May 8th. The Los Angeles Third Theater. 2:00 PM.
The air inside the theater was electric. Fifteen hundred people were packed shoulder-to-shoulder, buzzing like a hive of excited bees.
"We are so lucky!" a woman whispered, clutching her ticket like it was a golden bar.
"I know!" her friend giggled. "My neighbor Tom turned green when I told him. He was so jealous!"
"Will Smith is really going to be here?" a teenager asked, crane-necking to see the stage.
"Of course, man! He's the host!"
The noise level rose. American audiences aren't exactly known for their quiet contemplation. They were ready for a show, and they were ready to scream.
Backstage, the vibe was less "party" and more "panic attack."
Beyoncé Knowles paced in a tight circle, her hands wringing together until her knuckles turned white.
"Sisters," she murmured, her voice tight. "What if we get cut? What if we choke?"
Kelly Rowland snapped her head around. "Bey! Stop it! You're making me nauseous. We are going to be fine. Just... breathe."
The other two members of Destiny's Child nodded vigorously, looking like bobbleheads on a dashboard. They were terrified.
But in the corner?
Eminem was bouncing on the balls of his feet. He wore a crisp white hoodie, his blue eyes burning with a manic energy.
'Nervous? Hell no,' he thought, cracking his knuckles. 'I've been waiting my whole life for a mic that actually works. I'm going to tear the roof off this place. I'm going to make them choke on their doubt.'
He tapped his foot, a rapid-fire rhythm against the floor. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
The Control Room.
High above the crowd, the control room was cool and dark, lit only by the glow of fifty monitors.
"Mr. Blackwood," the director said, his voice serious. "Ten minutes to recording."
Zane nodded, leaning against the back wall. "Raleigh, it's your show. I'm just a fan today."
Raleigh, a veteran director with 15 years under his belt, looked relieved. He barked orders into his headset.
"Todd! Check the lights! Camera 3, focus!"
"On it, Mr. Raleigh!"
Zane's ears perked up. 'Todd?'
He squinted at the monitor showing the stage floor. A young assistant director was running around with a clipboard, shouting at the lighting crew.
Zane's eyes widened.
'No way.'
It was Todd Phillips.
The future director of The Hangover. The guy who would make a billion-dollar comedy franchise. The genius behind the dark, gritty Joker movie in 2019.
'I've been scouring Hollywood for talent,' Zane thought, shaking his head with a grin. 'And I had a future legend fetching coffee in my own TV studio?'
He made a mental note: Promote Todd immediately.
Showtime.
Boom-boom-clap!
Energetic music exploded from the speakers. The lights swept across the stage in blinding arcs of blue and gold.
"Heeeeey!"
Will Smith burst onto the stage, wearing a sharp white suit that looked like it cost more than most cars. He flashed that famous, million-watt smile.
"My friends! I am your host, Will Smith!"
The theater erupted. People jumped out of their seats, screaming. This wasn't just a host; this was the Fresh Prince. This was a movie star.
"Now," Will shouted over the noise, "you might be asking: 'Will, you're a movie star! Why are you hosting a TV show?'"
He paused for dramatic effect.
"Because I'm a genius!" Will laughed, spreading his arms wide. "I could be President if I wanted to! But honestly? They paid me enough to buy a small island!"
The crowd roared with laughter.
Up in the control room, Zane nodded. 'Worth every penny of that $12 million. The guy owns the room.'
Then, the judges walked out.
Piers Morgan sat down, looking smug. "I don't know why I'm here," he drawled into his mic. "Is it because I'm so handsome?"
"Ha!" Sharon Osbourne cackled. "Handsome? Honey, please. You're here because we needed a villain! Ask the audience if they even know your name!"
The audience laughed. The chemistry was instant. Snarky British guy versus loud American mom.
Then David Hasselhoff leaned into his mic, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Hey, don't look at me! I'm just here to watch the show. Judging is my side hustle!"
The crowd cheered for the Hoff.
Backstage, Director Raleigh watched the monitors. The energy was perfect. It was time to light the fuse.
"Will," Raleigh whispered into his headset. "Cue the music. Start the theme song."
On stage, Will nodded imperceptibly. He raised the mic.
The opening guitar riff of "Sold Out" (by Hawk Nelson) ripped through the air.
I ain't like the others, I'm a different breed...
The first season of America's Got Talent had officially begun.
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