Chapter 64: The Sony Music Ambush

The Sony Music Ambush

The Sovereign Media headquarters on Sunset Boulevard was not currently projecting the image of a multi-million-dollar entertainment conglomerate. It was projecting the image of a highly active, slightly toxic war zone.

The air inside the massive former theater was thick with suspended drywall dust, sparking ozone from exposed wiring, and the deafening, bone-rattling roar of industrial power tools. Frank’s construction crew, highly motivated by Elias’s threat of a federal investigation, was currently tearing down the asbestos-laden drop ceiling with the terrified enthusiasm of men who wanted to get paid and get out.

In the dead center of the chaos, perfectly unbothered by the falling plaster, sat Elias van Kempen.

He was lounging in the black canvas director’s chair he had shamelessly stolen from the set of Lethal Weapon 3. He wore his faded vintage leather jacket, a pair of two-dollar plastic safety goggles he had forced Paul to buy at a hardware store, and an expression of profound, clinical boredom as he reviewed a stack of distribution ledgers.

Paul Rudd stood nearby, coughing violently into a bandana tied around his face, while Charlize Theron sat on an overturned bucket, her combat boots propped up on a pile of shattered bricks, reading a script and casually picking pieces of drywall out of her blonde hair.

"Elias," Paul wheezed, his voice barely audible over the screech of a reciprocating saw cutting through metal pipes. "We cannot hold meetings in here! The air quality is a human rights violation! My eyes are burning, and I’m pretty sure I just inhaled a chunk of the 1970s!"

"Logistical overhead is minimal, Paul," Elias stated smoothly, not looking up from his ledger. "The dust is temporary. The equity is eternal."

Before Paul could argue, the heavy front doors of the warehouse were pushed open, sending a fresh shaft of Los Angeles sunlight cutting through the dust cloud.

A figure stepped into the doorway, stopping dead in his tracks.

It was a man in his early thirties, dressed in an impeccably tailored, pristine white Armani suit. He wore dark sunglasses, his hair heavily styled, and he carried a sleek leather briefcase. He looked like an executive who had just stepped off a yacht in Monaco, only to find himself in a collapsing coal mine.

Elias didn’t need to check his X-Ray Scan to know who this was. The aesthetic was a dead giveaway. He was an A&R executive from a major label. A shark sent from a very angry ocean.

The man took a hesitant step inside, instantly waving a manicured hand in front of his face as the thick cloud of construction dust descended upon him.

"Hello?!" the executive yelled, coughing loudly, his expensive Italian leather shoes crunching on broken glass and plaster. "Is this Sovereign Media?! I’m looking for Elias van Kempen!"

Elias looked at Paul, gesturing toward the man with his silver pen. "Paul. Usher the guest into my office."

"What office?!" Paul shrieked. "There are no walls!"

"The area surrounding my chair, Paul," Elias corrected patiently.

Paul groaned, pulling his bandana down. He jogged over to the coughing executive, who was currently attempting to dust a fine layer of white powder off his pristine suit jacket, to no avail.

"Mr. van Kempen is right this way," Paul yelled over the noise of the power tools, leading the man through the debris field toward the center of the room.

The executive approached Elias’s stolen director’s chair. He looked at the teenager in the dirty leather jacket and cheap plastic safety goggles. The executive’s expression shifted from disgust to pure, arrogant amusement. This was the guy Tommy Mottola was so worried about? This kid was a joke.

"Elias van Kempen," the executive said, pulling off his sunglasses to reveal a predatory, mocking sneer. "I’m Richard. A&R, Sony Music. Tommy Mottola sent me. I gotta say, kid, when Tommy said you were operating a ’disruptive’ boutique agency, I pictured an office in Century City. I didn’t realize you were squatting in a condemned building. Are you sure you aren’t violating some kind of vagrancy law right now?"

Elias didn’t stand up. He didn’t take off the cheap plastic goggles. He simply stared at the Sony executive with a cold, deadpan gaze.

Richard didn’t wait for an answer. He popped the latches on his leather briefcase, pulled out a sleek, gold-embossed folder, and dropped it onto the small, dust-covered folding table next to Elias.

"Let’s make this quick, kid, before my suit depreciates any further," Richard said, his voice dripping with condescension. "That track you released. ’Creep’. It’s getting some weird traction in the mall retail circuits. It’s annoying. It’s pulling focus from our mainstream pop releases. Tommy doesn’t like annoying things."

Richard leaned forward, placing a hand on the folder.

"Tommy sent me here to do you a favor," Richard smirked. "We are offering you a full buyout. One hundred thousand dollars. A flat check, right now. In exchange, Sony takes 100% of the Master Recordings, 100% of the Publishing Rights, and a five-year exclusivity option on any future audio you produce. You take the hundred grand, you fix whatever the hell this building is, and you let the adults handle the music business."

Paul’s eyes widened behind his dusty glasses. A hundred thousand dollars in cash for one song? It was a massive number for an indie artist in 1991.

