Chapter 161: The Copyright Shark Netori

The Copyright Shark Netori

Early October 1993.

The interior of Sovereign Studios was still heavily contested territory. The sprawling, 1920s-era Hollywood lot was simultaneously undergoing aggressive structural renovations and acting as the operational nerve center for a rapidly expanding, multi-million-dollar entertainment conglomerate. The air was a chaotic blend of pulverized drywall, fresh paint, and the faint, metallic scent of heated audio equipment.

Inside the acoustic-glass walls of the primary control room, Elias van Kempen was completely insulated from the industrial noise outside.

He was sitting in front of a massive, sixty-four-channel SSL mixing console, identical to the one he had extorted a discount from just days prior. His dark, striking features were illuminated by the glowing VU meters. He wasn’t mixing "Creep." The grunge anthem was already pressed, mastered, and actively infecting the terrestrial radio pipelines.

Elias was a capitalist parasite, and parasites did not survive by grazing on a single host. He was already weaponizing the next phase of his auditory monopoly.

He reached out with a long, elegant finger and pushed the master fader up.

Through the towering, multi-thousand-dollar studio monitors, a sound erupted that was so profoundly majestic, so devastatingly arrogant, that it seemed to physically alter the air pressure in the room.

It was a sweeping, relentless, four-chord orchestral string progression, layered over a heavy, dragging hip-hop drum loop. It sounded like a symphony playing on a sinking luxury cruise liner. It was the instrumental master tape of what would historically become "Bitter Sweet Symphony."

Elias leaned back in his leather chair, crossing his arms, absorbing the sheer, arrogant perfection of the sonic virus.

Suddenly, the heavy soundproof door to the control room was violently shoved open.

Paul Rudd stumbled inside, looking as though he had just sprinted across the lot while actively suffering a panic attack. He was clutching a freshly printed, glossy copy of Rolling Stone magazine to his chest like a bulletproof vest.

"Turn it off, Elias! We’re dead!" Paul shrieked, his voice cracking as he practically threw the magazine onto the mixing console, barely missing a row of equalization knobs. "Tommy Mottola just fired a nuclear missile at our PR department!"

Elias smoothly reached out and hit the mute button on the console. The majestic orchestral strings vanished, leaving a heavy, ringing silence in their wake.

"Calm your heart rate, Paul," Elias murmured, his baritone voice a dark, unbothered rumble. He didn’t rush to pick up the magazine. He simply glanced at the cover line.

THE ONE-HIT WONDER: WHY SOVEREIGN MEDIA’S GRUNGE EXPERIMENT IS ALREADY OVER.

"He bought the editorial board!" Paul gasped, pointing a shaking finger at the glossy paper. "Tommy Mottola used Sony’s advertising budget to buy a six-page hit piece! They’re calling ’Creep’ a novelty track. They’re saying you’re just a pretty catalog model who got lucky with a depressing guitar riff, and that your career will be completely irrelevant by Christmas! They are executing a ’Sophomore Slump’ rumor before we even release a second single!"

Elias picked up the magazine. He looked at the scathing headline, a slow, deeply sociopathic smile curving his lips.

"A predictable, highly defensive maneuver," Elias analyzed, tossing the magazine into a nearby wastebasket with a flick of his wrist. "Tommy is terrified of our market velocity. He is attempting to artificially depreciate our brand equity by convincing the industry gatekeepers that we lack longevity. He wants the distributors to hesitate."

"And it’s working!" Paul whined, collapsing onto the leather sofa in the back of the room. "I just got off the phone with the Tower Records regional buyer. He said if our next track doesn’t debut in the Top Ten, they are pulling our end-cap displays! We have to respond, Elias! We have to issue a press release! We have to promise them a rock anthem!"

"A press release is a desperate plea for validation, Paul. We do not beg," Elias corrected flawlessly. He turned his chair back to the mixing console and rested his hand on the master fader. "We retaliate by dropping a masterpiece that makes ’Creep’ look like a rough draft. We retaliate with strings."

Before Paul could argue the logistics of recording a full orchestra, the red security light above the studio door began to flash frantically.

The intercom on the desk buzzed.

