Chapter 134: The Copyright Ambush

The Copyright Ambush

The third week of May 1993 rolled over Los Angeles with a heavy, unseasonably warm breeze, but the temperature inside the Sovereign Manufacturing plant in the San Fernando Valley was entirely man-made.

It was the glorious, suffocating heat of industrial production.

Elias van Kempen stood on the elevated metal catwalk, looking down at the factory floor. The heavy injection-molding presses were roaring, slamming out perfectly circular, silver discs at a mesmerizing pace. The raw polycarbonate he had shamelessly hijacked from the Port of Long Beach was being melted, stamped, and packaged into the jewel cases of the "Creep" single.

Every single mechanical clack of the assembly line was the sound of a middleman being cut out of the equation.

Elias leaned against the railing, his vintage leather jacket unzipped over a black t-shirt. He took a slow, deeply appreciative sip of his cheap, bitter coffee. The music industry had tried to starve him. Instead, he had bought the farm.

"Elias!"

The frantic, high-pitched shriek echoed over the roar of the machinery.

Paul Rudd practically sprinted up the metal stairs of the catwalk. He looked like a man who had just been chased by a pack of wild dogs. His flannel shirt was untucked, his glasses were crooked, and he was clutching a thick, heavy stack of legal documents bound in aggressive red cardstock.

"Turn the machines off!" Paul gasped, grabbing the catwalk railing to keep his knees from buckling. "Elias, shut it down! We have to stop printing the CDs immediately! We are committing a massive, federal crime every time one of those plastic boxes comes off the belt!"

Elias didn’t flinch. He didn’t spill a drop of his coffee. He simply turned his head, projecting the calm, untouchable arrogance of a playboy who found panic profoundly boring.

"Good morning, Paul," Elias murmured, offering a smooth, thoroughly unbothered smile. "I see the postal service has delivered today’s dose of corporate anxiety. Who is suing us this time?"

"Interscope!" Paul choked out, waving the red folder frantically. "Jimmy Iovine didn’t just walk away when you embarrassed him in the office, Elias! He hired Skadden, Arps—the biggest, meanest corporate law firm in California! They just slapped us with a multi-million-dollar copyright infringement lawsuit!"

Elias raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. He casually took the heavy document from Paul’s shaking hands. "A copyright claim? On ’Creep’?"

"They aren’t claiming you stole it from an indie band," Paul whimpered, burying his face in his hands. "They represent the publishing estate of a British rock band from the seventies. The Hollies. They are claiming that the core chord progression and the melody of ’Creep’ are a direct, undeniable plagiarism of their 1972 hit song, ’The Air That I Breathe’!"

Elias scanned the first page. His Photographic Memory instantly analyzed the legal trap. It was a classic, ruthless major-label tactic. When you couldn’t stop an independent artist’s distribution, you attacked their intellectual property. You tied up their royalties in escrow using a copyright injunction, bleeding them dry in legal fees until they were forced to sign a predatory settlement.

(Author’s Note: In real life, Radiohead was successfully sued by the publishers of The Hollies for the exact same melodic similarities in "Creep", forcing them to share royalties).

"They are demanding an immediate cease and desist," Paul sobbed, sinking onto the metal stairs. "They want an injunction to freeze all our retail revenue from Tower Records. They are suing for 100% of the publishing rights and past damages! Elias, they are going to take the four hundred thousand dollars you won in the boxing ring! We are going back to the motel!"

Elias let out a low, rich chuckle. It wasn’t the sound of a defeated man. It was the sound of a shark smelling fresh blood in the water.

"Jimmy Iovine is a very smart man," Elias said, his dark eyes gleaming as he tossed the legal document back to Paul. "But he is playing a terrible hand of poker. He thinks he can bully me because I don’t have a team of Harvard lawyers on retainer."

"We don’t have lawyers, Elias!" Paul shrieked. "We have Owen, and he thinks the legal system is a manifestation of bad cosmic energy!"

