Chapter 8

Since Evelyn had promised she could build a Snake arcade machine—and handed him a detailed list of parts—Ethan set out early the next morning.

Borrowing Uncle Thomas's Ford F-150, he cruised out of the driveway, tires humming on the cool morning asphalt. Soon, he was crossing the majestic Golden Gate Bridge—a structure first imagined by the eccentric American Emperor Joshua Norton back in 1869, but not actually completed until 1937.

His destination: San Francisco, the most promising place nearby to hunt down the electronic materials he needed.

After exiting Doyle Avenue and heading south along Route 101 for about three miles, Ethan spotted it—a tangle of subway tracks embedded in the sloping asphalt. Up ahead, chugging slowly up the steep hill, was a familiar sight: a bright orange cable car, its windows rattling, its frame clinging to the rails.

Grinning, Ethan leaned out the window and pressed the horn.

A moment later, the cable car operator responded in kind, giving his brass handbell a cheerful shake.

"Good morning!" Ethan shouted.

"Good morning, sir! Welcome to San Francisco!" the driver replied with a wave.

The friendly exchange made Ethan laugh. He raised a hand in return and pressed the accelerator, gliding past the historic cable car with a rumble of pickup power.

San Francisco's cable cars were more than just a tourist gimmick—they were a symbol. Introduced in the 19th century to conquer the city's notoriously steep streets, they'd survived disasters, disuse, and even the 1906 earthquake that had destroyed most of the original track network.

In his previous life, Ethan had only seen them in films or online videos—icons of a place and time he'd never known. But here, now, driving beside one in the flesh… it felt oddly thrilling.

Watching passengers dangle out the sides with reckless cheer, he chuckled to himself.

After soaking in the charm, Ethan turned the truck onto Market Street, one of San Francisco's busiest commercial arteries—lined with rows of shops, restaurants, and office buildings stacked like concrete dominoes. After scanning building numbers one by one, Ethan finally spotted the place he was looking for.

No. 1355. A large, industrial-style door loomed in front of him, marked with a bold and very on-the-nose sign: San Francisco Electronic Supply.

Hard to miss. Without hesitation, Ethan pushed the door open and stepped inside.

A muscular young white man in his twenties greeted him enthusiastically.

"Hello, sir! Welcome to San Francisco Electronics Supply Company. How can I help you today?"

"Of course. I'm here to buy some parts," Ethan replied, pulling a folded sheet of paper from his jacket and handing it over.

While Evelyn's list had been filled with... curious entries, Ethan had done a little triage that morning and rewritten a new version. Still, just in case, he'd kept her original list tucked into his inner pocket. He would buy everything eventually. Just... selectively.

The staffer glanced at the list and gave a friendly nod.

"Great, sir. Please wait a moment—I'll go check our inventory."

He turned and disappeared through a swinging door at the back. His efficiency made Ethan relax.

While he waited, Ethan looked around. The store wasn't large, but every inch was crammed with shelves of resistors, capacitors, transistors, spools of wire, circuit boards, soldering kits... all arranged in tidy, professional rows. Even though he didn't recognize half of what he was seeing, he could tell this place was legit.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly. Until it didn't.

The same staffer reappeared, holding Ethan's list—his expression no longer friendly, but tense.

"Uh, sir..." he began, carefully. "I have a couple of questions about your list."

Ethan turned from a rack of blinking diodes."Sure, go ahead."

The man held up the paper. "If I'm reading this right... it says you need potassium chlorate and acetone, correct?"

Ethan blinked. The names rang a vague bell, but not in a helpful way. After a moment, he replied uncertainly:

"I... think so? If it's written there, then yeah, probably."

The man's smile vanished completely. He shifted his stance and subtly rested his right hand on his hip—right where you'd expect a holster to be.

"Sir," he said seriously, "do you know what those chemicals are used for?"

Ethan stared, confused. "Uh... cleaning something?"

The staffer didn't blink. "Potassium chlorate is a highly dangerous compound. It's toxic, corrosive, and explosive. And acetone—while an ordinary solvent—can be used in the synthesis and purification of methamphetamine."

Then came the line that made Ethan's stomach drop.

"So unless you explain exactly why you're buying these substances... I may have to call 911."

"???" Ethan's froze. The man's right hand hovered just behind his back now, hovering over something invisible—but obvious.

