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

The Inside Man Bluff

Late November draped Los Angeles in a cool, deceptive tranquility. Inside the rapidly transforming Sovereign Media headquarters on Sunset Boulevard, however, the atmosphere was burning with manufactured crisis.

Paul Rudd was pacing a trench into the newly installed carpet, his hands clutching a printed television schedule. He looked like a man who had just watched his house burn down.

”They pulled it, Elias,” Paul gasped, his voice cracking with sheer, unadulterated panic. ”MTV completely pulled the Unplugged performance from the daily rotation. ’Creep’ was the most requested track on Dial MTV for three days straight, and now? Nothing. Total blackout. The VJs aren’t even allowed to mention your name!”

Elias van Kempen sat behind his modular steel desk, meticulously adjusting the cuffs of his vintage leather jacket. He didn’t look angry. He looked profoundly, dangerously entertained.

”Tommy Mottola is awake,” Elias murmured, his baritone voice a smooth, silken rumble of absolute corporate calculation. ”The CEO of Sony Music is finally utilizing his institutional leverage. He cannot touch our physical distribution in the malls, nor our independent master tape, so he is pressuring the broadcasting networks.”

”He’s choking our airplay!” Paul shrieked, waving the schedule. ”If we lose MTV, we lose the national visual momentum! The teenagers will forget! We have to sue them for anti-trust violations!”

”Lawsuits take years, Paul. The pop-culture memory cycle lasts roughly three weeks,” Elias corrected gracefully, standing up. ”Furthermore, Tommy Mottola is using Sony’s massive advertising budget to strong-arm the network. We cannot outspend a multinational conglomerate in a bidding war for television executives.”

”Then what are we going to do?!”

”If Tommy wishes to use Sony’s checkbook to fight a personal vendetta,” Elias smiled, a dark, utterly shameless expression, ”we must simply show the people writing the checks what he is buying. Grab your coat, Paul. I have an appointment at a coffee shop.”

Two hours later, Elias sat in a dingy, dimly lit diner on the outskirts of Century City, a few blocks away from the towering Sony Music corporate offices.

Sitting across from him was a man in his late thirties, wearing a rumpled, cheap suit. His name tag read Arthur - Accounting. Arthur was sweating profusely, his hands trembling around a cup of black coffee. He looked like a man drowning in quicksand.

”I don’t know who you are, kid,” Arthur stammered, darting paranoid glances at the diner’s entrance. ”But if Tommy’s guys catch me talking to you, I’m dead in this industry. I’m just a mid-level ledger auditor. I don’t have whatever it is you think I have.”

Elias didn’t offer a comforting smile. He slipped a manila folder onto the sticky Formica table and slid it across to Arthur.

”Your Visa carries a highly predatory nineteen percent APR, Arthur,” Elias purred, his voice dropping to a hypnotic, terrifyingly smooth cadence. ”You are currently twelve thousand dollars in debt. Your mortgage is sixty days past due. You are bleeding out, and your corporate salary is insufficient to cover the interest payments.”

Arthur froze. The blood drained entirely from his face. ”How... how do you know my credit score?!”

Elias tapped his temple, executing the Inside Man Bluff flawlessly. He didn’t need to read minds; he merely weaponized the illusion of absolute surveillance.

”Sovereign Media maintains a highly aggressive forensic intelligence division, Arthur,” Elias lied, his dark eyes locking the accountant into a psychological vise. ”I know your ledger. More importantly, I know you process the discretionary marketing funds for the Mariah Carey promotional campaign.”

Arthur swallowed hard, a massive sweatdrop rolling down his temple. The kid was speaking like a seasoned mafia boss, but dressed like a grunge prince. It was terrifying.

”I have already purchased your twelve-thousand-dollar credit card debt from a shadow creditor,” Elias stated, laying down the guillotine. ”I hold the note, Arthur.”

Deep within Elias’s cerebral cortex, the digital loan shark registered the brutal capital expenditure.

[DEDUCTING -$12,000.00 USD FOR DISTRESSED DEBT ACQUISITION.]

Elias ignored the phantom sting in his chest. He leaned forward, closing the distance.

”I will zero out your debt today. Consider it fully liquidated,” Elias offered, his tone shifting into a silken, irresistible temptation. ”In exchange, you are going to hand over the internal memo Tommy Mottola circulated yesterday. The one authorizing the diversion of two hundred thousand dollars from Mariah Carey’s marketing budget to temporarily ’sponsor’ MTV’s programming block in exchange for blacklisting my song.”

”That memo is highly classified!” Arthur whimpered, clutching his coffee cup. ”If Tommy finds out I leaked it, he’ll destroy me!”

”If you don’t leak it, I will execute the debt call by 5:00 PM, and the bank will take your house,” Elias countered effortlessly, devoid of any mercy. ”Your loyalty to a billionaire who doesn’t know your name is bankrupting you. Save yourself, Arthur.”

