"Judging by that big smile, you must have had a pleasant chat with that lady." Bonnie pushed the door open, holding a stack of documents.
"I got the rights to I Have Nothing from that old bitch for just five million dollars. Can you believe it?"
Leon raised his eyebrows, crossed his legs, and took a sip of coffee, looking incredibly smug.
This hit song wasn't just covered by countless celebrities in North America; it was a classic mess of a hit worldwide.
In music competitions in non-English speaking countries, many singers would use this song to show off their high notes and English proficiency, flexing their superiority.
In a way, Leon's hand was now reaching across the globe to "collect taxes" through royalties.
"Look at these; you'll be even happier."
Bonnie placed the documents on the desk. The contents were all about Leon's recent advertising endorsements.
A few days ago, Phil led the management team to sign a three-year contract with Gillette's parent company, P&G, totaling $6 million.
From the date of signing, P&G would pay him $2 million annually.
This figure was quite shabby compared to tennis king Roger Federer, not to mention soccer superstar Cristiano Ronaldo, whom P&G was fanatically chasing.
It was reported that to promote their flagship product "Fusion ProGlide," Gillette offered Ronaldo a sky-high fee of $10 million for a single commercial.
But for Leon, who wasn't an athlete, he was quite satisfied with this contract.
Besides Gillette, a three-year, $5 million contract with Coca-Cola had also been officially finalized, also paid once a year.
Compared to these two cash-rich companies, the usually stingy Elon Musk appeared much more decisive.
Tesla's three-year endorsement fee of $4.5 million was paid in one lump sum.
As soon as the news was announced, Tesla's stock price stopped falling at around $40 and rebounded, surging ten percent to exceed $45 at one point.
Leon opened Twitter and retweeted the brands' marketing tweets one by one.
In addition, the brands begged him to post some original promotional tweets as much as possible.
This would appear more sincere and more easily move consumers.
He instructed Bonnie to post: [Start the day by cleaning the face with a Gillette razor, swap milk for Coca-Cola at breakfast, put on Chestnut shoes to go out, drive the Tesla Magic S to work. Be a high-quality man.]
One tweet covered four brands—saving time and brainpower.
Three days later, in the morning.
As usual, music fans in online communities were fiercely debating whether Leon, Rihanna, or Adele would dominate the Billboard in the brutally competitive Christmas month.
Drake posted his new album tour plan online as usual, incidentally spraying some trash talk at Leon and Kendrick.
Jay-Z and Lil Wayne tweeted announcing that Roc Nation would carry out more collaborations with Young Money...
At 12:00 PM, the most eye-catching Nasdaq screen in New York's Times Square suddenly flickered.
Thump—thump thump thump—
Tourists busy taking selfies and checking in were startled by the powerful drum sound.
They turned their heads one after another, following the sound to look at the Nasdaq screen.
On the screen, a rapper dressed entirely in a white tracksuit was shaking his body while making strange noises.
His face was covered by a black mask, obscuring his features.
The drumbeats sounded like gunshots.
Two seconds later, more screens, large and small, on both sides of Times Square also played this video.
The rapper walked up to a stainless steel door and knocked.
A moment later, a bizarrely styled clown peered out through the small window on the door.
At this moment, the clown's gaze appeared on all the other large screens as well, locking eyes with the center of Times Square.
"What the hell..."
The tourists got goosebumps from being stared at; the dozens of eyes almost triggered their trypophobia.
The scene was as eerie as a kaleidoscope.
The clown lowered his voice and grinned hideously:
"I see dead people..."
As the warning fell, the clown with the rainbow afro walked out the door, went to a vinyl turntable, and pressed play.
A classic West Coast G-Funk beat jumped out.
The screen revealed the title—Not Like Us.
Small text below the title read—The Fourth Arrow, jointly manufactured by Ice Cube and Street Jesus.
The mysterious black mask on the white-clad rapper's face vanished, revealing Kendrick's true face.
In a room with a white background, he twisted his body dramatically, dancing the gang-affiliated C-Walk.
The drums were as urgent as sirens.
Certified boogeyman, I'm the one that up the score with 'em
(I'm the recognized devil, this diss is to teach you juniors a lesson with the boys)
Walk him down, whole time I know he got some ho in him
(Wipe you out, I know out of all the genders in America, you're in a league of your own)
Pole on him, extort sht, bully, Death Row on him
(My mouth bullies you like a gun, throwing you into Death Row Records)
Say, Drake, I hear you like 'em young
(Drake, little brother, I heard you like the "young" girls)
You better not ever go to cell block one
(When you go to jail, make sure you don't get targeted by the "top" dogs)
"Whoa..." Tourists were speechless, stunned by such a grand scene, only able to utter exclamations.
Although most people didn't recognize the young black rapper on the big screen, they still took out their phones to record.
