Rebirth 1991: Keep the Fame, I'll Take the Royalties

The Pepsi Lecture and The Rival

The diner across from Rodeo Drive was a stark, fluorescent-lit contrast to the hushed, velvet-lined sanctuaries of the boutiques just a block away. It smelled faintly of stale grease, burnt coffee, and Pine-Sol. The red vinyl booths were cracked, mended in places with peeling silver duct tape.

Cindy Crawford, currently wearing a white silk blouse that cost more than the diner’s monthly rent, slid into a booth. She looked around the grimy establishment, a mixture of profound amusement and complete bewilderment on her face.

She watched as Elias van Kempen, still wearing his three-thousand-dollar Armani suit, slid into the booth across from her. He looked entirely comfortable, his long legs stretching out under the sticky table.

”Two black coffees,” Elias told the tired-looking waitress who approached. He didn’t order food. Food was an expense.

When the waitress returned, setting two thick ceramic mugs on the table, she slid a small, plastic tray holding paper packets of sugar and synthetic creamer between them. She placed the bill face down next to the tray.

Elias didn’t touch the bill. He simply looked at Cindy, a slight, expectant tilt to his head.

Cindy stared at him, then at the check. She let out a genuine, incredulous laugh. ”You really are going to make me pay for a two-dollar cup of coffee, aren’t you? I thought you were joking about the offshore account.”

”I never joke about capital preservation, Cindy,” Elias replied, entirely deadpan, taking a sip of the bitter black liquid. ”And my assets are currently in a highly illiquid state of transit. Consider this an initial investment in your financial education.”

Cindy rolled her eyes, pulling a crisp ten-dollar bill from her small leather clutch and tossing it onto the table. ”Fine. Consider me invested. Now, you said I was being robbed by my agency regarding the Pepsi commercial. I’d love to hear your reasoning, considering they negotiated a record-breaking upfront fee for me.”

Before answering, Elias reached across the table. With a smooth, practiced, and utterly shameless motion, he scooped up the entire plastic tray of sugar packets.

He didn’t just take one or two for his coffee. He took all of them. He began systematically stuffing the small paper packets into the inner pockets of his pristine Armani jacket.

Cindy’s jaw dropped. A massive, comical sweatdrop materialized on her forehead. ”Elias... what are you doing? Are you stealing sugar packets in an Armani suit?”

”I am securing future caloric subsidies,” Elias explained, patting his pocket to ensure the packets lay flat and didn’t ruin the line of the jacket. He reached over and grabbed a thick stack of cheap paper napkins from the dispenser, stuffing them into his other pocket. ”Sugar provides an immediate burst of simple carbohydrates. It is essential emergency fuel when negotiating long contracts. And napkins are a versatile logistical asset.”

”You are a millionaire, aren’t you?” Cindy asked, her voice laced with a mixture of horror and deep, morbid fascination. ”You have forty-five thousand dollars in checking, and you’re stealing diner sugar.”

”A true capitalist understands that every unspent dollar is a dollar earned,” Elias stated, picking up his coffee mug. ”Now, regarding your Pepsi contract. You mentioned a ’record-breaking upfront fee’. Let me guess. One point five million dollars. Total buyout.”

Cindy’s eyes widened slightly. She hadn’t publicly disclosed the exact figure. ”How did you...”

”It’s basic market mathematics,” Elias shrugged, the lie flowing smoothly. ”Pepsi is launching a massive campaign to rebrand themselves for the new decade. They are introducing a new can design. They need a face that bridges the gap between classic Americana and high-fashion aspiration. You are the only logical choice. Your agency knew this. They asked for one point five million, Pepsi countered with one point two, and your agents settled on the initial number because they wanted their twenty percent commission today.”

Cindy crossed her arms, defensive but listening. ”And what’s wrong with that? It’s the highest fee ever paid to a model for a beverage commercial.”

”It’s chump change,” Elias said, his voice dropping into a dark, mesmerizing register. He wasn’t acting like a fanboy. He wasn’t fawning over her beauty. He was lecturing her like a disappointed hedge fund manager. ”You are thinking like an employee, Cindy. An employee trades their time and their image for a paycheck. When that commercial airs during the Super Bowl, Pepsi’s global sales volume is going to spike by at least eight percent. That translates to hundreds of millions of dollars in new revenue.”

Elias leaned across the sticky table, his dark, exotic eyes locking onto hers, completely ignoring her supermodel status. He was looking at her brain.

