Chapter - 1
Rebirth, Time Travel and a Greeting Card
As the sun rose over the rolling hills of the San Fernando Valley, the crisp morning rays slipped seamlessly through the slight gaps of the heavy velvet window curtains, falling directly upon the face of a three-year-old boy.
I groggily covered my face with my bedsheet, trying to shield my eyes from the persistent light and desperately wishing for just a few more minutes of quiet sleep.
But the moment my mind started to drift back toward a peaceful slumber, I woke up abruptly, sitting straight up in the expansive bed as my eyes swept across the unfamiliar, luxurious room.
Over the past three weeks, a chaotic flood of fragmented, vivid dreams had finally settled into a bizarre, undeniable reality: I had been reborn, reincarnated, or transmigrated into a completely different era.
I had retained every single memory from my previous life as Edward Bones. Along with my mature mind, I had inherited a uniquely enhanced physique from whatever cosmic anomaly brought me here.
There were no overpowered, reality-breaking magical abilities, status screens, or floating digital menus to guide me.
Instead, my "cheat" was a massive baseline upgrade to my entire physical and mental constitution.
My strength, agility, dexterity, stamina, IQ, and EQ were all elevated to a level of raw potential you might see once in a hundred thousand people—a terrifying tier of baseline talent reminiscent of the genetic anomalies in the Hunter x Hunter universe.
It was the ultimate genetic lottery, but my immediate, frustrating challenge was simple: this incredible engine of a mind was currently trapped inside the fragile, uncoordinated body of a toddler.
During my first week of quietly adapting to this environment, I carefully sorted through the overwhelming influx of information regarding my new life and family lineage.
My name in this world is Edward Newgate. I was born on January 31, 1972, to Eric Bones and Emilia Black.
My biological father was an ambitious young lawyer working tirelessly for the Committee Investigating Valley Independent City/County, commonly known as CIVICC. The committee had been founded around late 1974 to investigate local governance and push for a massive political secession movement within the region.
My biological mother was a warm, traditional homemaker.
Tragically, a horrific automobile accident on Christmas Eve, December 22, 1974, tore that humble life away, leaving the original young host of this body a sudden orphan.
I was rescued from that crumpled, fog-shrouded wreckage by Robert Newgate, a wealthy, influential fifty-five-year-old businessman who officially adopted me on January 2, 1975.
Grandpa Rob, as I quickly came to call him, was a fascinating, larger-than-life figure who represented the bedrock of the "Old Los Angeles" economic power structure.
His father, Thomas Newgate, had gathered all his remaining funds after selling his ancestral estate in Surrey, England, and migrated to San Fernando, California, in 1919. Thomas had immediately purchased vast plots of cheap land and built a highly lucrative agricultural empire centred on orange and lemon farming.
During the wartime booms, their agricultural profits soared to unprecedented heights, reaching two to five times their normal revenue.
However, blind optimism led Thomas to reinvest every cent of those profits entirely back into expanded orange groves.
By the late 1940s, disaster struck in the form of the devastating "Tristeza" virus, which systematically eradicated trees grafted onto sour orange rootstock, wiping out the vast majority of the Newgate family's accumulated agricultural fortune.
It was during this crisis that a nineteen-year-old Rob, defying his family's explicit consent, enlisted in the military to fight in World War II. When he returned home victorious, he brought with him a fierce, battle-hardened pragmatism.
He strongly advised his aging father to pivot away from unpredictable agriculture and shift their remaining land assets into suburban housing development during the massive post-war real estate boom of the 1950s.
Rob officially took the reins of the family enterprise in the mid-1950s during this critical transition toward housing.
When Thomas passed away at the age of sixty-eight in 1959, Rob inherited absolute control. Choosing a life of bachelorhood, Rob dedicated his decades entirely to expanding his business empire, peppered with occasional high-society Hollywood parties.
In the 1960s, noticing the skyrocketing population and suburban baby boom, he invested heavily in consumer toy manufacturing and Hollywood films.
While the toy enterprise became a resounding success, his film investments ran into a brick wall. The ruthless, deeply entrenched studio system totally humbled him.
Rob lost a staggering portion of his liquid profits to creative studio accounting and anti-competitive distribution tactics.
From that day forward, he vowed to exact his ultimate financial revenge on the arrogant Hollywood establishment—specifically the legendary "Big Five" studios (MGM, Paramount, 20th Century Fox, Warner Bros., RKO), the "Little Three" (Universal, Columbia, United Artists), and the aggressively rising challengers like Walt Disney Productions and American International Pictures (AIP).
When the MPAA introduced the revolutionary film rating system (G, M, R, X) in 1968, ushering in a wild era of experimental independent filmmaking, Rob actively began involving himself as a hands-on co-producer.
He was determined to learn every unwritten rule, hidden loophole, and logistical mechanism of the entertainment industry while steadily maintaining his core housing and toy operations.
By the onset of the 1970s, sensing a massive nationwide shift in commercial real estate, Rob aggressively branched into the hospitality industry, building a network of premium hotels.