Filming and marveling, "This is New York? This is too fking cool..."
At the same time the MV was playing on the Times Square screens, Apocalypse Music and Aftermath Entertainment jointly announced the release of Not Like Us as the second promotional single for Kendrick's new album.
Kendrick tweeted on Twitter, "Show you sissies what real hard stuff is. K-Dot against everyone, burn this circle down and slaughter them all!"
At 413 Fulton Street, Leon sat in his swivel chair, constantly refreshing social media.
Hundreds of new posts appeared every few seconds; almost everyone who witnessed it in Times Square posted videos of the screens playing the MV in unison.
Not Like Us rushed to the number one trending spot within ten minutes.
"Damn, Bro... We conquered New York..."
Kendrick stared at the retweets of his new song release growing exponentially, shocked beyond words.
900 times...
2,000 times...
10,000 times...
He had never experienced this feeling before. Just looking at the reaction of the online community, he realized that this time, he was truly famous.
"New York? This song is going to be hot all over America."
Leon walked to the liquor cabinet, took out a bottle of whiskey, and poured drinks for Kendrick, Cube, Phil, and the others.
"Check Drake's social account; that kid's comment section is about to be overrun!" Cube swallowed a large mouthful of alcohol, staring at his phone and enjoying the drama immensely. "Holy fk, I dare say the sensation caused by this song is even hotter than Tupac's Hit 'Em Up dissing Biggie back in the day!"
A massive number of comments appeared under Kendrick and Leon's social networks, and the liveliness over at Drake's was no less intense.
Diss tracks have always been what hip-hop fans love to see most. Most of the time, they don't care about the work itself, only the stance.
Blindly taking sides with their favorite rapper.
Plugging their ears, insisting that their idol's work is more lethal.
But when the quality of the opponent's attack is clearly in another dimension, everything changes.
Even Drake's die-hard fans defected to the West Coast camp, mocking him wildly in his comment section.
[Kneel to the West Coast!]
[Listen to what a real diss is, Bro. If you played that stuff you make for your mom, even she would say you're a rookie.]
[Drake, maybe it's not too late to kneel to Street Jesus now...]
Under the high-intensity verbal humiliation, Drake was forced to make the decision to close his comment section.
For a rapper, this is a rather shameful act, representing an admission of heavy damage, no different from waving a white flag.
Drake chose to bury his head in the sand like an ostrich, so Jay-Z and Lil Wayne had to suffer.
Having lost their outlet for venting, a large number of drama-loving netizens poured into the comment sections of the two big brothers.
They gave full play to their wisdom, creating one hilarious viral meme after another.
Jay-Z, who cared extremely about his reputation, chose silence.
Until a large number of photoshopped images appeared in his comment section—Leon wearing a cowboy hat taming the Texan wild horse Beyoncé, while a cartoon figure with Jay-Z's head hugged Leon's riding boots and cried.
The images spammed the screen like snowflakes. Jay-Z finally couldn't withstand the pressure and closed his comment section.
Phil flashed a meaningful smile at Leon. "It seems your biggest opponent during the Christmas holiday isn't Rihanna, nor Adele, but Kendrick."
"So what? I'll be happy for that ngga." Leon patted Kendrick's shoulder.
Whether Not Like Us or Blinding Lights took the top spot, he was the one making money in the end.
Holding the complete master rights and ninety percent of the songwriting rights, he wished for this song to be as red-hot as possible.
"Bro... I don't know how to thank you." Kendrick's words carried a sob.
Being suppressed by Drake for a whole year, and then the incident of being slapped by Will Smith, had once brought his mental state to the brink of collapse.
Now he could finally let out a breath of bad air.
He thought Not Like Us would be popular, but he didn't expect the heat to be this high.
Popular enough to send him to the throne of an A-list rapper.
"Stop crying like a baby, ngga. Do you look the part like this?" Leon said with a smile. "You represent the West Coast now; the kids on the streets of Compton are all watching you!"
"Fck, who said I was crying?"
Kendrick quickly rubbed his eyes, and the two shook hands, clasping wrists.
From this moment on, Leon's status in his heart completely surpassed Dre, whom he once regarded as a father.
He stood up and shouted, "Tonight we are going to the best nightclub in New York to party hard! I'm paying! Even if we blow that damn place up, it doesn't matter!"
Phil's eyes immediately lit up, and he raised both hands in favor. "I've always said this kid is an honest and good ngga!"
Leon didn't want to show his face in a nightclub. Whenever he appeared in such places, he would always be entangled all night by a group of scantily clad girls using every method possible.
"No way, Bro. It's impossible without you tonight!"
"Haven't you heard the Mayan prophecy? It's almost 2012; the end of the world is coming!"
"You made so much money, don't you know how to enjoy pleasure in time and enjoy life?"
Under the expectant gazes of everyone, Leon couldn't refuse anymore.