”Your face is driving that revenue,” Elias whispered, the sheer, ruthless logic of his argument pinning her to the vinyl booth. ”Yet, you don’t own a single drop of it. You took a flat fee. You let your agency sell your greatest asset for a quick payout so they could buy a new Porsche. You should have demanded a Volume-Based Royalty. A fraction of a cent for every new can sold featuring your promotional imagery. You should have demanded stock options. Equity.”

Cindy sat perfectly still. The diner noise faded away. She wasn’t offended; she was electrically, profoundly stimulated. Nobody in her entire career had ever spoken to her like this. They told her she was beautiful. They told her to smile. But this teenager was looking at her like she was a blue-chip corporate entity that was being terribly mismanaged.

”My agents said the studio would never agree to equity,” Cindy said quietly, her competitive instincts flaring up.

”Your agents are lazy,” Elias smiled, a cold, predatory smirk. ”They didn’t want to fight the corporate lawyers, so they took the easy check. I don’t take the easy check, Cindy. I take the company.”

Cindy let out a slow breath. She looked at Elias, really looked at him. The frayed t-shirt under the Armani jacket, the stolen sugar packets, the absolute, terrifying intelligence burning in his eyes.

Before she could respond to the intoxicating proposition, the bell above the diner door jingled.

A shadow fell over their table.

”Cindy? Is that you?”

Elias didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The thick cloud of expensive, aggressive cologne preceded the man by three seconds.

Elias slowly turned his head.

Standing next to their booth was Marcus Schenkenberg.

In 1991, Marcus was the undisputed king of the male modeling world. He was tall, incredibly muscular, with long, flowing dark hair and a jawline that looked like it had been chiseled from granite. He was the poster boy for the late 80s/early 90s hyper-masculine aesthetic.

Marcus was wearing a tight, unbuttoned silk shirt that exposed an aggressive amount of his famously tanned chest, paired with designer jeans and a heavy gold watch. He looked like he had just walked off a yacht in Saint-Tropez.

”Marcus,” Cindy said, her tone polite but slightly guarded. The Runway Mafia tolerated Marcus, but they rarely respected the male models. ”What are you doing here?”

”Just picked up a rental for the week,” Marcus grinned, gesturing casually with a set of keys toward the window. Parked illegally on the street was a bright red Ferrari Testarossa. ”Thought I’d grab a coffee before my flight. What are you doing in a place like this? And who is your... friend?”

Marcus looked down at Elias. His eyes swept over Elias’s thin frame. He noted the Armani jacket, but his gaze immediately caught the frayed collar of the t-shirt underneath. Marcus’s smile shifted into a condescending, arrogant sneer.

”Nice jacket, kid,” Marcus mocked, leaning one hand on the edge of the table, flexing his bicep for Cindy’s benefit. ”Did you borrow it from your dad? You look a little lost. Are you asking Cindy for an autograph?”

Elias didn’t blink. He didn’t puff out his chest or try to match Marcus’s physical intimidation. He simply let out a low, elegant chuckle, leaning back against the red vinyl booth.

”I was just explaining the concept of equity to Ms. Crawford,” Elias said smoothly, his baritone voice dripping with lethal, aristocratic boredom. ”But I wouldn’t expect you to understand the terminology, Marcus. It requires reading contracts, not just flexing in front of a mirror.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, his fake smile vanishing instantly. ”Excuse me? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? I’m Marcus Schenkenberg. I just booked the lead spread for the new Versace campaign in Milan. I’m shooting with Bruce Weber tomorrow. I make more in a day than you’ll make in a lifetime, you little punk.”

Cindy frowned, preparing to intervene. She knew Marcus had a fragile ego, and she didn’t want a scene in the diner.

But Elias didn’t need rescuing. He had exactly 2 CP left in his system ledger. He couldn’t afford to buy an Intimidation Aura. He couldn’t afford a Corporate X-Ray Scan.

He didn’t need them. He had a fifty-year-old brain loaded with the exact, unglamorous economic realities of the 1990s modeling industry.

He deployed a Lifestyle Deduction so brutal and precise it felt like a sniper shot.

”A Versace editorial spread with Bruce Weber,” Elias mused, his dark eyes locking onto Marcus with cold, terrifying calculation. ”It sounds very glamorous. It looks fantastic on a resume. But let’s do the math, shall we, Marcus?”

