The studio lights instantly shifted from a cold white to a piercing crimson.
Accompanied by that signature, heart-wrenching low sound effect, John slumped in his seat, as if his spine had been completely removed.
"My condolences," Bobby Batista's voice remained calm, devoid of any sympathy, a purely professional statement. "The correct answer is C. Oscar Wilde."
At that moment, millions of households across America echoed with synchronized sighs, followed by a cacophony of frustrated, disappointed curses.
"Damn it! I knew it was Wilde! Does that truck driver's head run on diesel or something?"
John stared blankly at the big screen, the phantom of a million-dollar check shattering into dust, replaced by a consolation prize of $32,000.
Though this sum equaled more than half a year's salary, it felt like a paltry sum compared to the astronomical figure that had been within reach just moments before—no better than a beggar's alms.
He couldn't even remember how he walked out of the studio. His mind was consumed by the single word that echoed incessantly: "wrong."
John's failure didn't deter the audience. Instead, a cognitive bias known as "survivor bias" began to spread across every television screen in America.
If it were me, I would have definitely answered that question correctly.
If some idiot can win thirty-two thousand, I could do it too.
This sentiment burned like wildfire across the United States.
At TBS's call center, operators stared at the wildly flashing lights on their consoles, feeling like they were on the D-Day beaches at Normandy.
"Boss, we can't handle this!" The customer service manager burst into the control room, his forehead glistening with sweat. "New York, Chicago, Los Angeles—every line in the country is flooded! Tech just said Canadians are even trying to hack in!"
Ted Turner leaned back in his chair, blowing out one last smoke ring.
"Did you hear that, Betty?" Turner said calmly. "This is human greed."
"Send the notice." Turner gently stubbed out the last inch of his cigar, his eyes gleaming with a predator's hunger. "Double the minimum bid for next week's GG Slot auction. Tell those automakers who are still hesitating—if they want to be seen during this prime time, they need to show some sincerity."
He paused, a cold smile twisting his lips. "Also, tell the Casting Director to be more discerning. We need actors who look brilliant but fall apart at critical moments. Audiences love these tragic figures; it makes them feel smarter than the characters on screen."
Atlanta's night was dark, but for TBS, this evening promised to be sleepless.
When discussing Turner Broadcasting, another business venture inevitably came to mind.
Just as Ted Turner was counting money in Atlanta until his fingers cramped, in a Sega conference room, Tsutomu Shibayama, Director of Asia-Do, was venting his frustrations to Takuya Nakayama.
"Executive Director Nakayama, Sunrise got lucky," Shibayama said, jabbing at the proposal on the table, his scowl deep enough to crush a mosquito. "With Bandai backing them, they're selling plastic toys and throwing in the anime for free. Our Nintama Rantaro—three snotty little kids who can't transform, can't combine, and don't even have proper swords. How are we supposed to export this?"
The NHK representative nodded in agreement, looking equally troubled. "And the Japanese elements in this show are too strong—shurikens, kunai, even those Edo-period jokes. Will American kids even understand it? If we air this, they'll think we're promoting some kind of bizarre Eastern mysticism."
Takuya Nakayama flipped through the documents in his hands, glancing at the three oddly styled young ninjas and couldn't help but chuckle.
"You're seriously underestimating the value of the word 'Ninja' in the United States."
He closed the documents and leaned forward. "To Americans, ninjas and samurai are the epitome of the mysterious East. Look at Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles—four pizza-loving turtles living in the sewers became a national sensation. If they can make it big, what's stopping you three authentic little ninjas?"
"But that's an action movie. We're making—"
"A school life comedy," Takuya Nakayama interrupted. "School, homework, strict teachers, gluttonous fatties, money-obsessed cheapskates, and a protagonist who's always getting unlucky. Do those elements even need explanation? Every elementary school kid in the world experiences these things."
Tsutomu Shibayama paused, seemingly swayed by the argument, but quickly raised a technical concern: "What about culturally specific jokes? Like the difference between rice balls and pickles, or those Japanese puns?"
"Revise it," Takuya Nakayama replied bluntly. "Don't worry about the original art. Fix the static backgrounds that can't be explained, replace the rice balls with featureless round food, or just handle it vaguely in the dialogue. Since your show doesn't have much animation anyway, changing a few background images and lip-syncs will be cheaper than remaking an entire episode, right?"
The NHK representative quickly punched numbers into his calculator. After a moment, he looked up. "If it's just static corrections and voice adjustments, the budget is definitely manageable. As long as we can sell it, NHK can cover this cost."
With the production side settled, all that remained was to secure the deal with Atlanta.
When the slightly revised demo tape was placed on Cartoon Network's desk, Vice President Betty's immediate reaction was rejection.
"No robots? No explosions? And no toy sponsorships?" Betty pushed the tape away as she spoke to Takuya Nakayama over the phone. "Mr. Nakayama, we may be short on content, but we're not a charity. What's the point of a show with no potential for merchandise? It's just dead air time."
"It will keep the audience engaged," Takuya Nakayama's voice was confident over the phone. "Sunrise's mecha shows are typically aimed at boys, but this one appeals to both boys and girls, with an even wider age range. Besides, wouldn't you like to try raising viewership purely through content, without Bandai's massive financial backing?"
Betty fell silent.
While Turner Broadcasting had been in high spirits recently thanks to Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, the single-minded revenue structure of Cartoon Network remained a persistent concern. Over-reliance on toy manufacturers meant the network's editorial independence would inevitably weaken.
"And," Takuya added, delivering the final blow, "this show is very long—very long. As long as you're willing to air it, NHK can keep pushing the production committee to keep making it. For a 24/7 channel, what could be more enticing than a steady stream of content with no end in sight?"
A week later, the contract was signed.
This time, there was no rock-bottom "five hundred dollar" price, nor was there Bandai's massive GG fee to guarantee profits.
Instead, both parties agreed to a pragmatic tiered contract: a base licensing fee that ensured neither party would lose money, with royalties increasing in steps for each viewership milestone reached.
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