In December 1974, his business ventures took him to a glamorous, high-profile corporate gathering at the newly minted MGM Grand Hotel in Las Vegas, where Hollywood executives and Valley tycoons had gathered to celebrate the mega-resort's incredibly successful first full year of operation.
After lingering in Las Vegas for a few weeks, Rob decided to make the drive back to his San Fernando mansion to enjoy a quiet, solitary Christmas.
The return journey, however, was treacherous. The Cajon Pass was choked by thick, heavy winter fog mixed with the volatile "Santa Ana" winds that regularly plague the mountain passes in late December.
Visibility dropped to near zero, and it was in these blinding conditions that Rob and his professional driver discovered a devastating car crash.
Inside was the Bones family, returning from a critical, late-night CIVICC strategy meeting in the Valley. The car's interior was still littered with political flyers for a new city secession bill that Governor Ronald Reagan had signed into law just months prior.
The structural irony was thick: tycoon Robert Newgate represented the staunch, old-money Los Angeles establishment that desperately wanted the city to remain unified for macroeconomic stability.
The dying lawyer in the wreckage represented the fiery, anti-tax "New Valley" movement fighting tooth and nail for political independence.
Yet, setting politics aside, Rob pulled the sole survivor—the three-year-old boy—from the burning steel. It felt like a classic, well-worn reincarnation trope, but I wasn't complaining.
Now, sitting safely within the walls of the grand Newgate Mansion in San Fernando, I looked out toward the horizon.
I was living an arm's length away from the absolute epicentre of global entertainment: Hollywood.
A swift mental audit of my adoptive family's financial strength revealed that we owned a thriving medium-sized toy company, six highly profitable mid-scale hotels, three ultra-luxury hotels, and fifteen dedicated retail storefronts across California. The family commanded tens of millions of dollars in solid, unencumbered assets, pulling in an approximate annual revenue of $30 million to $50 million.
"Okay, calm down... Take a deep, steady breath," I muttered to myself, forcing my tiny, toddler heart to slow its racing pace.
"Don't let your head spin just because you've been adopted by a multi-millionaire tycoon. You come from the far future. You hold the ultimate cheat sheet of cultural trends, technological disruptions, and historical foreknowledge. You are going to become far wealthier than this. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
I systematically laid out my personal three-step developmental roadmap:
First, I absolutely needed to meticulously study the macro-economic landscape, daily current affairs, and immediate pop-culture trends of the mid-1970s.
Second, I had to formulate a long-range, bulletproof business master plan.
Third, I had to aggressively exploit my enhanced, high-IQ learning capacity to absorb as much technical, legal, and creative knowledge as humanly possible.
Once the foundation was poured, I would carefully orchestrate a public persona of an undeniable child prodigy, effortlessly mastering complex skills to naturally earn my own independent capital and show Grandpa Rob that his heir was a genius capable of helping him dismantle the Hollywood studio elite.
It was an incredibly ambitious plan, but with my current resources, it was entirely feasible.
Nearly two weeks of intense reading and observation passed by in a blur.
Suddenly, it was January 31, 1975—my third birthday.
Having digested weeks of major newspapers like the Los Angeles Times and The Wall Street Journal, I finalized my mental summary of the current global status quo.
The massive political fallout from the historic Watergate scandal was still completely dominating national headlines, deeply fracturing public trust in government institutions. Across the Pacific, the Vietnam War's brutal, chaotic final offensive was actively underway, signaling the imminent collapse of Saigon.
On the global stage, the Cambodian Civil War was reaching its bloody climax, and the Angolan independence struggles were plunging the region into proxy conflicts.
Economically, the United States was caught in the suffocating grip of a severe stagflationary global recession, characterized by double-digit inflation, skyrocketing unemployment lines, and a punishing energy crisis sparked by the historic 1973 OPEC oil shock.
Yet, amidst the bleak news, signs of cultural and systemic evolution were breaking through.
Ella Grasso had just made history by being inaugurated as the very first woman U.S. Governor elected in her own right.
Down in Century City, a sharp, hyper-ambitious agent named Michael Ovitz had officially founded the Creative Artists Agency (CAA), a move that would fundamentally rewrite how talent, packaging, and power operated in Hollywood for decades to come.
My proprietary future timeline knowledge was a goldmine of upcoming milestones.
I knew with absolute certainty that the Vietnam War would officially conclude in May. The historic, Cold-War-thawing Apollo-Soyuz international space link-up was firmly locked for July.
Most importantly, a pair of brilliant young tech enthusiasts named Bill Gates and Paul Allen were slated to officially found a tiny company called Microsoft this very spring up in New Mexico.
As for the lingering, radioactive political toxic waste of the Watergate scandal? I made a strict mental note to never, under any circumstances, let our family assets get entangled in federal political crossfire.
"Whatever," I thought, tossing the morning paper onto a chair.
"Let's focus entirely on what I can achieve right now with this reservoir of future knowledge, ensuring I present it carefully so I am not viewed by society as a terrifying anomaly or a literal demon."
Just as I concluded my morning meditation, Martha Jones, our primary estate maid, walked into my room with a warm, maternal smile.