The logic was absolute. It was an ironclad, sociopathic pincer movement.

With a tragic, defeated sigh, Arthur reached into his briefcase. His hands shaking, he pulled out a folded piece of official Sony Music internal stationery and slid it across the table.

Elias picked it up. His Photographic Memory verified the signatures, the routing numbers, and the undeniable proof of corporate embezzlement.

”A pleasure doing business with you, Arthur,” Elias murmured politely, standing up. ”Enjoy your financial freedom.”

Elias walked out of the diner and into the cool afternoon air, the weapon secured in his pocket. It was time to hunt.

That evening, the Beverly Hills Hotel was entirely locked down. The grand ballroom had been rented out for the ultra-exclusive Sony Music Thanksgiving Gala. It was a lavish, closed-door event designed to impress Wall Street investors, board members, and the absolute elite of the pop music syndicate.

A heavy velvet rope and six massive security guards blocked the entrance.

Elias van Kempen stood in the shadows of the hallway, wearing his pristine, midnight-black Armani suit. He looked like dark, expensive royalty.

”Elias, this is a terrible idea,” Paul Rudd whispered frantically from behind a marble pillar.

Paul was currently wearing a slightly too-tight, white catering uniform, complete with a bowtie and a silver serving tray. He looked utterly miserable.

”I am an executive assistant! I am a trained actor!” Paul hissed, adjusting his bowtie. ”I shouldn’t be wearing a busboy uniform! If someone recognizes me from the Levi’s commercial, I will die of shame!”

”Your shame is highly un-lucrative, Paul,” Elias smirked, a dangerous, thrilling glint in his dark eyes. ”We require a distraction to breach the perimeter. You are the distraction. Walk toward the entrance. Carry the champagne. Be exceptionally clumsy.”

Paul let out a high-pitched squeak of despair, but Elias’s authoritative gravity propelled him forward.

Paul stumbled out from behind the pillar, holding the silver tray loaded with six crystal flutes of ginger ale disguised as champagne. He speed-walked toward the heavy oak doors of the ballroom, his face pale with panic.

As he approached the security checkpoint, a senior Sony executive in a highly expensive tuxedo stepped directly into his path.

”Hey, watch it, kid!” the executive barked.

Paul, genuinely terrified and possessing zero physical coordination, panicked. His foot caught the edge of the thick hotel carpet.

”Whoa—!”

Paul pitched forward. The silver tray tilted violently. All six glasses launched into the air, raining a sticky, catastrophic shower of liquid directly onto the executive’s bespoke tuxedo and expensive Italian leather shoes.

”MY SHOES!” the executive shrieked, jumping back as the glasses shattered loudly on the marble floor. ”Are you blind?! You imbecile! Security! Get this idiot out of my sight!”

Absolute chaos erupted at the checkpoint. The security guards abandoned the velvet rope, rushing over to restrain the flailing, apologizing Paul Rudd, while hotel management scrambled with towels.

It was a beautiful, spectacular failure of logistics.

Elias didn’t run. He simply glided through the unguarded velvet rope, passing the shouting guards with the smooth, invisible elegance of a phantom. He stepped through the heavy doors and entered the ballroom.

The Sony Music Gala was a monument to 1990s excess. Ice sculptures of musical notes dominated the buffet tables. Investors in sharp suits clinked glasses with pop stars.

In the dead center of the room, seated at the largest, most opulent VIP table, was Tommy Mottola. The CEO of Sony Music looked like an emperor, smoking a cigar, laughing loudly with the chairman of the board.

Sitting next to Tommy, wearing a stunning, glittering gown, was Mariah Carey. She was smiling politely, but Elias’s sharp eyes caught the subtle, suffocating tension in her posture. She was a caged bird surrounded by men who viewed her as a commodity.

Elias walked directly toward the apex of the room. He mentally engaged the loan shark. He needed the entire room to feel his presence.

[SYSTEM SHOP ACCESSED.][ACTIVATING: TAWA KARISMATIK ANTI-CRINGE (ANTI-CRINGE CHARISMATIC LAUGH)][COST: -5 CP][CURRENT BALANCE: 105 CP]

[CHA-CHING!]

Elias stopped just three feet from the VIP table. He let out a rich, dark, impossibly elegant laugh that sliced through the ambient chatter of the ballroom. It was a sound of such absolute, aristocratic superiority that Tommy Mottola froze, his cigar hovering near his mouth.

Tommy turned his head. His eyes bugged out of his skull.

”Van Kempen,” Tommy growled, his face instantly flushing a violent shade of purple. He slammed his fist onto the table, standing up, his massive frame attempting to intimidate the teenager. ”Panggil keamanan! Lemparkan anak ini keluar dari pestaku!” (Call security! Throw this kid out of my party!)

