My teacher is Bruce Lee, who dominated Hollywood.

Chapter 178 The One Dollar Baby Plan

The rapid clicking of the typewriter echoed through the study in Beverly Hills, half-hidden by ivy.

The air was filled with the rich, bitter smell of burning pipe tobacco. Qin Han sat on a single leather sofa, his gaze fixed on the thin old man behind the desk.

Dalton Trumbo, the legendary screenwriter who was blacklisted by Hollywood and lay low for many years, is now wearing reading glasses and his thin fingers are typing rapidly on the keyboard.

Stephen King sat upright on the sofa opposite him.

The future "King of Horror Fiction," facing this old man, had eyes filled with a sense of pilgrimage-like trepidation and awe behind his thick-rimmed glasses.

Trump breathed heavily, typed the last line, and then yanked the paper out of the roller.

"School bullying, religious fanaticism—" The old man's voice was a little hoarse. He took off his glasses and rubbed the corners of his wrinkled eyes. "Stephen, the words you've written are exactly how I felt when I faced that damned Un-American Activities Committee in the 1950s."

Stephen King straightened up abruptly: "Carrie—Carrie White is not a monster."

"She was gradually driven into a monster by a hypocritical system, the indifference and bullying of those around her. When I was teaching, I saw too many children driven into corners. I wanted to tear open that silent despair and show it to people."

"Well done!" Trumbo picked up his pipe and tapped it on the corner of the table. "I've finished revising the second act of the script. I've removed some lengthy psychological descriptions and amplified the oppressive atmosphere before the ball."

"Once Qin gets the director on board, this film will definitely stab the American middle class in the back!"

The two, one old and one young, despite decades of generational gap and completely different life trajectories, found a strong resonance in their portrayal of the darker side of human nature.

Qin Han picked up the black tea beside him and took a small sip.

Looking at the scene before him, he knew that his move of "spending a fortune to buy a horse's bones" was absolutely correct.

With Trumbo's hard-edged writing style honed in dire circumstances, combined with Stephen King's keen eye for horror elements, the script quality of this "Carrie" far surpasses its predecessor.

The discussion came to an end, and Trumbo refilled his pipe with tobacco. Stephen King watched the old man strike a match, the leaping flame illuminating his resolute face.

Qin Han put down his teacup and adopted a listening posture.

"A few months ago, because my novel was rejected, I threw Carrie's first draft into the trash. If Tabitha hadn't retrieved it, if it weren't for Qin, you would have let Sylvester show up on that snowy day with $20,000 —"

Stephen took a deep breath. "I'm probably still in that laundry room right now, washing bloodstained sheets and worrying about next month's electricity bill."

The study was extremely quiet, except for the sound of Trumbo puffing on his pipe.

"I struggled at the bottom for too long and saw too many colleagues and students who were more talented than me but were stuck in the mud because they couldn't afford a plane ticket to Hollywood or couldn't afford the typing and copying fees."

"So, I have an idea. After making money with Carrie, I want to use the copyrights of all the short stories I create in the future to do something."

He looked at Qin Han, his eyes revealing an undeniable stubbornness.

"I want to start a program. Anyone who is a film school student with dreams of becoming a director, or an independent screenwriter, as long as they promise not to use their work for commercial profit, but only as a stepping stone to showcase their talent —"

Stephen held up one finger: "They only need to pay one dollar. Just one dollar to take the adaptation rights to any of my short stories."

Trumbo's hand, holding the pipe, suddenly stopped in mid-air, and he looked at the young writer with great interest.

Having spent most of his life in Hollywood, he knew all too well what the word "copyright" meant to the heads of major studios.

Now, this young man, who has just finished eating, is saying that he wants to sell his hard work to complete strangers for one dollar.

"Stephen, do you know what this means?" Trumbo put down his pipe. "Once your name is established, every word you say will be worth a fortune. It's like opening your gold mine to the whole world for free!"

"I know," Stephen King replied calmly. "Qin gave me a ticket that changed my life. I just—want to print a few standing tickets within my means for those who are still freezing in the blizzard."