"Call the number on that letterhead, Paul," Elias commanded smoothly, stepping past his hyperventilating assistant and descending the stairs. "Ask for the senior litigator assigned to the case. Tell him the Managing Partner of Sovereign Media is inviting him to our headquarters on Sunset Boulevard for a private settlement negotiation. Two o’clock, today."

Paul stared at his boss in sheer horror. "You want to invite an apex-predator lawyer into our office?! Elias, our office doesn’t even have drywall on the left side yet! It smells like sawdust and pigeon feathers!"

"If he wants my money, Paul, he can breathe my construction dust," Elias grinned, a dangerous, street-smart smirk. "Tell him to bring his favorite pen."

At exactly 2:00 PM, a sleek, black Mercedes S-Class pulled up to the gated entrance of the Sovereign Media headquarters on Sunset Boulevard.

A man stepped out. Bradley Vance was a senior partner at a top-tier Century City law firm. He wore a razor-sharp, three-thousand-dollar Brioni suit, carrying a slim leather briefcase and an aura of absolute, suffocating institutional superiority.

Bradley walked through the front doors of the warehouse, instantly wrinkling his nose in disgust.

The lobby was a massive, echoing cavern of exposed brick, steel beams, and concrete floors. The sound of circular saws echoed from a back room. This wasn’t a corporate headquarters; it was a construction site.

Elias van Kempen sat behind his polished mahogany desk in the center of the newly framed acoustic-glass corner office. He didn’t stand up to greet the lawyer. He sat perfectly relaxed, sipping a glass of sparkling water, radiating the effortless, untouchable charm of a young billionaire.

Bradley pushed open the glass door and walked in, dropping his briefcase onto Elias’s desk with a heavy, aggressive thud.

"Mr. van Kempen," Bradley sneered, not bothering to offer his hand. He looked around the dusty office. "I have to admit, Jimmy told me you were a cocky kid playing record executive, but I didn’t think you were actually squatting in a derelict warehouse. Let’s make this brief. I bill at six hundred dollars an hour, and my patience is remarkably thin."

Elias didn’t flinch. He leaned back in his leather chair, crossing his long legs.

"Have a seat, Brad," Elias purred, his voice a smooth, velvety drawl that completely ignored the lawyer’s aggression. "I understand you drove all the way from Century City just to hand me a piece of extortion paper. You must be parched."

Bradley’s jaw tightened. "I didn’t come here for a beverage. I came here for your signature. You stole the melody of ’The Air That I Breathe’. We have musicologists who will testify under oath that the chord progression is a blatant, undeniable ripoff."

The lawyer unlatched his briefcase, pulling out a thick settlement document and sliding it across the desk.

"Here is the reality of your situation, kid," Bradley dictated, leaning over the desk to intimidate Elias. "Tomorrow morning, I am filing an injunction in the Federal District Court of Los Angeles. I am going to freeze every single cent of revenue sitting in the Tower Records accounts. You won’t be able to buy a cup of coffee with that song’s money. However, Jimmy is feeling generous."

Bradley tapped the paper. "You sign over sixty percent of the publishing rights and agree to an exclusive distribution deal with Interscope, and we make the lawsuit disappear. You get to keep playing rockstar, and we get our cut. Refuse, and I will personally bankrupt you in legal fees before we even reach discovery."

Paul Rudd, hiding behind a filing cabinet near the door, let out a pathetic, muffled squeak of pure terror.

Elias van Kempen looked at the settlement document. He didn’t look scared. He looked deeply, profoundly bored.

It was time to take the room.

He mentally engaged the digital loan shark, sacrificing his hard-earned points to absolutely shatter the lawyer’s ego.

[SYSTEM SHOP ACCESSED.][ACTIVATING: LIDAH PENIPU / MASTER PITCH (DURATION: 5 MINUTES)][COST: -10 CP][CURRENT BALANCE: 270 CP]

[CHA-CHING!]