The board members and Wall Street investors at the table frowned, looking confused by the sudden breach. Mariah Carey looked up, her dark eyes widening as she recognized the striking, incredibly handsome young man from the MTV broadcast.

Elias didn’t back away. He didn’t lose his smile. He reached out with terrifying, unbothered grace, picked up an untouched crystal glass of expensive red wine from the table, and took a slow, deliberate sip.

”Tentu saja, Tommy,” Elias purred, his baritone voice a silken, hypnotic weapon that completely paralyzed the surrounding executives. (Of course, Tommy.)

Elias reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the folded Sony internal memo. He held it up by two fingers, casually flicking it so the Sony letterhead was visible to everyone at the table.

”Tapi sebelum aku pergi, kurasa para pemegang sahammu di meja ini ingin tahu mengapa kau menghabiskan dua ratus ribu dolar dari anggaran pemasaran Mariah Carey hanya untuk menyogok MTV agar tidak memutar laguku.” (But before I leave, I suspect your shareholders at this table might want to know why you spent two hundred thousand dollars from Mariah Carey’s marketing budget just to bribe MTV into dropping my track.)

The silence at the VIP table was catastrophic. The music in the ballroom seemed to fade into nothingness.

Tommy Mottola stopped breathing. The blood drained from his face at a terrifying speed. A massive, highly visible sweatdrop materialized on his forehead, rolling rapidly down his cheek.

The Chairman of the Board, a ruthless Wall Street veteran, narrowed his eyes, staring at the memo in Elias’s hand. Embezzling an artist’s marketing funds to fight a personal turf war with an independent teenager was a profound breach of fiduciary duty.

”You’re lying!” Tommy choked out, his voice cracking with sheer, unadulterated panic. ”That’s a forgery! You’re a malicious little punk!”

”Kau tidak sedang melindungi Sony, Tommy,” Elias smiled, a dark, utterly shameless expression, his eyes locking onto the CEO. (You are not protecting Sony, Tommy.) ”Kau sedang mendanai rasa irimu menggunakan uang mereka.” (You are funding your envy with their money.)

Elias smoothly tossed the internal memo onto the center of the table. The Chairman snatched it up instantly, his eyes scanning the signatures. The Chairman’s face turned to stone.

Tommy Mottola looked like a man who had just stepped on a landmine. His empire of intimidation had been publicly, brutally audited by a sixteen-year-old boy.

Elias didn’t linger. He didn’t gloat. He slowly turned his mesmerizing gaze onto Mariah Carey.

He didn’t offer her a business card. He offered her a look of profound, respectful understanding. He saw the invisible chains around her career, and his eyes promised an impending, absolute liberation.

Mariah caught her breath. The sheer, overwhelming gravity of his confidence struck her directly in the chest. In a room full of sycophants and tyrants, Elias was the only man who looked like he could burn the building down and walk away whistling. The seed of financial Netori took root instantly.

”A lovely vintage, Tommy,” Elias murmured, holding up the wine glass in a mocking toast. ”I look forward to reading your resignation letter.”

Elias set the glass down. He turned on his heel, his Armani suit shifting perfectly, and walked out of the ballroom.

Behind him, the VIP table erupted into absolute chaos as the board members turned their furious interrogation onto a sweating, stammering Tommy Mottola.

As Elias exited the hotel and stepped into the cool night air, the digital loan shark erupted in a glorious, golden frenzy of applause.

[CHA-CHING!][SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: THE INSIDE MAN BLUFF EXECUTED WITH MAXIMUM FACE-SLAPPING SOCIOPATHY!][EVALUATION: YOU BRIBED AN ACCOUNTANT, WEAPONIZED A BEVERAGE SPILL, AND MATHEMATICALLY HUMILIATED A MUSIC TYRANT IN FRONT OF HIS OWN SHAREHOLDERS. THE POP DICTATORS ARE BLEEDING. THE SYSTEM BOWS.][REWARD: +20 SHAMELESS POINTS (CP) DEPOSITED.]

Elias felt the warm surge of power. His CP balance settled at a heavily armed 125.

The daily tax followed with its quiet, mechanical precision.

[SYSTEM WARNING: DAILY MAINTENANCE FEE DEDUCTION INITIATED.][DEDUCTING -$50.00 USD FROM LIQUID CASH RESERVE.]

Elias walked toward the dark alley where Paul was waiting by the rusted Honda Civic, furiously trying to wipe ginger ale off his uniform.

His liquid cash sat at $2,202,088.00. He had spent twelve grand to purchase the whistleblower, but he had entirely derailed the corporate blockade. MTV would have no choice but to restore his rotation once the Sony board froze Tommy’s discretionary budget.

”Did we survive?” Paul gasped, throwing his sticky catering jacket into the trunk.

”We did more than survive, Paul,” Elias smiled into the Los Angeles night. ”We just gave the Queen a reason to look for a new castle. Drive.”