The night sky was pitch-black, sprinkled with stars.
On the neon-lit stage, lights flashed and swirled.
Eminem, wearing a baseball cap and baggy clothes, a mic in hand, strolled across the stage, chatting with the fans below. When soone shouted for him to freestyle, the 30-year-old grinned, touched his cap brim, and said, "Freestyle? Sure! It's just rehearsal anyway. But—you gotta tell what you want to hear!"
"Anything you rap is fine!!!"
"Yeah! Em!! We love you!!!"
"Just go off—co on—diss anyone you want—"
The roar from the crowd made him smile wider.
He flashed them an "OK" sign, then motioned for the band to give him a beat.
A second later, heavy bass and sharp drum hits filled the air.
He began pacing slowly.
Ten seconds passed—maybe fifteen. Then he raised the mic, cleared his throat twice, and said,
"Yo! Check the mic!"
The teasing tone made the audience instantly hold their breath.
Then he went off—
"Isabella droppin' discs with a diamond price tag!"
"Claims she 'loves the fans' while she's countin' cash stacks!"
"Cash queen wearin' crowns of pure hypocrisy!"
"Sellin' dreams in plastic wraps—that's her damn pathology!"
The words hit like gunshots. For a few seconds, silence.
Then—chaos.
"Wooooow——!"
The crowd erupted again, and Eminem grinned, continuing—
"No MV shots? Just lazy studio lies?"
"Fakin' artistry while the no-effort train flies!"
"Pay full price for a blank-screen robbery?"
"Man, this industry's clownin'—what a tragedy!"
The audience howled like wild animals.
They had no glow sticks—it was just rehearsal—but that didn't matter.
Hands shot up, bodies swayed, the place boiled.
Eminem flipped his cap backward, raised his right hand, and pointed upward.
"Queen of Scam! Takin' dollars on repeat!"
"Fraudulent diva with stolen tracks on beat!"
"If you buy her half-baked trash—you're a fool's brigade!"
"Ti to kick this hack out the damn parade!"
"Wow~Wow~~Wow~~~" the crowd chanted, tribal-like, dancing in frenzy.
Eminem was glowing now, electric. He tore off his hat and threw it into the air—
"Repackaged covers stuffed in your 'premium' case!"
"Zero soul, all greed—disgrace to the human race!"
"Her label's scam machine grinds honest hearts to dust!"
"RETIRE NOW, before your rep turns to rust!"
As he roared the final line, he spread his arms wide—half a gesture of embrace, half of triumph.
The crowd scread like the Second Coming.
"SLIM SHADY! SLIM SHADY!! SLIM SHADY!!!"
And just like that, the rehearsal turned into a shrine.
Two minutes of footage later, the scene cut.
CBS's morning news studio appeared on screen.
The anchor, glasses gleaming, smiled at the guest beside him. "Okay, that was yesterday's footage from the Lollapalooza rehearsal. Eminem's surprise performance thrilled fans—and shocked us too. Because who would've guessed, after Mariah Carey, his next target would be our Miss Beaver—Hermione Granger, or should I say, Isabella Haywood."
The guest, a man in his forties, shrugged. "Honestly? Not surprising. That's just who Em is. I've lost count of how many people he's gone after."
"Yeah, makes sense," the host nodded. "So, let's talk music. What do you think of his freestyle?"
"Eh—it's a freestyle, so of course it's rough. But that's not the point. The content is."
The guest grinned wider.
"He called Isabella a 'cash queen'? Because her album's expensive? Said she wears a crown of hypocrisy? Because her record doesn't even have MVs? Accused her of fraud because of all the covers? Wow. People are either going to love this or hate it."
The host laughed. "So you think he's about to start another entertainnt war?"
"Absolutely," said the guest. "And the battlefield will be the internet—because that's where the blood flows these days."
He was right.
Once the footage leaked online, it spread everywhere—across the entire English-speaking internet and beyond.
Because both nas were nuclear-level famous.
Isabella was adored by capital and fans alike. Eminem was a cultural atom bomb—one of the few artists ever na-dropped by the U.S. Congress.
A superstar firing shots at another superstar? Front-page guarantee.