The skill activated, coating Elias’s vocal cords in a hypnotic, terrifyingly persuasive frequency. His natural, street-wise arrogance instantly sharpened into the lethal, calculating edge of a veteran corporate raider.

Elias let out a low, rich chuckle. He didn’t touch the settlement. He picked up his glass of sparkling water.

"You’re wearing a three-thousand-dollar Brioni suit, Brad," Elias smiled smoothly, his dark eyes locking onto the lawyer with absolute, predatory confidence. "And yet, you walked in here trying to bluff me with a pair of twos. It’s incredibly embarrassing."

Bradley bristled, his face flushing red. "Excuse me? This isn’t a bluff! We have the copyright claim!"

"Oh, I’m sure the melodic similarities are fascinating to the musicologists," Elias waved his hand dismissively, his tone dripping with cool, playboy sarcasm. "But we both know you don’t give a damn about The Hollies. Jimmy Iovine cares that my factory in the Valley is printing fifty thousand CDs a day, and he isn’t getting a single cent of the margin."

Elias leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, cutting off the lawyer’s personal space.

"Tapi mari kita bicara tentang ancaman kecilmu itu, Brad," Elias whispered, unleashing the legal trap with flawless, devastating precision. (But let’s talk about that little threat of yours, Brad.) "Kau bilang kau akan membekukan royaltiku besok pagi di pengadilan federal." (You said you are going to freeze my royalties tomorrow morning in federal court.)

Elias reached into his top drawer and pulled out a single, beautifully embossed piece of international legal stationery. He tossed it casually onto the desk.

"Sovereign Media tidak mendaftarkan hak cipta penerbitan lagu itu di Amerika Serikat, kawan," Elias stated, his voice a lethal, silken blade. (Sovereign Media did not register the publishing copyright for that song in the United States, my friend.) "Hak cipta itu dipegang oleh sebuah perwalian proksi yang bermarkas di Liechtenstein." (That copyright is held by a proxy trust headquartered in Liechtenstein.)

Bradley Vance froze. The smug arrogance was instantly slapped off his face. His eyes darted to the document.

"Good luck freezing an account that sits behind a wall of Swiss banking privacy laws and European sovereign trust protections," Elias mocked softly, a dark, entirely shameless smirk curving his lips. "To even get a hearing for an injunction, you would have to pierce the corporate veil in an international court in Geneva. It would take your firm three years and four million dollars in billable hours just to find the front door of my holding company."

A massive, cartoonish sweatdrop materialized on the lawyer’s forehead, rolling rapidly down his temple. The blood drained from his cheeks. The kid hadn’t just prepared a defense; he had built an impenetrable, international financial fortress before the song even hit the radio.

"You... you parked the IP in an offshore trust?" Bradley stammered, genuinely shocked. "You’re sixteen years old!"

"I am a fiduciary, Brad. I protect my assets," Elias corrected flawlessly.

But Elias wasn’t done. Defense was for amateurs. A true capitalist parasite always followed up with a fatal counter-extortion.

Elias reached back into his drawer. He pulled out a thick, black ledger book. It was the heavily detailed, illicit payola ledger he had extorted from the Apex Frequency radio promoters weeks ago.

He dropped it onto the mahogany desk with a heavy, terrifying thud.

"Now, since you brought up the idea of federal court," Elias purred, leaning back in his chair and steepling his long fingers, "let’s discuss what happens when I file my counter-suit."

Bradley swallowed hard, staring at the black ledger. "Counter-suit?"

"Interscope Records has been aggressively funding an independent radio promotional network to artificially inflate their gangsta rap roster," Elias dictated, his voice wrapping around the lawyer’s throat like a velvet noose. "They are literally bribing radio station directors with cash, cars, and vacations. It is textbook, institutionalized payola. It is a federal crime."

"You... you can’t prove that," Bradley choked out, his voice cracking. He knew about the payola. Everyone in the industry knew. But nobody had the paper trail.