He raised both hands slightly, trying not to look threatening.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Bro! Relax!" he said. "I didn't know any of that! I just thought these were for making circuit boards!"

The man narrowed his eyes. "Really? Then can you explain the production process for a circuit board?"

Ethan's mind went completely blank."How the hell would I know that?!"

"I don't know!" he blurted out, hands still raised. But his voice was firm. Years of living in America had taught him one thing: this was not the moment to joke.

"The list isn't mine—it was given to me by someone else! I don't even know what half the stuff on it does!" he said quickly. "Come on, if I were actually trying to make explosives or drugs, do you think I'd just drive here myself to buy everything in one go?"

He threw his right thumb toward the parking lot behind him.

"Fuckk, man—I'm driving a Ford F-150! That truck costs at least four grand! And the one I'm in? Top of the line. Six thousand dollars—easily a normal person's annual salary!"

He paused, "Do I look like the kind of lunatic who's gonna buy chemicals to make bombs while leaving a pickup truck trail back to my house? You think I'm begging the cops to come knock on my door?!"

The white man's expression softened. Slowly, he raised both hands and stepped back a little, turning to show his waist—no weapon.

Then he held out his right hand in apology.

"I'm sorry, man. Didn't mean to freak you out."

He gave Ethan a sheepish look. "Since all the protests and demonstrations, things have been... rough. There've been some incidents—people buying this kind of stuff for the wrong reasons. So we've had to stay alert. One bad buyer, and we're the ones the authorities come after."

He gave a dry chuckle. "fbi won't spare us. And the city hall will find some excuse to make sure we pay for it."

Ethan exhaled, finally convinced there wasn't a pistol aimed at his chest.

He glared at the guy anyway. Understanding the look, the man quickly lifted his shirt again to prove—still empty.

Ethan rolled his eyes, then snarled: "Damn!"

Unable to hold back, he stormed forward and gave the front of the cashier's counter a hard kick.

The man didn't even flinch. He just stood there with a guilty smile, accepting the outburst.

After a moment, Ethan sighed, then stepped forward and clapped the guy's outstretched hand—hard.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack, man." He leaned against a nearby shelf, catching his breath. "Seriously. That was a near-death experience."

"Hey, what can I say?" the white guy shrugged, relieved. "This is San Francisco."

He exhaled too, like someone who'd just walked out of a minefield.

"The moment I saw your list, my brain screamed cult member. Like, great—some doomsday believer from the mountains just walked into my shop."

They both shared a strained laugh, the kind born more out of stress than amusement.

Although Ethan had just been scared to death by the white guy at the counter, he had to admit—the man wasn't wrong.

Everything he said made sense. San Francisco in this era was genuinely chaotic.

Ever since America's unprovoked involvement in the Cochin War, anti-war sentiment had only grown louder. And San Francisco—the so-called "City of Freedom"—had become a magnet for protests and political gatherings.

In just the first five years of the 1970s, there had been several massive demonstrations, each drawing over 100,000 people. The biggest topped 150,000. And the worst part? When the crowds realized their demands weren't being met, the peaceful rallies escalated—turning into full-blown riots.

Streets were blocked. Government buildings were occupied. Radio signals were hijacked to disrupt communication. By the time the situation peaked, the chaos was so intense that calling it "Capitol Hill–level conflict" would hardly be an exaggeration.

And that wasn't the only source of unrest. San Francisco was also home to Harvey Milk, the first openly LGBT political figure to run for office. Since 1973, Milk had become a lightning bulb of controversy—and a symbol of defiance.

As a result, San Francisco in the late '60s and '70s was a hotbed of activism, identity movements, and civil tension. LGBT demonstrations were regular, and the city became a kind of sanctuary—and battlefield—for freedom of expression.

this town was sitting on a powder keg. And chemical shop owners had every reason to stay on high alert.

Ethan understood that. But understanding didn't mean he could accept it.

This time, he was lucky. The guy didn't have a gun.

But what about next time? What if he ran into someone twitchier, or meaner, or just plain racist?

Would he get shot over a misunderstanding? A chemical he couldn't even pronounce? Would that be the stupid, ironic obituary headline?

"Unknown man dies in San Francisco chemical store—suspected meth dealer, actually arcade nerd."

He turned to the guy, who still looked a shaken, and snapped:

"Bro! With that level of suspicion? You shouldn't be running a store— You should be working for the FBI!

