. "But this cop can't be too rigid."
"We could consider making him go undercover, let him be swayed by the warmth of these people's families and their personal charisma, and ultimately have him torn between the law and loyalty. Audiences love that kind of moral conflict."
"That—that does sound much more layered than a simple cop chase," Bernard said, his voice tinged with excitement. "Dressing illegal acts in the guise of 'code of honor'—Hollywood loves that kind of thing."
"And the female characters," Takuya added. "No more damsels in distress screaming from the passenger seat while the hero saves the day. Today's audience wants tough girls—the kind who wear tank tops, grease-stained hands, can change a transmission themselves, and might even throw down with the guys using a wrench. That'll win us over a huge female audience."
"Got it," Bernard said, his pen never stopping. "What about casting?"
"Find guys who ooze testosterone. They don't need to be famous, but they have to be tough—the kind with that red-state grit in their bones." Takuya paused, his tone suddenly turning colder. "And all the main actors must sign long-term series contracts—at least three films—to keep the salaries down."
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