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

The 1-Dollar Master

Late February in Los Angeles brought the Grammy Awards, the most ostentatious, self-congratulatory evening in the music industry’s calendar. The Old Guard—the faceless, entrenched voting committees—had successfully ignored Elias van Kempen’s acoustic virus, ”Creep,” dismissing it as a commercial stunt manufactured by a male model.

Elias did not care. He had not come for a trophy. He had come for a monopoly.

The Sony Music post-Grammy party was being held at an ultra-exclusive, multi-level estate in the Hollywood Hills. It was a fortress of billionaire indulgence, crawling with A-list producers, network executives, and the highest echelon of the Pop Dictators faction. Security was impenetrable, operating on a strictly enforced, pre-approved guest list.

Elias van Kempen, however, did not wait in lines.

He stepped out of the rented town car wearing the custom-tailored, midnight-blue Tom Ford suit Paul had procured. The fabric draped over his 189-centimeter, V-Taper frame with architectural perfection. He exuded an aura of such absolute, terrifyingly expensive dominance that the security detail at the front gate simply parted like the Red Sea, assuming he was the owner of the European conglomerate financing the event.

Paul Rudd and Owen Wilson trailed closely behind him, their rented tuxedos looking decidedly tragic in comparison.

”I can’t believe they just let us walk in,” Paul whispered, hyperventilating as they bypassed the velvet ropes. ”I am holding a fake VIP pass that I printed at Kinko’s. If they scan it, it’s going to register as a coupon for half-off laser tag.”

”Keep your head up, Paul,” Elias murmured smoothly, scanning the sprawling, champagne-soaked courtyard. ”We are not here to socialize. We are here to execute a corporate decapitation.”

”Yeah, but, look at that buffet, man,” Owen drawled, his eyes locking onto a massive, multi-tiered ice sculpture surrounded by imported seafood. ”They’ve got Beluga caviar just sitting there in silver bowls. That’s, like, pure unadulterated ocean rent.”

”You have five minutes to secure caloric intake before the operation commences,” Elias permitted, adjusting his cuffs. ”Ensure you acquire the highest margin-per-ounce proteins available.”

Paul and Owen didn’t need to be told twice. They immediately veered off toward the catering tables. Paul began frantically wrapping scoops of hundred-dollar-an-ounce caviar into linen napkins and stuffing them into his tuxedo pockets, muttering about inflation.

Elias ignored them, his predatory gaze locking onto the epicenter of the party.

At the far end of the courtyard, elevated on a small, softly lit terrace, a carefully orchestrated public relations trap was springing shut.

Tommy Mottola, the tyrannical CEO of Sony Music, stood grinning broadly, holding a silver Montblanc pen. He was surrounded by a phalanx of nervous Sony lawyers and a highly curated group of entertainment journalists. Flashbulbs strobed aggressively, illuminating the scene.

Trapped in the center of the flashbulbs, looking stunning but profoundly cornered, was Mariah Carey.

She was seated at a small, elegant table. Resting in front of her was the fifty-page ’Lifetime Perpetuity’ contract Elias had memorized. Tommy was pressing the pen into her hand, his smile barely masking the ruthless, controlling grip he was attempting to exert over her entire existence.

”Just a formality, darling,” Tommy purred loudly, ensuring the press heard him. ”A celebration of our continued partnership. To the next decade of making history together at Sony.”

Mariah looked down at the document. She looked exhausted, overwhelmed by the flashing cameras and the sheer weight of the corporate pressure bearing down on her. Her fingers closed hesitantly around the silver pen.

She lowered the pen toward the signature line.

”I would strongly advise against signing that, Mariah,” a dark, velvety baritone voice rumbled across the terrace.

The voice was not a shout. It was a smooth, chillingly calm statement of absolute fact, but it cut through the noise of the party like a gunshot.

The flashbulbs stopped. The journalists turned.

Elias van Kempen glided up the steps of the terrace, moving with the effortless, lethal grace of an apex predator stepping into a pen of terrified livestock.

He didn’t look at the press. He didn’t look at the lawyers. He walked directly to the table and, with a swift, elegant motion, placed his large hand flat over the signature line of the contract, blocking the pen.

Tommy Mottola’s face twisted into an expression of pure, unadulterated rage.