"I am a teacher, and I always feel that I should do something for those children who have not yet been seen."

Trump looked at him, his wrinkled face flashing with shock and confusion, which eventually turned into a deep respect.

He picked up his pipe again, said nothing, and simply nodded heavily.

Qin Han, sitting to the side, naturally already guessed what the genius writer wanted to say: this was the famous "One Dollar Baby" plan.

In its previous life, this seemingly philanthropic act, in the decades that followed, supplied Hollywood with an entire generation of exceptionally talented top creators.

A young man named Frank Darabont won Stephen King's trust by spending just one dollar to create a stunning short film based on his novel, which eventually led to the adaptation of the masterpiece, The Shawshank Redemption, into a film.

This was a turning point in the fate of countless filmmakers from humble backgrounds.

"That's a great idea, Stephen." Qin Han stood up, walked to the sofa, and extended his right hand to the future literary giant.

"Han's Films will not interfere with the creators' freedom to handle their own derivative rights. Moreover, if any young person in the future produces a stunning sample film with a one-dollar copyright, Han's Films' doors are always open to them; we will provide them with funding for feature film production."

Stephen King excitedly grasped Qin Han's hand, his eyes slightly reddening.

He had expected that proposing this highly "red" idea at this time would be rejected by Han, but he did not expect to receive such unreserved support.

"Thank you, Qin. Really."

"No need to thank me, this is your kindness to the world." Qin Han released his hand, glanced down at his watch, and picked up the trench coat draped over the back of the chair.

"I'll leave the rest of the script polishing to Mr. Dalton. I have to head to Los Angeles International Airport right away."

"So soon? It seems Hans Films hasn't been pushing any projects forward lately." Trumbo was somewhat surprised.

"I'm going to Philadelphia." A sharp glint flashed in Qin Han's eyes.

"That boxer nicknamed 'Italian Stallion' has been throwing punches at raw beef in the freezer for a week now. Tomorrow morning, he'll be out on the streets of Philadelphia, letting all of Hollywood hear his voice."

Four o'clock in the morning, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

The sky was devoid of stars, and the cold wind blowing from the Delaware River, carrying with it the foul smell of the sewers, raged through the narrow alleyways of the Italian Market on Ninth Street.

A Ford van with peeling paint sat like a ghost on a dark street corner.

Inside the carriage, there was no comfortable director's chair, no monitor; the violent vibrations of the engine were transmitted up the chassis, making one's teeth chatter.

"My God—I have completely lost all feeling in my toes." Fred clenched his teeth and exhaled a thick cloud of white breath.

Looking out at the dimly lit street through the black hole dug out on the side of the carriage for the purpose of taking photos, his voice was full of anxiety.

"Qin, this is absolutely insane! No municipal permits, no clearing of the area. Those vegetable vendors' trucks could smash our protagonist into a pulp at any moment!"

Qin Han, wearing a cashmere overcoat, also huddled inside the car, warding off the morning chill.

"This is the real temperature, Fred." His gaze swept across the dark street. "Put away that coquettishness of drinking temperature-controlled coffee in the studio. Camera ready."

The photographer standing behind Qin Han was a veteran, carrying a heavy Arri 16mm camera. He didn't say a word, silently rubbing his frozen fingers on his clothes and pressing the viewfinder to his eye socket.

In the footage, the Ninth Street Market begins to awaken.

The metal roller shutter door was roughly pulled open, making a screeching sound.

Butchers wearing blood-stained aprons slammed half-frozen pork off a truck into a handcart.

Several homeless men, warming themselves by a fire around a gasoline drum, were cursing at each other over a half-smoked cigarette.

Unbeknownst to anyone, on this ordinary morning, Hollywood cameras were silently aimed at them.

"He's here," the photographer said in a low voice.

In the shadows at the end of the street, a gray figure was slowly running into the dim glow of the streetlights with heavy steps.

That's Sylvester Stallone, or rather, that's Rocky Balboa.

He was wearing a gray hooded tracksuit soaked with sweat and dirt, and a black beanie with a worn-out brim.