Marcus sneered, crossing his arms over his chest. ”Math? What math?”

”The math of male modeling,” Elias said, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet diner, ensuring every patron could hear the dissection. ”An editorial spread for a high-fashion house isn’t a commercial campaign. It’s prestige work. It doesn’t pay a commercial day rate. It pays an editorial day rate. Which, for a top male model in 1991, is approximately two hundred and fifty dollars a day.”

Marcus’s face twitched. The sneer faltered slightly.

”Now,” Elias continued, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the sticky table, slipping into the role of a forensic accountant. ”Let’s subtract your agency’s standard forty percent commission. That leaves you with one hundred and fifty dollars. You live in New York, which means your agency is charging you fifteen hundred a month for a bed in a crowded model apartment. You are currently wearing a silk shirt that costs four hundred dollars, and you just rented a Ferrari Testarossa, which runs about eight hundred dollars a day.”

A massive, glistening sweatdrop materialized on Marcus Schenkenberg’s perfectly tanned forehead. He looked around the diner in sheer panic, realizing that the illusion of his massive wealth was being publicly dismantled.

”You...” Marcus stammered, his voice dropping an octave. ”You don’t know what you’re talking about...”

”I know that after taxes, agency fees, and your desperate need to look wealthy by renting cars you can’t afford, your net liquid capital from that Versace shoot is essentially negative,” Elias whispered, delivering the final, fatal blow with a flawless, sociopathic smile. ”In fact, Marcus, considering the waitress who poured our coffee makes minimum wage plus tips, and she doesn’t have a predatory agency deducting rent from her paycheck... she currently has more actual money in her bank account than you do.”

The silence in the diner was absolute.

The waitress standing near the counter actually snorted, quickly covering her mouth with a rag.

Cindy Crawford stared at Elias, her jaw hanging slightly open. She looked at Marcus.

The legendary male supermodel looked like he had just been hit by a truck. All the blood had drained from his face, leaving his spray-tan looking sickly and orange. His muscular shoulders slumped. The illusion was shattered. He had been intellectually vivisected in front of the biggest female star in his industry.

He didn’t have a comeback. There was no comeback to raw mathematics.

Marcus turned on his heel. He didn’t say goodbye to Cindy. He practically sprinted out of the diner, nearly tripping over the doorframe in his haste to escape the suffocating humiliation.

The bell above the door jingled merrily as it closed behind him.

Elias calmly picked up his coffee mug and took a sip. ”As I was saying, Cindy. Equity is everything.”

Cindy let out a slow, disbelieving breath. She looked at the door where Marcus had vanished, then back to the sixteen-year-old boy sitting across from her.

”You are a monster,” Cindy whispered, though a small, genuine smile was tugging at the corners of her lips. She was terrified of him, and yet, completely mesmerized. ”You just destroyed him. He’s going to have a breakdown.”

”He is a depreciating asset masquerading as a blue-chip stock,” Elias corrected softly. ”I merely provided a market correction.”

At that exact moment, the loan shark in Elias’s brain erupted in a chorus of digital triumph.

[CHA-CHING!][SYSTEM WARNING: SCHEDULED DAILY MAINTENANCE FEE DUE][DEDUCTING -$50.00 USD FROM LIQUID CASH RESERVE.]

Elias mentally flinched as the money was ripped from his account, his internal ledger dropping to $51,680.00. But the system wasn’t finished.

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: HOSTILE TAKEOVER MISSION ACCOMPLISHED (THE TRY-HARD ALPHA)][EVALUATION: YOU ANNIHILATED A RIVAL’S EGO USING ONLY BASIC ACCOUNTING PRINCIPLES AND A TWO-DOLLAR COFFEE. FLAWLESS INTELLECTUAL DECAPITATION.][REWARD: +15 SHAMELESS POINTS (CP)]

Elias let out a silent breath of relief. His CP balance ticked up to a barely-safe 17. He had survived the crisis.

He looked across the table at Cindy Crawford. The Runway Mafia queen was watching him with a new level of respect. She didn’t see a kid anymore. She saw a predator.

”So,” Cindy asked, resting her chin on her hand. ”If Marcus is a depreciating asset... what does that make you?”

Elias smiled. It was the smile of a man who was about to steal the crown.

”It makes me his replacement,” Elias stated smoothly. ”I am going to Milan. I am going to walk into the Versace casting tomorrow morning. And I am going to take his campaign.”