"Elias, man," Owen Wilson’s voice drawled through the speaker, sounding entirely too relaxed for a man acting as perimeter security. "There’s a very hostile, very un-chill black limousine parked across our driveway. Some older guy in a suit just walked past the gate. He brought a lawyer. The vibes are incredibly predatory. I think you should probably—"

The heavy studio door didn’t just open; it was shoved inward with the sheer, arrogant force of a battering ram.

Two men stepped into the control room.

The first was a lawyer, clutching a heavy leather briefcase and looking around the dusty studio with open disdain. But the second man—the one leading the charge—was an absolute titan of industry terror.

He was a portly, older man in a sharp, expensive suit. He possessed the bloated, ruthless swagger of a man who spent his entire life crushing the dreams of the most famous musicians on the planet. He chewed on a toothpick, his eyes scanning the room until they locked onto Elias.

Elias’s Photographic Memory instantly pulled the file.

Allen Klein. The founder of ABKCO Records.

In the annals of music history, Allen Klein was a legendary monster. He was the manager who had famously secured the rights to the early catalogs of both The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, utilizing contracts so aggressively predatory they were practically works of dark magic. He was a copyright shark of the highest order, a man who litigated first and never answered questions later.

"So. You’re the kid Tommy Mottola is crying about," Allen Klein grunted, his voice a gravelly, abrasive New York bark. He didn’t offer a handshake. He walked right up to the mixing console, looking down at Elias. "You got a nice little setup here, kid. Shame you’re gonna lose it all by tomorrow morning."

Paul Rudd let out a microscopic, terrified squeal from the sofa, trying to make himself invisible against the upholstery.

Elias van Kempen did not flinch. He did not stand up. He leaned back in his chair, slipping seamlessly into Mode CEO Mafia. The casual, street-smart teenager vanished entirely, replaced by the suffocating, cold gravity of an apex corporate raider.

"Welcome to Sovereign Studios, Allen," Elias purred, his dark eyes locking onto the older executive with an unblinking, chilling apathy. "I would offer you a beverage, but I assume a man who makes his living scavenging the intellectual property of 1960s rock bands prefers to drink blood."

Klein stopped chewing his toothpick. His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. He was used to musicians cowering in his presence, terrified of his legal team. The sheer, unapologetic disrespect radiating from the sixteen-year-old was staggering.

"You got a smart mouth, kid," Klein sneered, gesturing to his lawyer.

The lawyer stepped forward, popped the latches on his briefcase, and pulled out a thick, heavy-stock legal document. He slammed it down onto the metal surface of the mixing console, right over the equalization knobs.

"That is a federal Cease and Desist order," Klein dictated, placing a heavy hand on the paperwork. "My informants at the pressing plant told me what you’re cooking up in here. A little track called ’Bitter Sweet Symphony’. You thought you were clever, didn’t you? You took an obscure, orchestral cover of The Rolling Stones’ ’The Last Time’, recorded by the Andrew Oldham Orchestra, and you looped it."

Klein leaned over the desk, his face inches from Elias’s.

"I own the publishing rights to the entire Rolling Stones catalog, kid," Klein whispered, a vicious, victorious smile spreading across his face. "I own the composition. You stole my property to build your little symphony. And under US Copyright Law, that means I own your song."

Paul Rudd buried his face in his hands, rocking back and forth. "We stole from the Rolling Stones. We are going to federal prison. They are going to take the warehouse."

Elias didn’t look at Paul. He looked at the legal document resting on his console.

In the original timeline, Allen Klein had done exactly this to the British rock band The Verve. He had waited until the song was recorded, ambushed them with a lawsuit, and brutally extorted 100% of the publishing rights, stealing millions of dollars from the band that actually wrote the lyrics and the melody.

But Elias was not a drugged-out British rock star holding a guitar. He was a mathematical sociopath holding a ledger.

Elias mentally engaged the digital loan shark. He needed to verify the trap before he snapped it shut on the hunter.

[SYSTEM SHOP ACCESSED.][ACTIVATING: CORPORATE X-RAY SCAN][COST: -10 CP][CURRENT BALANCE: 350 CP]

[CHA-CHING!]

The world shifted. A glowing, radioactive-red grid snapped over the Cease and Desist document. The system’s forensic algorithms ripped through the legalese, bypassing the aggressive threats of federal litigation and drilling directly into the jurisdictional foundations of ABKCO Records’ copyright claims.