Elias tapped the black ledger with a single, elegant finger.

"Jika kau mendaftarkan gugatan hak cipta konyolmu itu ke pengadilan besok," Elias smiled, his eyes completely devoid of human mercy, "aku akan membalas dengan gugatan antimonopoli dan pemerasan (RICO). Dan dalam tahap penemuan bukti (discovery), aku akan menyerahkan buku besar ini langsung ke tangan Federal Communications Commission (FCC)." (If you file that ridiculous copyright lawsuit in court tomorrow, I will retaliate with an antitrust and racketeering (RICO) lawsuit. And during the discovery phase, I will hand this ledger directly into the hands of the Federal Communications Commission.)

The silence in the glass office was absolute. The grinding noise of the construction outside seemed to fade into nothingness.

"How do you think Jimmy Iovine is going to react, Brad?" Elias whispered, delivering the ultimate psychological kill shot. "How is he going to feel when the FBI raids his office and seizes his hard drives, all because his highly paid lawyer couldn’t close a simple bluff against a teenager in a dusty warehouse?"

Bradley Vance looked like he was about to vomit. The swaggering, six-hundred-dollar-an-hour litigator was completely paralyzed. He wasn’t negotiating with a musician. He was negotiating with a monster who was holding a live grenade over Interscope’s entire business model.

If this ledger went to the feds, Interscope wouldn’t just lose a copyright dispute; the label executives would go to federal prison.

With a tragic, pathetic groan of a man whose ego had just been publicly and intellectually atomized, Bradley slowly reached out and grabbed his red settlement folder off the desk. His hands were shaking violently.

"You’re a sociopath," Bradley hissed, shoving the documents back into his briefcase. "You’re a sick, twisted kid."

"I am merely enforcing market equilibrium, Brad," Elias offered a polite, devastatingly charming nod. "Tell Jimmy to stop sending lawyers. It is a waste of your valuable billable hours."

Bradley didn’t say another word. He turned on his heel and practically sprinted out of the glass office, slipping slightly on the sawdust in the lobby as he fled the building.

Paul Rudd emerged from behind the filing cabinet, his jaw hanging open. He stared at Elias, his eyes wide with sheer, unadulterated worship.

"You... you just made a senior corporate litigator run away like a scared dog," Paul breathed, clutching his chest. "You completely destroyed his entire lawsuit with a fake European trust fund and a black book! We get to keep the royalties!"

Elias casually picked up his sparkling water, taking a slow sip. "Never let a man with a briefcase tell you how much your property is worth, Paul."

Deep within the darkest recesses of his mind, the digital loan shark erupted in a glorious, golden symphony of triumph.

[CHA-CHING!][SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: THE LEGAL DECAPITATION HACK EXECUTED WITH FLAWLESS, PREDATORY CHARM!][EVALUATION: YOU X-RAYED A MULTI-MILLION-DOLLAR LAWSUIT, WEAPONIZED AN OFFSHORE LOOPHOLE, AND COUNTER-EXTORTED A VETERAN LAWYER USING HIS BOSS’S OWN CRIMINAL LEDGER. YOU DID NOT USE MAGIC; YOU USED PURE, DEVASTATING MATHEMATICS. THE SYSTEM BOWS TO YOUR LACK OF DIGNITY.][REWARD: +20 SHAMELESS POINTS (CP) DEPOSITED.]

Elias smiled. The war with the Pop Dictators was escalating, but his treasury was secure.

The daily toll followed silently, a mechanical reminder of his reality.

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

Elias mentally balanced his ledger. The fifty-dollar tax dropped his liquid cash to exactly $648,290.00. His CP had surged to a heavily armed 290 points.

He was incredibly liquid. He was legally unassailable.

"Paul," Elias commanded smoothly, grabbing his vintage leather jacket and walking toward the door. "The legal distractions are over. We have over six hundred thousand dollars in cash. It is time to expand the physical empire. Let us go look at some distressed Hollywood real estate."