And then—
Eminem's fans went feral with joy:
"Oh my God! Slim Shady killed it! That freestyle was insane!"
"Those at Lollapalooza were so lucky, man!"
"That 'disgrace to the human race' line—pure fire!"
They weren't shocked—Eminem always dissed people. It was practically his brand.
But Isabella's fans?
They were furious.
To them, Eminem was a lunatic.
"What the hell's wrong with him? The fans asked for a freestyle, and he attacks Isabella? She's never even talked to him!"
"She doesn't do hip-hop or rap! Why's he targeting her? He calls her a scam queen? He's the one full of crap!"
"That has-been clown's desperate for attention again! Can't win a battle with Mariah so he picks a new victim!"
"This disgusting, foul-mouthed liar should just disappear already!"
And so it began—like all wars do, with insults and fury.
Eminem's fans clapped back instantly:
"You call Slim Shady 'full of crap'? Idiots! He spoke truth! Isabella Haywood's a fake queen! Her mini-album costs more than full LPs! No MVs! That's the decay of the music industry—and you're all garbage for supporting her!"
"She should get the hell out of the music world!"
"And you delusional fans can go die too!"
Boom.
The internet detonated.
By July 5, 2003, morning had barely arrived—and online it was already full-blown trench warfare.
By noon, it had evolved into a world war.
Not just Isabella's fans—Mariah Carey's fans joined in to defend her, since Em had attacked Mariah before. Then Will Smith's fans joined too, rembering his 1999 beef with Em. Vanilla Ice fans, Britney fans, Moby fans—everyone Eminem had ever dissed joined the fight.
By midday, the online world was soaked in digital blood.
Because, well, if Eminem played the "art of offense," no one owed him any respect.
"Eminem's a psycho! A man who dissed his own mom! How's he even alive?"
California, USA.
Young Robbie slamd at her keyboard.
She'd just finished filming when she saw the news.
When she realized her beloved "Miss Beaver" had been attacked, she exploded.
She didn't even eat—rushed back to the hotel, fired up her laptop.
One look at the video, and—boom.
If she could've, she'd have found Eminem and stabbed him twice herself.
Since she couldn't, she just yelled at the screen:
"Bring the keyboard!"
And then she started smacking away at the keyboard—"pa! pa! pa!"—locking horns with the enemy online.
But venting that way didn't really burn off much anger.
So, after unloading a few furious comnts, she pulled out her phone and called her dear boss.
Once the line connected—
"Hello? Marg?"
Catherine's voice ca through the receiver.
"Hi, Keisha! How's Isa doing? There's a massive event happening here in North Arica, you know? Soone attacked her—ugh, that guy is just so unbelievably disgusting—"
Little Robbie didn't bother with small talk; she went straight for the point.
Catherine glanced at her sister on the sofa—Isabella, sitting with a grim face, listening intently.
"Marg, thank you for your concern. Yes, Isa already knows about it. She's talking with Warner right now…"
Since The Tis had already fired the big guns in her face, how could Isabella possibly ignore the issue?
After brushing off questions with a feigned calm, she returned to her hotel, dug into the situation, and then—
Eminem's song made her sick.
The fire in her chest whooshed up in an instant.
She admitted—if she really were thirteen, she would've started swearing already. But she wasn't, so she just sat there, face dark as thunder, and called Nathan Bailey.
In her eyes, Eminem's attack wasn't so spontaneous freestyle—it was organized, preditated.
After all, Vivendi Universal's vice chairman, Edgar Bronfman Jr., was trying to acquire Warner Music.
And Eminem was a Universal artist.
The two sides were natural enemies from the start.
Sure enough, once she got through to Nathan Bailey—the so-called "Unlucky Kid"—he confird her suspicion. He said Michael Eisner's move this ti was extrely vicious: a sneak attack disguised with smoke bombs, even tid with the transatlantic ti difference to catch them off guard.
To be honest, that blunder really annoyed Isabella.
But she knew this wasn't the mont to sulk. What mattered was—
"Okay, okay, okay—tell . How do we fix this?"
"Uh…"
In California, Nathan Bailey glanced at his boss.
He was sitting right there in Barry yer's office.
Barry yer, however, had no ti for him—he was on the phone with Robert Iger.