[SCAN COMPLETE. THREAT ANALYSIS: PREDATORY COPYRIGHT EXTORTION.] [VULNERABILITY DETECTED: ALLEN KLEIN HOLDS THE U.S. PUBLISHING RIGHTS TO THE ORIGINAL COMPOSITION. HOWEVER, HE DOES NOT HOLD THE EXCLUSIVE MECHANICAL REPRODUCTION RIGHTS FOR THE ORCHESTRAL MASTER IN THE EUROPEAN UNION, WHICH ARE GOVERNED BY SEPARATE, PRE-EXISTING AGREEMENTS WITH DECCA RECORDS UK.] [CONCLUSION: THE TARGET’S U.S. INJUNCTION IS GEOGRAPHICALLY ISOLATED. HE LACKS GLOBAL MONOPOLY OVER THE SPECIFIC SOUND RECORDING USED.]

Elias’s eyes darkened into endless, terrifying voids of pure capitalist joy. The red grid vanished.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t argue about fair use or artistic integrity.

Elias reached out with a slow, elegant motion. He picked up the heavy Cease and Desist document by the very edge of the paper, as if it were infected with a disease.

"You robbed Paul McCartney, Allen," Elias murmured softly, his baritone voice a smooth, lethal blade that sliced perfectly through the arrogant silence of the control room. "You robbed Mick Jagger. And because of that, you suffer from the delusion that every artist in this industry is mathematically illiterate."

Elias casually tossed the legal document over his shoulder. It fluttered to the dusty floor, landing near Paul’s feet.

Klein’s face instantly flushed a dark, violent red. "You arrogant little punk! Do you have any idea who I am?! I will tie you up in injunctions so tight you won’t be able to hum a tune in the shower without my permission! I am taking one hundred percent of your publishing, and I am taking one hundred percent of your mechanicals! You don’t have a choice!"

"I always have a choice, Allen," Elias smiled. It was a dark, breathtakingly shameless expression that made the lawyer standing next to Klein instinctively take a half-step backward. "You assume the world ends at the Atlantic Ocean."

Elias swiveled his chair, opening a locked drawer on the right side of the mixing console. He pulled out a sleek, blue-tinted legal folder bearing the embossed crest of a London-based intellectual property firm.

He dropped it onto the desk.

"This is an international mechanical license, registered and executed in the High Court of London exactly three weeks ago," Elias dictated, deploying the Legal Chokehold with flawless, surgical precision. "My European holding company, Sovereign Continental, legally purchased the sampling rights directly from the estate of the Andrew Oldham Orchestra and cleared the secondary composition rights through Decca Records UK."

Allen Klein stopped breathing. The aggressive, bullying posture shattered. He stared at the blue folder.

"Kau beroperasi di bawah asumsi bahwa aku akan merilis lagu ini melalui distributor Amerika, yang akan memicu yurisdiksi federalmu," Elias whispered, leaning over the console, bringing his face dangerously close to the veteran shark. (You operated under the assumption that I would release this song through an American distributor, which would trigger your federal jurisdiction.)

"Aku menguasai pabrik fisik di Amsterdam, Allen," Elias continued, his voice echoing with absolute, inescapable corporate supremacy. (I control a physical factory in Amsterdam, Allen.) "Jika kau mencoba mengajukan perintah pengadilan di Los Angeles hari ini, aku akan membatalkan rilis di Amerika Utara sepenuhnya. Aku akan mengirimkan lagu ini secara eksklusif sebagai rilisan impor Eropa. Radio Amerika akan memutarnya sebagai barang selundupan. Dan karena perlindungan yurisdiksiku di London..." (If you try to file an injunction in Los Angeles today, I will cancel the North American release entirely. I will ship this song exclusively as a European import release. American radio will play it as contraband. And because of my jurisdictional protection in London...)

Elias tilted his head, twisting the psychological knife.

"...kau tidak akan mendapatkan satu sen pun." (...you will not get a single cent.)

The silence in the control room was absolute and devastating.

Allen Klein, the monster who had terrorized the greatest musicians of the 20th century, was currently sweating profusely. A massive, highly visible bead of moisture rolled down his temple. He looked at the teenager sitting in front of him. The kid wasn’t a musician hoping for a hit. He was a legal assassin who had built a transnational corporate firewall just to protect a four-chord loop.