"Edward, Mr. Robert is waiting downstairs and asking you to get ready for your special birthday tour. Let me help you change into your finest clothes, and I'll pack a basket of your absolute favorite snacks for the car journey."
"Okay, Aunt Martha... I'm ready," I replied, forcing my voice into the high-pitched, cheerful register of a polite child.
"Please come and help me dress up for the big tour."
An hour later, impeccably dressed and groomed, I was sitting comfortably in the plush leather backseat of Grandpa Rob's pristine luxury vehicle.
The older man turned his head, looking me up and down with a theatrical, highly critical squint before breaking into a wide, charming grin.
"You look remarkably dashing today, kid," Rob chuckled, adjusting his immaculate suit jacket.
"But let's be perfectly honest—you're still not quite as handsome as your old man. Now, as you specifically requested for your birthday gift... prepare yourself for a magnificent tour around the historic Hollywood studios! Prepare your eyes for an absolute cultural feast, young one!"
I let out a silent, internal sigh, offering him a perfectly practiced, nonchalant look to mask my deep amusement.
"What a wonderfully narcissistic, theatrical old man," I thought.
"Thank you, Grandpa. I am ready," I replied smoothly, looking out the window as the engine purred to life.
As the car wound through the historic studio lots of Los Angeles, passing the heavily guarded iron gates of Paramount and the sprawling backlots of Warner Bros., a profound sense of personal satisfaction washed over me.
I was completely fulfilling a deep, unspent desire from my previous life—to see these legendary hubs of global pop culture during their golden, gritty physical prime, long before digital green screens and corporate consolidation hollowed them out.
Following the lengthy, awe-inspiring physical tour, Rob treated me to an incredibly fancy, high-end restaurant frequented by industry elites, where we enjoyed an exceptionally prepared meal.
As we finally finished our dinner and stepped out through the grand glass exit doors of the establishment, my enhanced vision caught a sharp glimpse of a commercial display near the front counter. It was a standalone seasonal greeting card featuring a rustic, beautifully innocent illustration of a little girl with a distinct strawberry aesthetic.
I stopped dead in my tracks, staring intensely at the display as a lightning bolt of pure inspiration struck my mind.
It felt as though destiny itself had reached down to guide my hand. I quietly memorized every single line of that drawing before letting Rob lead me out to the waiting car.
When we finally returned to the quiet sanctuary of Newgate Mansion, the physical toll of the day caught up with my tiny body.
I turned to the old tycoon, wrapping my small arms around him in a tight, genuine embrace. "Good night... and thank you so much for the wonderful tour, Grandpa."
Rob smiled warmly, patting my back with his large, weathered hand.
"Good night, Edward. Sleep well, my boy," he murmured before turning to walk down the hall toward his private study.
Safely back inside my bedroom, my mind remained on absolute fire, completely overriding my physical exhaustion.
I paced across the room, aggressively digging through my memory banks to extract every single piece of historical data regarding that specific greeting card design.
In my previous life, during my childhood, I distinctly remembered how young girls across the nation absolutely craved those specific greeting cards, which eventually exploded into a massive, multi-decade merchandising juggernaut.
The Strawberry Shortcake property had started its corporate life as a humble, overlooked greeting card character created by a freelance illustrator for American Greetings, eventually scaling into a multi-billion-dollar global consumer phenomenon spanning toys, apparel, and animated television specials.
I sat down at my small desk, my eyes shining with absolute clarity in the moonlight. "This is it," I whispered, my heart thumping against my ribs.
"I have officially found my perfect, cost-effective entry point into the global entertainment industry. I have found my starting work."
With that final, triumphant thought, I climbed into bed and allowed myself to drift into a deep sleep, as my highly blessed but physically frail toddler body was thoroughly exhausted from the day's excitement.
/// Note: * Strawberry Shortcake Historical Context: The character originally began its conceptual life as a single, rustic greeting card illustration commissioned by American Greetings, originally drawn by freelance artist Barbi Sargent around the 1972–1973 period. The design was later refined by artist Fran Kariotakis.
The Historical Loophole: In the original timeline, American Greetings corporate management completely failed to recognize the multi-billion-dollar character licensing potential of the IP for years.
It wasn't until July 1977 that Rex Conners, American Greetings' staff art director, sensed its market viability and launched a highly limited, localized mega-test market with just four basic cards. Following that success, Muriel Fahrion was brought in to expand the world by designing thirty-two distinct companion characters, which were later commercialized by Cindy Mayer Patton and Janet Jones.
The Core Opportunity: Because the current year is early 1975, the property is lying entirely stagnant and unappreciated deep within the corporate archives of American Greetings, completely devoid of any associated narrative lore, secondary characters, or media footprint.
Edward's immediate objective is to aggressively secure the unrestricted, global intellectual property and copyright trademarks for this specific character design through a stealthy legal acquisition before American Greetings ever uncovers its true, multi-billion-dollar market potential, ensuring the family avoids future copyright litigation as they expand the universe. ///
|| Thanks for the Support ||