Harvey Weinstein's calculated move became the rallying cry for Pangu Pictures to launch a cultural guerrilla war.
From that day on, Pangu was like a machine with a freshly wound-up spring—slowly starting, gears meshing, not making much noise, but secretly tearing at the fabric of the old order.
This didn't happen overnight.
All summer long, they acted like a guerrilla force without a defined battlefield, advancing silently. It started with underground radio stations and independent record stores, then moved to college campuses and used bookstores—Pangu's flag was quietly planted in every corner where young people gathered.
---
September, Los Angeles, Ear-Luv Records
The air in the store was a mix of new vinyl plastic and the papery smell of old LPs.
A college student in a flannel shirt was flipping through the CD rack, looking at Nirvana singles. Suddenly, the store's sound system switched, and a blast of wild electric guitar riff sliced through the air like a knife.
It was Dick Dale's "Miserlou."
"Holy cow, what is that?"
The student ripped off his headphones and rushed to the counter.
The clerk lazily pointed to a small mountain of CDs stacked next to the register.
The cover showed a black silhouette of Uma Thurman doing the twist, set against a blood-red background, with just two words: PULP FICTION.
"The movie soundtrack."
"We stocked it last week. College radio stations are all playing it now. I hear everyone's grabbing a copy."
Similar scenes played out across the U.S. over the next few weeks.
In a NYU dorm, an art major carefully tore a poster out of Rolling Stone magazine—it was rough, vintage-looking, like a flier for an underground rock tour from the seventies.
It only had the Pangu logo and one sentence:
"The only rule is, there are no rules."
She taped it above her bed, right next to Pink Floyd and David Bowie.
No one cared what the movie was about anymore.
They just knew it stood for "cool," for "rebellion," and for some kind of indescribable generational vibe.
---
Pangu Pictures Office
The heat from the fax machine wafted through the air, spitting out sheet after sheet.
Bander burst in, his face a mix of frenzy and disbelief.
"Link ... Billboard magazine... they're saying our soundtrack might break the top thirty on the album chart!"
His voice was shaking. "A soundtrack for a movie that hasn't even been released!"
Quentin leaned over to look, so absorbed he didn't even notice the cigarette ash dropping onto the magazine.
"These little punks," he mumbled. "They're buying the music without even knowing what the movie's about?"
"They don't need to know!" Bander yelled, as if he had fate by the throat.
"They just need to know... it's cool!"
The fax machine kept spitting out paper. The air in the office crackled like an electric current was boiling.
Link leaned against the desk, not smiling.
He looked at the chart, his finger lightly tapping the wood grain.
Top thirty wasn't huge. But it meant Pangu's cultural penetration had reached deep into the mainstream market's bloodstream.
He knew this kind of heat would attract enemies.
Success is always more dangerous than failure.
---
The phone rang.
It was Robert Shaye from New Line Cinema.
"Link ," he could barely contain his excitement, "Theater managers are blowing up my phone. They're all asking—when is this movie called Pulp Fiction coming out? Why are students in black suits showing up at their theaters every day, imitating the poster?"
Shaye's breath hitched, and he lowered his voice:
"My team just updated the box office forecast... thirty million opening weekend."
The air suddenly froze.
Thirty million. Opening weekend.
Quentin stared blankly for two seconds, his cigarette dropping from his mouth, before he lunged forward and hugged Bander.
"We won! We fing won, man!"
Bander's hands were trembling, his eyes red. "Link , do you know? I've never been this close to thirty million in my life."
Link just took a deep breath.
The heartbeat in his chest was heavy, like a war drum.
He knew this was the quietest night before the storm.
---
Forty-eight hours until the premiere.
The office atmosphere felt like it was about to combust. Faxes, cigarettes, coffee, laughter—every sound carried the illusion of victory.
The phone rang again.
Bander casually picked it up, the smile still lingering on his face.
"Hello? Pangu Pictures..."
His words abruptly cut off.
The smile vanished in a second.
The receiver dropped onto the desk with a loud thud.
"Link ..."
His voice sounded like it had been scraped by sandpaper. "Something's gone down."
The air turned ice-cold.
Link looked up, his eyes instantly sharp.
"Spit it out."
Bander swallowed hard.
"TMZ... and Entertainment Tonight, the Daily Mail... all the media are running the same video."
He paused, his face sheet-white.
"It's Russell.
He got into a bar fight in Australia.
In the video... while he was hitting the guy, he was yelling..."
Bander's voice caught.
He practically had to bite the words out.
"A racial slur—the N-word."
The room fell into a dead silence. The fax machine's light blinked, but no one was looking at it anymore.
Link slowly turned and looked out the window.
The night lights of Los Angeles twinkled, but in his eyes, they looked like countless camera lenses aimed right at him.
He knew the real war had just begun.