"You... you’d tank your own domestic release," Klein choked out, his voice cracking. "You’d lose millions in US retail just to spite me?"

"I am perfectly willing to set a pile of cash on fire if it means you burn with it, Allen," Elias smiled flawlessly, his dark eyes completely devoid of mercy. "However. I am a fiduciary. I prefer efficiency over arson."

Elias reached back into his drawer and pulled out a single sheet of paper. He slid it across the console toward Klein.

It was the Win-Win Parasite.

"Sovereign Media will retain ninety-five percent of the Master and Publishing rights globally," Elias stated, setting the terms of the extortion with dictatorial finality. "In exchange for dropping your baseless U.S. Cease and Desist, I will grant ABKCO Records a five percent licensing fee. You get your name in the credits, and you get a five percent cut of the biggest global anthem of the decade for doing absolutely nothing."

"Five percent?!" Klein shrieked, his ego violently rejecting the math. "I don’t take five percent! I take the lion’s share!"

"You take five percent," Elias corrected, his voice hardening into unbreakable steel. "Or I pick up this phone, I call my pressing plant in the Netherlands, and you take one hundred percent of zero."

Allen Klein stared at the contract. He looked at his lawyer, silently begging for a loophole. The lawyer, pale and terrified, slowly shook his head. The jurisdictional block was airtight. If the kid released it as a European import, ABKCO was completely locked out of the revenue stream.

Five percent of a global smash hit was still millions of dollars. Zero was zero. The mathematics of greed were undeniable.

With a tragic, pathetic groan of a predator whose teeth had just been violently ripped out by a younger, faster shark, Allen Klein reached into his jacket. He pulled out a heavy gold pen.

His hand was shaking so badly he nearly dropped it onto the console.

Klein scrawled his signature across the bottom of the five-percent concession, legally surrendering ninety-five percent of the multi-million-dollar IP back to Elias van Kempen.

"Take it," Klein hissed, practically throwing the paper at Elias. His face was a portrait of absolute, humiliated rage. "You’re a sick kid. You’re a goddamn corporate psycho."

"I am a market correction, Allen," Elias murmured politely, slipping the signed contract into his drawer. "Ensure you validate your parking on the way out."

Allen Klein turned on his heel and stormed out of the control room, shoving past his terrified lawyer. The heavy soundproof door slammed shut, plunging the studio back into silence.

Paul Rudd slowly peeked over the top of the leather sofa. His eyes were wide, staring at Elias with a mixture of profound horror and absolute, worshipful awe.

"Elias," Paul whispered. "You just... you just mugged the guy who mugged The Beatles. You gave him five percent of his own song as an allowance."

"The hierarchy has been recalibrated, Paul," Elias said, reaching out and un-muting the SSL console.

The sweeping, majestic orchestral strings of "Bitter Sweet Symphony" flooded the room once more, swelling with the untouchable, arrogant gravity of a trillion-dollar asset fully secured.

Deep within Elias’s neural pathways, the digital loan shark erupted in a glorious, golden supernova of pure capitalist ecstasy.

[CHA-CHING!][SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: THE COPYRIGHT SHARK NETORI EXECUTED WITH GOD-TIER, LEGAL DECAPITATION!][EVALUATION: YOU ANTICIPATED A HISTORICAL EXTORTION, BUILT A TRANSATLANTIC LEGAL FIREWALL, AND BLACKMAILED A LEGENDARY PREDATOR INTO ACCEPTING POCKET CHANGE. YOUR ABILITY TO MANIPULATE JURISDICTIONS IS A WORK OF ART. THE SYSTEM WEEPS WITH PRIDE.][REWARD: +20 SHAMELESS POINTS (CP) DEPOSITED.]

Elias felt the warm surge of CP restock his arsenal, his balance settling at a comfortable 370 points.

The system’s mechanical toll followed silently in the background.

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

His liquid cash ticked down to exactly $520,400.00. The fifty dollars was entirely irrelevant. He had just secured the Master and Publishing rights to the second Sonic Virus. Tommy Mottola wanted to brand him a one-hit wonder; Elias was about to drop an orchestral bomb on the global charts.

"Paul," Elias commanded, his dark eyes gleaming in the studio light. "Call the pressing plant in Amsterdam. Tell them to halt all ’Creep’ production. The symphony requires manufacturing."