To keep warm, his hands were wrapped in thick bandages, stained with mottled blood—marks of constant pounding of pork.

He wasn't wearing makeup, and his cheeks were sunken from the cold and fatigue.

For the past week, he really did act like a lowly boxer about to step into the ring, running wildly through the streets of Philadelphia every day and punching dead meat in the cold storage of slaughterhouses.

"Start the car and maintain a distance of fifteen meters. Do not turn on the headlights."

The van shifted into first gear, its tires making a slight crunching sound as they rolled over the road, slowly following Rocky's side and rear.

Without the clapperboard or the call to "Action," Rocky quickened his pace, his worn-out Converse sneakers splashing cold mud as he stepped into the puddles.

I ran past a vegetable stall that was unloading goods. The stall owner was a middle-aged Italian man with a big belly, smoking a cigarette as he carried baskets of oranges onto the shelf.

Hearing footsteps pass by him, the stall owner turned around and looked at the figure running wildly in the cold wind wearing only a thin tracksuit.

Out of kindness, he grabbed a plump orange from the basket and threw it forcefully toward Rocky's back.

"Hey! Catch!"

Rocky, who was running wildly, didn't even look back. The instant he heard the wind, he reached behind him with his left hand and caught the orange firmly in his palm.

The whole process was smooth and effortless. Rocky didn't slow down; he just tossed the orange into the air and bounced it once before continuing to run wildly toward the distant street.

"My God—" Fred's breathing stopped completely in the carriage.

His eyes widened as he recalled what had just happened.

There was no design, no positioning, and not even lighting.

But it was that vegetable vendor's casual throw and Rocky's tacit understanding in catching it without even turning his head that vividly portrayed the down-to-earth atmosphere of Philadelphia's lower class and the human touch of people supporting each other!

"Did you get the picture?" He grabbed the photographer's shoulder, his voice trembling with excitement.

"It's all loaded onto film, sir. Not a single frame is missing." The photographer's eyes never left the viewfinder.

"Keep following him." This is precisely why Qin Han insisted on the guerrilla filming method.

Reality cannot be manufactured, it can only be captured.

The truck continued moving forward.

However, just as the truck followed Rocky into a narrow back alley, a screeching sound of brakes suddenly rang out.

The driver slammed on the brakes, and the immense inertia propelled the three people in the carriage forward.

"What's going on?!" Fred looked toward the driver's seat in alarm.

"The road ahead is blocked." The driver's voice was filled with panic.

Looking through the windshield, two rusty pickup trucks were parked haphazardly at the exit of the alley.

Four white youths wearing leather jackets were leaning against the hood of a car, blocking the way, and holding baseball bats and iron pipes.

They were local thugs in Philadelphia, and the truck's strange behavior had already caught their attention.

At this moment, Rocky also stopped, standing less than five meters away from Pikachu, his chest heaving as he coldly stared at the group of roadblocks.

The leader of the thugs was a guy with a scar on his face.

He spat on the ground, picked up the iron pipe, and slowly walked up to Rocky.

"Who's playing hide-and-seek on our turf so early in the morning?" Scarface looked Stallone up and down, then looked over his shoulder at the van parked not far away.

"You bastards, do you think we can't tell it's a camera just because you've covered it with a tattered black cloth? Did you pay any tolls before filming here?"

Inside the carriage, Fred's face turned deathly pale: "Damn it! I knew something bad was going to happen!"

He frantically unzipped his briefcase: "Qin, give them the money! We can't cause trouble here. If the police come, all our film will be confiscated!"

"Put the money away." Qin Han ignored Fred's panic and didn't even glance at the shouting thugs. His gaze remained fixed on Stallone's back.

At this moment, Stallone still maintains the demeanor of a low-level boxer.

Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose onto the asphalt road. He was breathing heavily. He slowly raised his head, and his eyes, hidden in the shadows, were fixed on the scarred face in front of him.

That was the look of a beast who had spent thirty years wallowing in the mud of the slums, always ready to bite someone's throat for survival.

That was Rocky's inherent color.

"Get out of the way."

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