UPN Studios.
"I'm a Celebrity" Set.
The studio was intimate. Compared to the massive arena of America's Got Talent, this felt like a shoebox. 200 seats, tight lighting, intimate vibes.
The audience filed in. Among the excited fans were the "pros."
"Lulute," a young girl whispered, nudging her friend. "Last time I was here, they had Charlize Theron. Who is it today?"
"I don't know," her chubby companion shrugged, checking his watch. "And I don't care. I'm not here for the star. I'm here for the paycheck."
Lulute rolled her eyes. "You are hopeless."
The chubby guy grinned. He was a Professional Audience Member. His job description was simple: Clap when the sign lights up, laugh when the host makes a bad joke, and scream like a maniac on command.
Pay: A few dozen bucks and a free sandwich. Most people did it for fun. He did it for a living.
The Cynic and the Saint.
Two rows back, two men in expensive suits looked out of place among the teenagers and tourists.
"James," the sharp-eyed man asked. "Did Zane drag you here too?"
"He sure did," James sighed. "Condy? You came?"
Condy, the ace negotiator, curled his lip. He looked at the fake living room set with disdain.
"I bet Zane invited us just to watch him show off," Condy grumbled. "Don't let that calm face fool you. Inside? He's probably preening like a peacock."
James laughed softly. "Cut him some slack. He's proud."
"Proud? He's a showboat," Condy sniffed.
Condy was a man who would yell at a Governor if he felt like it. He didn't do "favors." But for Zane? He showed up.
The Host with a Spine.
The lights dimmed. The band played a jazzy riff.
"Hi, dear friends! Good evening! I am your old friend, Winstanton!"
A large, heavyset white man walked onto the stage. He moved with the grace of a man who owned the room.
Winstanton wasn't just a talking head. He was a pitbull in a suit.
Zane, watching from backstage, nodded respectfully.
'I like this guy,' Zane thought. 'He has guts.'
Zane remembered a clip of Winstanton from last year. The host had looked into the camera and torn the government apart.
"Has the government apologized for the civilians in Iraq? For the trillions of dollars? For the soldiers we lost?""No. They stay silent."
In an industry of puppets, Winstanton cut his own strings. That earned Zane's respect.
The Reveal.
Winstanton sat in his armchair on the cozy, fake living room set.
"Everyone," Winstanton smiled, leaning forward. "You must be curious."
The audience leaned in.
"When my bosses told me who was coming, even I was surprised," Winstanton admitted. "He is the owner of this very network. Please welcome... Mr. Zane Blackwood!"
The "Applause" sign flashed. The chubby guy started clapping on autopilot.
Zane walked out. He waved, smiling comfortably.
But the applause wavered.
The audience froze. They stared.
'He's a kid,' the thought rippled through the room.
Zane was 20 years old. He didn't look like a media tycoon. He looked like an intern.
"Hello everyone," Zane said, taking his seat. "I'm Zane Blackwood."
The whispering started immediately.
"Is he a rich kid?"
"Must be. Daddy's money bought the network."
"Another spoiled brat here to brag."
Condy nudged James. "See? I told you. He's showing off, and they hate him."
The Bombshell.
Winstanton raised a hand, quieting the crowd. He knew exactly what they were thinking.
"I know what you are guessing," Winstanton chuckled. "Which rich family is he from? The Rockefellers? The Kennedys?"
He paused for effect.
"You are wrong."
Winstanton's voice turned serious.
"Mr. Blackwood is a common citizen. He has no famous parents. He didn't even go to college. He graduated high school and went straight to work."
Silence.
"Is that real?" Lulute whispered. "No way," the chubby guy muttered, stopping his clapping. "That's a lie."
Nobody believed it. A high school grad running a network? It was a fairy tale.
Winstanton smiled. He had them right where he wanted them.
"You don't believe me," Winstanton said. "Okay. Let me ask you a question."
"Who here knows SpongeBob SquarePants?"
The tension broke. Everyone nodded. Kids cheered. Even the adults smiled. It was the biggest cartoon in America.
"Well," Winstanton declared, pointing at the young man on the sofa. "The idea for SpongeBob came from his brain. The company that makes it belongs to him. Mr. Blackwood is the father of SpongeBob."
Boom.
The audience's jaws hit the floor. The rich kid narrative shattered.
Zane sat there, calm, composed, and smiling.
'That got their attention,' Zane thought. 'Now... let the show begin.'
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