”Kau pikir kau siapa, masuk ke pestaku dan mengatur asetku?!” Tommy roared, his voice cracking as he lunged forward, trying to physically intimidate the taller man. ”Pengacaraku akan menguburmu!” (Who do you think you are, walking into my party and managing my asset?! My lawyers will bury you!)

Elias did not flinch. He didn’t take a step back.

He mentally engaged the digital loan shark, authorizing the expenditure of his hoarded capital to ensure absolute, psychological annihilation.

[SYSTEM SHOP ACCESSED.][ACTIVATING: PHEROMONE DOMINASI RAPAT SAHAM (BOARDROOM DOMINATION PHEROMONE)][COST: -20 CP][CURRENT BALANCE: 145 CP]

[CHA-CHING!]

An invisible, suffocating wave of pure, heavy corporate authority exploded outward from Elias. It hit the terrace like a physical shockwave. The journalists stopped breathing. The Sony lawyers physically shrank back, suddenly feeling an overwhelming, inexplicable urge to apologize for their existence.

Elias looked down at Tommy Mottola. He unleashed a slow, devastatingly handsome smile that held absolutely zero warmth. It was the smile of a billionaire executioner.

”Pengacaramu bahkan tidak bisa membedakan yurisdiksi New York dan California, Tommy,” Elias purred, his voice a silken, inescapable trap. (Your lawyers can’t even differentiate between New York and California jurisdictions, Tommy.)

He picked up the heavy legal document, flipping directly to page forty-seven without looking.

Elias locked his dark, mesmerizing eyes onto the senior Sony counsel, a sweating man in a gray suit standing behind Tommy.

”Section four, paragraph B. A mandatory seven-album delivery schedule extending across a projected twelve-year timeline,” Elias recited flawlessly from his photographic memory, his tone dripping with intellectual superiority. He held up the contract, tapping the page. ”Are you familiar with the California Labor Code, Counselor? Specifically, Section 2855? The De Havilland Law.”

The senior counsel’s face drained of all color. He looked like he had just swallowed a golf ball. A massive, comical sweatdrop erupted on his forehead.

”The... the seven-year rule,” the lawyer choked out, instinctively taking a step back, desperately trying to distance himself from the catastrophic legal failure.

”Precisely,” Elias murmured, his voice echoing in the dead silence of the terrace. ”A California resident cannot be legally bound to a personal services contract for longer than seven calendar years. This document is not a record deal, Tommy. It is an illegal attempt at indentured servitude.”

Elias tossed the fifty-page contract casually onto the table. It landed with a heavy, dismissive thud.

”Secara hukum, mulai detik ini, kontrak perbudakanmu hanyalah kertas daur ulang,” Elias smiled flawlessly at the furious CEO. (Legally, starting this second, your slavery contract is nothing but recycled paper.)

The journalists erupted into a frenzy, their pens flying across their notepads. The CEO of Sony Music had just been publicly, brutally humiliated by a teenage model using arcane labor law. It was the scoop of the decade.

Tommy Mottola was hyperventilating. His empire was unraveling in real-time. ”You little punk. You think you can walk in here and void my contracts? I own her masters! I own everything she’s ever recorded! She doesn’t sing a single note without me getting paid!”

”That was true five minutes ago,” Elias corrected smoothly.

Elias reached into the inner pocket of his Tom Ford suit. He pulled out a crisp, single one-dollar bill.

He didn’t slam it on the table. He held it up between his index and middle finger, letting the green paper catch the light.

”Sekarang, aku memiliki satu lembar uang dolar di tanganku,” Elias whispered, stepping so close to Tommy that the executive had to crane his neck upward to meet Elias’s dead, predatory gaze. (Now, I hold a single one-dollar bill in my hand.)

Elias leaned down, his voice dropping into a chilling, baritone register that only Tommy and the surrounding lawyers could hear.

”Kau akan mengambil dolar ini, dan sebagai gantinya, kau akan menandatangani pelepasan hak master Mariah ke perusahaanku,” Elias commanded, executing the most ruthless extortion of his career. (You will take this dollar, and in exchange, you will sign the release of Mariah’s master rights to my company.)

”Are you insane?” Tommy hissed, his eyes bulging. ”Her masters are worth hundreds of millions! I’m not selling them to you for a dollar!”