Elias didn’t even look at the folder.

He looked past Richard. He spotted a construction worker holding a heavy-duty pneumatic concrete drill, standing about ten feet away, currently on a coffee break.

Elias caught the worker’s eye. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, and held it up. He tapped the side of his own head, then pointed directly at the concrete pillar closest to where Richard from Sony was standing.

The worker grinned, snatched the twenty dollars, and fired up the drill.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

The noise was apocalyptic. It was a bone-rattling, deafening roar of metal chewing through concrete. A massive cloud of white, chalky dust exploded from the pillar, washing directly over Richard in his pristine white Armani suit.

"WHAT THE HELL?!" Richard screamed, throwing his hands over his ears and squeezing his eyes shut as the dust coated him like a powdered donut.

Elias sat perfectly still. He needed to assert intellectual dominance, but the noise of the drill was overpowering.

He mentally engaged the digital loan shark.

[SYSTEM SHOP ACCESSED.][ACTIVATING: INTIMIDASI SUARA BARITON (BARITONE INTIMIDATION FREQUENCY)][COST: -5 CP][CURRENT BALANCE: 5 CP - CRITICAL WARNING! CP DEPLETED!]

[CHA-CHING!]

Elias ignored the red flashing warnings in his HUD. He felt the mechanical lock engage on his vocal cords, shifting his frequency into a deep, resonant hum that cut through the chaotic noise of the construction zone like a hot knife through butter.

"Tommy Mottola mengirimmu untuk menawar asetku dengan harga yang lebih murah dari anggaran katering Mariah Carey?" Elias asked, his voice effortlessly overpowering the pneumatic drill. (Tommy Mottola sent you to bid on my asset for less than Mariah Carey’s catering budget?)

Richard opened his eyes, coughing violently. The front of his white suit was now completely gray. He stared at Elias in pure shock. The kid was speaking normally, but his voice was vibrating in Richard’s chest.

Elias casually reached up and flicked a piece of drywall dust off his own shoulder.

"Tommy isn’t annoyed, Richard," Elias analyzed, his tone smooth, cold, and entirely merciless. "Tommy is terrified. The retail sync market is a closed ecosystem. He thought he had a monopoly on the pop demographic. But now, every teenager in America is wandering through a mall, hearing a dark, independent track that speaks to their existential dread, and they are ignoring the polished, plastic pop singles Sony spent millions promoting. I haven’t just stolen airtime. I have stolen mindshare."

"You... you’re crazy!" Richard yelled over the drill, wiping dust from his eyes, his arrogant sneer completely broken by the relentless noise and Elias’s terrifying logic. "It’s one song! You don’t have a distribution pipeline! You can’t beat Sony!"

"Katakan pada Tommy," Elias smiled, a dark, chilling expression that made the A&R executive physically recoil. (Tell Tommy,) "Jika dia menginginkan laguku, dia harus menyerahkan setengah dari saham Sony Publishing." (If he wants my song, he has to hand over half of Sony Publishing’s shares.)

Richard stared at him, his mouth hanging open. A massive sweatdrop cut a clean line through the dust on his cheek. The kid was demanding equity in one of the largest corporate entities on the planet in exchange for a single master tape.

"You’re out of your mind," Richard gasped, grabbing his briefcase, eager to escape the toxic air and the sociopathic teenager.

"Sekarang keluarlah," Elias commanded smoothly, adjusting his cheap plastic goggles. (Now get out,) "Sebelum jasmu terkena asbes permanen." (Before your suit gets permanently covered in asbestos.)

Richard didn’t need to be told twice. He turned on his heel, slipping slightly on a piece of rubble, and practically sprinted toward the open warehouse doors, coughing violently as he fled into the Los Angeles sun. His pristine white Armani suit was completely ruined.

Elias raised a hand. The construction worker immediately killed the drill.

The sudden silence in the warehouse was deafening.

Paul pulled his bandana down, staring at Elias with a mixture of horror and awe. "You just rejected a hundred thousand dollars and declared war on Sony Music. Elias, Tommy Mottola is going to crush us. He has an army of lawyers and a monopoly on the industry."

"Monopolies are fragile, Paul," Elias said quietly, watching the dust settle. "They rely on the assumption that the consumer wants what they are told to want. But the culture is shifting. And we own the soundtrack."

Charlize hopped down from her overturned bucket, brushing plaster off her jeans. She looked at Elias, a fierce, predatory grin on her face.

"So," Charlize said, her South African accent thick with adrenaline. "We’re going to war with the Pop Dictators?"

"We are not going to war, Charlize," Elias corrected softly, turning back to his ledgers as the loan shark in his head delivered its daily blow.

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

Elias felt the phantom pain in his chest, his liquid cash dropping to $715,972.00, his CP resting at a terrifyingly critical 5.

"We are going to execute a hostile takeover," Elias stated, his dark eyes gleaming in the dusty light. "And Sovereign Media does not sell its Masters."