Still, when yer caught Bailey's glance, he grabbed a pen, scrawled a few words on a piece of paper, and nodded.
Taking the cue, Bailey said decisively, "Mr. yer is discussing counterasures with Mr. Iger right now."
"Because this issue's… complicated."
"Details," Isabella said flatly.
Bailey looked again at yer.
It was as if yer could hear her tone—or maybe just predict it. He gave a small nod, signaling Bailey to speak freely.
"Okay, here's the thing."
Bailey sat down in the guest chair and began explaining:
"Eisner's attack is tricky because 'money-grabbing' is a taboo topic in the music industry."
On the surface, Eisner calling Isabella a profiteer looked like pure slander.
Two reasons why:
1. Sure, Isabella's mini-album was pricey—but only at top-tier industry rates. Not beyond the ceiling.
*NSYNC and the Backstreet Boys sold theirs for more.
And as for mini-albums not having MVs and including covers—that's an accepted practice, even an industry norm.
A mini-album isn't a full studio album. It's either a test run before a real release or just a music-sharing project. You don't need unified thes, polished structure, or conceptual depth. You can basically do whatever you want.
To put it bluntly—even Madonna and Beyoncé don't shoot MVs for their extended plays.
2. Capital exists for one thing—profit.
If records didn't make money, the recording industry wouldn't even exist.
And let's be honest—ask Eminem himself if he joined the business not for money. If he says no, lightning should strike him on the spot.
But even if Eisner's "cash-grab" accusation is slander, it's still dangerous to respond.
Why?
Simple.
Because the record industry really does bleed consurs dry.
Take the biggest market—North Arica. A legit album there costs over ten bucks.
What's that an? Ten bucks can buy you several fast-food als. But in music—one album, that's it.
Everyone knows the dollar's strong. But when it cos to music, its buying power looks the sa as any other currency—because the labels are squeezing so hard.
That's why, when Sony and Philips released rewritable tapes, piracy exploded overnight.
And in the late '90s, MP3s ca along to expose just how rotten the system was.
Anyone who lived through the MP3 era knows: the sound quality at first was terrible.
Forget bass—even strings often blurred together.
Yet when Napster launched, it hit 80 million users in six months.
Everyone knew MP3s sounded bad. But they were free—and real CDs were outrageously expensive.
Then, around 2000, ca a ridiculous episode: about a dozen U.S. states, led by Nevada, jointly investigated record pricing, because even state governnts thought albums were absurdly overpriced.
The probe ended with Sony getting fined.
Why Sony?
That's the funniest part.
Anyone familiar with tech knows Sony held the patent for audio CDs.
So, no matter who released music, they all paid Sony licensing fees.
Then, on March 1, 1999, Sony raised the wholesale price of CDs by eight cents each—basically a stealth tax hike.
That earned them an extra $40 million in North Arica that year.
Not much, right?
Split among the Big Five—Sony, Warner, Universal, EMI, and BMG—it ant around $8 million each.
And yes, Sony Music had to pay too. Sa group, separate books. Corporate accounting fun.
But then, once they all noticed that extra $8 million in expenses, the five giants raised their retail prices together.
By 2000, albums cost 10% more than in 1999.
Each company made roughly $200 million extra.
Naturally, the U.S. governnt said Sony's price hike looked like monopoly abuse and fined them.
But let's be honest—it was clearly a coordinated sche to justify a price bump.
Anyway, whether Sony manipulated the market or not wasn't Bailey's main point.
His real point was: when "the wool always cos off the sheep," consurs eventually go insane.
A single $8 million cost increase led to $200 million more in profit?
No wonder, in North Arica, cursing out the Big Five was the safest form of "political correctness."
And because of that—no one in the music business dared touch the "money-grabbing" topic.
They weren't saints—they were the ones doing the grabbing.
"See?" Bailey concluded. "Once Eisner used that word, the situation beca a trap.
If we deny it, we're insulting the public's intelligence—because everyone knows the majors exploit fans.
If we admit it, we blow ourselves up.
So, it's untouchable.
That's why Mr. yer needs ti. He and Mr. Iger are thinking carefully about our next step."
"Don't worry, Isa," he added quickly. "Please trust us. We'll handle this properly."
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