”Atau besok pagi,” Elias countered flawlessly, tightening the sociopathic chokehold, ”aku akan memastikan saham Sony Entertainment anjlok begitu dalam hingga kau harus menyewakan kantormu untuk acara ulang tahun.” (Or tomorrow morning, I will ensure Sony Entertainment stock plummets so deeply that you will have to rent out your office for birthday parties.)

Elias gestured gracefully to the frantic journalists. ”If you refuse, I will hand these reporters the financial audit proving Sony Music actively attempted to violate state labor laws to enslave an artist. By 9:00 AM, the California Labor Board will freeze your distribution assets. By noon, your shareholders will demand your immediate resignation. By Friday, you will be unemployable.”

Tommy Mottola stared at the single dollar bill in Elias’s hand. He looked at his sweating lawyers, silently begging them for a legal loophole. The senior counsel simply shook his head, looking completely terrified. Elias had cornered them entirely.

With a pathetic, agonizing groan of a tyrant whose kingdom had just been violently conquered, Tommy reached out with a trembling hand.

He snatched the one-dollar bill from Elias’s fingers.

The phantom pain of the expenditure hit Elias’s ledger. It was the greatest return on investment in the history of capitalism.

[DEDUCTING -$1.00 USD FOR HOSTILE CATALOG ACQUISITION.][SYSTEM WARNING: DAILY MAINTENANCE FEE DEDUCTION INITIATED.][DEDUCTING -$50.00 USD FROM LIQUID CASH RESERVE.]

His liquid cash dropped to $3,310,684.00, but his net worth had just skyrocketed into the stratosphere.

”Sign the release, Tommy,” Elias murmured politely, gesturing to the senior counsel who was already frantically drafting the transfer document on a legal pad to salvage the CEO’s career.

Tommy Mottola scrawled his signature so hard the pen nearly tore the paper. He threw the pen onto the table, his face purple with rage, and stormed off the terrace, his lawyers scattering like terrified mice behind him.

The flashbulbs erupted again, capturing the exact moment The Pop Dictators lost their crown jewel.

Elias didn’t look at the cameras. He turned his attention to Mariah.

She was looking up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock, awe, and profound, overwhelming gratitude. She had been trapped in a suffocating, controlling environment for years, and this devastatingly handsome, incredibly dangerous teenager had just dismantled her cage with a single piece of paper and a one-dollar bill.

”You’re free,” Elias murmured, his voice softening into the devoted, hypnotic tone of a man who protected his assets with lethal force.

He offered her his hand.

Mariah didn’t hesitate. She placed her hand in his, a brilliant, radiant smile breaking across her face. The Devoted Lover protocol was officially initiated.

”Come,” Elias smiled, leading her down the stairs of the terrace, parting the sea of journalists with his absolute aura. ”The catering here is highly inefficient. Let us go find somewhere that serves actual food.”

They walked past the ice sculpture.

Paul Rudd was currently trying to shove an entire smoked salmon into his tuxedo jacket, while Owen Wilson was successfully negotiating with a waiter to secure a bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon.

”Paul. Owen. We are departing,” Elias commanded smoothly.

Paul froze, a piece of salmon hanging out of his pocket. ”Are we running from the police? Because I can’t run very fast in these rented shoes, Elias.”

”We are not running, Paul,” Elias chuckled darkly, leading Mariah toward the exit. ”We are relocating the empire.”

As they stepped out into the cool Los Angeles night, the digital loan shark within Elias’s mind detonated in a supernova of pure, capitalist ecstasy.

[CHA-CHING!][SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: THE 1-DOLLAR MASTER HACK EXECUTED WITH GOD-TIER SOCIOPATHY!][EVALUATION: YOU INFILTRATED A BILLIONAIRE’S STRONGHOLD, PUBLICLY HUMILIATED A CEO, WEAPONIZED STATE LABOR LAWS, AND ACQUIRED A MULTI-MILLION DOLLAR MUSIC CATALOG FOR A SINGLE DOLLAR BILL. YOUR SHAMELESSNESS HAS REWRITTEN THE LAWS OF EXTORTION. THE SYSTEM IS IN AWE.][REWARD: +50 SHAMELESS POINTS (CP) DEPOSITED.]

The massive influx of CP flooded his system, driving his balance to a commanding 195 points. Elias van Kempen opened the door of the town car for Mariah Carey.

He had started the month stealing fifty-dollar prop uniforms. He ended it owning the most valuable voice in the world.

The game was becoming far too easy.