"I believe it!" Ethan snapped. "If FBI had someone like you, Ted Bundy would've been arrested in high school!"

His sarcasm made the white man crack a grin and shrug. "Can't blame me, brother. I've only been this jumpy lately because of the news. Media says we're pulling out of Asia—makes everyone think the homeland's next. If it weren't for that, I wouldn't have panicked. Besides, all the stuff you asked for could've been delivered by rail."

That explanation? Did not help. In fact, it made Ethan even more furious.

I try to buy chemicals in North America, and somehow I'm still getting punched in the face by America's war paranoia in Asia? What kind of global clown show was this?

"Whatever, man," Ethan muttered, rubbing his forehead. "Just go pack the stuff."

"Yes, sir."

The white guy—whose name Ethan still didn't know—nodded repeatedly and vanished into the back room.

About fifteen minutes later, he returned with a large box, all the items Ethan had requested (minus the suspicious stuff), plus a small discount as an apology. He even helped carry everything to the truck.

Before parting, the man handed over a slightly bent business card.

"Brother, I'm really sorry. My nerves have been fried lately. Name's Frank. Next time, just give me a call—I'll deliver it to you personally."

His awkward but genuine apology softened Ethan a little. He accepted the card, forced out a stiff smile, then flipped him one of his cards in return.

Moments later, he slammed the door, started the engine, and sped off.

He couldn't wait to get out of this lunatic town.

By the time Ethan pulled into the driveway, the adrenaline had faded—but frustration remained.

And then, reality smacked him in the face:

He hadn't bought everything on Evelyn's list.

Not even close. Evelyn, who had been waiting eagerly at home, was not amused at first.

"Seriously?" she frowned. "You forgot half of it?"

But once Ethan explained what had happened in vivid detail, Evelyn's expression changed—then suddenly cracked into laughter.

"Ethan! They thought you were buying materials to make bombs? Oh! My! God!" she giggled. "You look so innocent! You don't even look like you could kill a ant!"

"That's your fault!" Ethan groaned. "You should've told me exactly what that stuff was for!"

But Evelyn only laughed harder. "Ethan, Ethan..." she said, shaking her head. "My college professor used to say: 'Knowledge is neutral. Whether it becomes angelic or demonic depends on the heart of the user."

"So?" Ethan narrowed his eyes.

"So even if I'd explained what each chemical does, it wouldn't have changed anything. If someone thinks you're a devil, no explanation in the world will convince them otherwise."

Her words froze Ethan for a second. Then, slowly, he cracked a smile. Coming from someone who'd lived two lifetimes, he got it.

"Okay, okay... you're right. Things aren't evil—people are. But now I'm curious—why did your professor even say that?"

Evelyn's face lit up. "Because every invention has two sides," she said. "Look at radium. Madame Curie discovered it to fight cancer. But someone else turned it into a weapon."

"Or alternating current," she continued. "Tesla dreamed of free energy. But Edison? He used it to fry people in electric chairs just to ruin Tesla's name."

She shrugged. "No one knows whether an engineer's next creation will heal the world... or break it. We just have to hope it doesn't fall into the wrong hands."

Ethan gave her a long look, then smiled. "Cool."

"You win. It's harder for you than me."

"Hehehe~" Evelyn grinned. "You didn't buy anything? Fine. Just count it as a favor you owe me!"

"Fine," Ethan laughed. "But now that we've got the rest, let's get to work."

"Yes!" Evelyn clapped her hands. "Time to make history."

Note:

Joshua Norton – Bizhan "Little John" Khan has a special video about Emperor Norton. If you're interested in quirky historical figures, it's worth a watch.

San Francisco & Protests – San Francisco is often considered the capital of parades and protests. Whether it's political unrest or social change, the city has a long-standing tradition of public demonstrations, notably including major Vietnam War rallies.

Harvey Milk – The Hollywood film Milk (2008), starring Sean Penn, portrays the life of Harvey Milk, one of the first openly gay elected officials in U.S. history. While emotional, the film also depicts how Milk used charisma and political savvy to champion LGBT rights in 1970s San Francisco.

Ted Bundy – A notorious serial killer from the 1970s–80s and one of the inspirations for The Silence of the Lambs. His case remains one of the most chilling in American criminal history.