At 8 PM, Leon's Bentley Mulsanne appeared in front of 1 OAK, the most luxurious nightclub in Brooklyn.
Three Cadillac Escalades followed closely behind. Wrapped up tightly, he walked into the nightclub under the close protection of Jorge and the henchmen.
Just looking at this lineup, the security guards at the nightclub entrance guessed that a big shot had arrived tonight.
When Kendrick appeared, they immediately notified the manager via walkie-talkie.
Before, Kendrick's name was only slightly known among rap fans, but today his fame in New York was comparable to the famous real estate tycoon Donald Trump.
The nightclub manager bowed and scraped the whole time, leading the group to a booth directly facing the dance floor.
The minimum spend for a regular table at 1 OAK starts at $1,000, and the VIP area is $5,000.
The booth facing the dance floor is the best spot, where you can easily touch the dancing girls' butts.
The minimum spend here is $10,000, but for a group of wealthy musicians, such a threshold was obviously redundant.
Kendrick snapped his fingers, and sexy, hot Latin girls lined up to deliver the club's top-tier brandy.
From the moment they entered the nightclub, all the women's eyes gathered in the same direction.
Like rotting meat eyed by vultures.
Most girls hanging out in high-end New York nightclubs don't rely on customers' tips for a living; that little money can't afford the luxurious life they share on social networks.
Precisely locking onto one or more rich suckers and digging money out of their pockets long-term is the ultimate goal.
Rappers with no concept of money are undoubtedly the best targets.
As soon as Kendrick sat down, a swarm of girls surrounded him.
Different skin colors, different races, different heights and sizes.
A moment later, and you couldn't even find a spot to squeeze a butt in.
But they would rather stand and serve the whole time than leave.
"Oh my God, you're the guy who took over Times Square today, right!"
"Kendrick? I've always been your fan!"
"Drake's music is just stupid; compared to you, he's like a sissy!"
The girls, each with their own ulterior motives, said this, but in reality, they couldn't name a single Kendrick song other than Not Like Us.
But this flattery was very effective on Kendrick; no man doesn't like the feeling of being surrounded by women.
He was tired of the life of debauchery; now, for him, it was another feeling—being looked up to and worshiped like a hero.
Because Leon was wearing sunglasses and the nightclub environment was dim, his identity was not seen through.
He held a glass of wine and chatted with a blonde girl next to him, but her attention was obviously all on Kendrick.
Phil forcibly pulled two girls from Kendrick's side and shouted loudly, "Look here, girls! The best manager in New York! I created Avril Lavigne! And Street Jesus Leon! You must have heard these names!"
With Kendrick present, no one treated the old geezer's words as a drunkard's ravings.
The girl with sharp eyes immediately changed her face, her fingertips sliding across his cheek. "I like mature men. Your wrinkles and the plaque on your teeth are so sexy..."
Two hours later, the nightclub entered prime time.
Everyone let themselves go, and the girls removed the seals on their bodies one by one.
Holding a wine bottle in the left hand and hooking high heels in the right.
Hair scattered over their faces, sweat mixed with foundation, shaking their heads to the DJ's rhythm.
Kendrick clinked glasses with Leon one moment and hooked his arm around Leon's neck to say some sentimental words the next.
Unknowingly, various alcoholic drinks mixed in his stomach, making him slightly buzzed.
Smack—Leon patted the butt of the silver-haired white girl next to him, signaling her to make some room.
He stood up and took off his sunglasses.
At this moment, the girls who were originally immersed in the electronic dance music and couldn't extricate themselves instantly sobered up.
"Oh my God... am I dreaming?"
"I still have his poster in my apartment."
Kendrick, who was originally in the absolute center position, instantly lost his appeal in the girls' eyes. They screamed and swarmed toward Leon.
"Sit down, girls... I said sit down."
Leon glanced at his watch; the hands were about to point to eleven o'clock.
Even if he raised his volume, it was easily drowned out by the music and screams.
He simply couldn't be bothered to stop them anymore, letting the girls hang on him.
He raised his glass to Cube, Kendrick, and Phil.
"Come on, prodigals! Long live!"
"Cheers!" Kendrick was the first to tilt his head back and swallow a full glass of strong liquor.
Under the surge of alcohol, his eyes were bloodshot.
Before anyone could react, he rushed toward the stage and snatched the microphone from the DJ.
The nightclub manager didn't stop him; he was begging for a hot rapper willing to show his face proactively!
The DJ and security guards obediently made way.
Kendrick grabbed the microphone and shouted, "How are you doing, Brooklyn? This is K-Dot from Los Angeles, from Compton!"
YEP!!!
"Fk Jay-Z, he isn't the King of Brooklyn at all!"
Saying that, he pointed in Leon's direction and roared, "Look who I roll with! This man is the real King of Brooklyn!"