Reborn Scumbag: Jizzing to the Top of the Music Empire and Hollywood Chapter 175 169: The Chestnut Shoe Drop

Arriving at the new pad in Tribeca, the two of them were tangled up the mont the door clicked shut.

They stumbled onto the sofa.

Taylor tossed her "ladylike" image out the window, her blonde hair a ssy halo over her face. Her eyes were glazed, cheeks flushed with a rosy glow.

"Let's do it right here..." Leon pulled a magnum condom out of the drawer—the one from his endorsent deal, hilariously printed with his and Miranda's faces.

"Wait..." Taylor parted her lips, painted in her signature vampy crimson.

Wait? How am I supposed to wait at a ti like this?

Leon was full of question marks.

Taylor was half-reclining on the sofa, her long legs crossed, the curves flowing like a sculpture.

She wasn't as tiny and fragile as Ariana, but she possessed a powerful beauty, much like the undeniable confidence in her vocals.

"Sorry, I can't wait." Leon unbuttoned his black shirt, staring down at Taylor like a predator eyeing its prey.

"Unbuttoned" was putting it politely; "ripped open" was more accurate.

Taylor watched his moves with interest, her face burning hot.

Her oversized T-shirt slipped off one shoulder, revealing a collarbone that caught the light. Her skin seed to glow under the white lights of the living room.

If not for her "flat-chested" genetics, the view from this angle would have been fatal.

Just as Leon leaned down to pounce, a size 8.5 foot pressed directly into his face.

The scent of essential oils hit him, mixed with a hint of sweat.

"What are you doing?" Leon was a bit annoyed at being blocked by a foot.

Their movents froze in an awkward tableau.

"I want to ask you a question," Taylor said, slowly retracting her long legs to let Leon inch closer.

"What?"

"Am I the first girl you've brought here?"

"Of course! Even my mom hasn't been here yet!" Leon answered without hesitation, completely tossing the mory of "christening" the house with Ariana to the back of his mind.

Finally, Taylor dropped her defenses.

It was ti for total honesty.

The scent of perfu, sweat, and hormones filled the living room.

That night, Leon finally understood a physics problem:

Supercars have aerodynamic designs and are lighter than pickup trucks, so why do they guzzle more gas?

The pressure put on the driver by legs over 43 inches long was no less intense than handling a heavy-duty engine.

---

At nine the next morning, the TV was playing boring morning news.

Taylor was curled up in Leon's arms, completely uninhibited and lazy. She seed strangely interested in the dry news program.

"Do you want breakfast?" Taylor asked.

"Can you cook?" Leon's counter-question froze her.

She buffered for five or six seconds before whispering, "No... but it shouldn't be that hard for . I have a genius brain, you know."

She pointed to her head as she spoke.

Looking at her proud expression, Leon ran his fingertips over her thigh. "I know you're a genius, but cooking and songwriting are two different things. Cooking should never involve 'personal creativity.'"

It was only then that he realized the downside of having a girlfriend with legs that went on forever.

When cuddling in the sa position with Ariana, he could easily encompass her entire fra. But with Taylor? His hand could barely reach her calf; he couldn't even touch her ankle.

"I wish ti could just stop right here. Life without effort," Taylor said, staring into space. "I have a show in Tennessee tomorrow, and then three back-to-back concerts in Canada next month..."

As she spoke, her phone rang again.

Unsurprisingly, it was Scott.

Scott had been calling non-stop since last night, desperate to know her whereabouts. As a boss, he was crossing the line; even controlling parents wouldn't be this annoying.

Taylor's attitude remained unchanged—she had zero intention of answering. She tossed the phone aside.

"Aren't your tickets selling out like crazy?" Leon teased. "Who gets stressed about making too much money?"

"Is money the only thing in your brain?" Taylor rolled her eyes hard. "If you want money that bad, I can give you an opportunity. How about being a guest perforr at my Toronto show next month?"

"My fans love you. Your segnt at the Miami tour has the highest rating on the internet right now!"

"Pass," Leon replied.

"Why? Your renewal with Roc Nation isn't done, your work is stalled... you should be free," Taylor tilted her head and asked.

"I don't want people saying I'm a kept man..." Leon said it, but his mind was calculating other things.

If there was a real chance to be a "sugar baby," he'd bury his face in the bowl.

Although his music career was technically paused, that was just the tip of the iceberg. His tentacles were reaching into many sectors.

In July, he had to implent the new label plan and deal with the Ready Player One script.

Warner Bros. had bought the film rights to the novel last year but hadn't made a move. First, they were worried about the cost and IP issues; second, they hadn't found the right director.

Spielberg, the only one interested, was booked solid and couldn't take the helm anyti soon. He had at least three projects greenlit, including the historical epic Lincoln.

If Leon was determined to shoot Ready Player One, now was the best ti to approach Warner Bros.

Aside from these paper plans, the first batch of "Chestnut" (Yeezy-style) shoes in collaboration with Adidas was dropping next week.

Ads for the Chestnut shoes were already everywhere in the fashion, basketball, and hip-hop circles.

Many celebrities Leon knew, like Kendrick and 50 Cent, were already rocking them early.

There's no better marketing than seeing stars wear the product.

"I have to go~" Taylor stretched and stood up from the sofa. "I really hate the feel of leather sofas. I'll have soone send a new set over in a couple of days~"

She put on her sunglasses as she spoke, acting like the lady of the house.

---

A week later, the Chestnut Boots series officially launched.

The initial drop included the Chestnut 750 and the 350 V1.

To execute the hunger marketing strategy devised by Adidas executives, the Chestnut 750 was limited to 10,000 pairs, positioned as a limited edition collector's item with a retail price of $330.

The Chestnut 350 V1 had a first run of 50,000 pairs, priced at $200.

Thanks to the limited release and unique design, the Chestnut series beca the imdiate target of sneakerheads.

All models sold out on launch day, instantly birthing a chaotic snatch-and-grab culture.

Combined with the endorsents from stars like 50 Cent, Taylor, and Kendrick, the Chestnut shoes skyrocketed to astronomical prices on the secondary market.

"Man, when I actually put these on, I realized where I lost." Kanye was on the phone with Leon, humble as a schoolboy. "Maybe I'll never design a masterpiece like this."

"You're young. Your design career is long," Leon teased. " just keep wearing the Chestnuts for a while. Maybe Kardashian will tear up her engagent with Humphries and fall in love with you."

It sounded exaggerated, but compared to the dia hype, it was ta.

Under Adidas's heavy financial bombardnt, fashion magazines and hip-hop outlets were blowing smoke like crazy.

"Chestnut Boost: The trendy artifact created by the Hand of God!"

"It's not a shoe; it's the Holy Grail of fashion. It's luxury under your feet, the closest distance between you and the peak of style!"

"You don't need a Lamborghini to make girls love you. Just spend $200 on a pair of Chestnut 350s, and they'll go crazy for you."

"Listen up, bros! You might be an average Joe, but the second you put on Chestnut shoes, you're standing on the sa fashion stage as Street Jesus Leon and Taylor Swift. Strangers will salute you on the subway; at parties, girls will crawl on the floor just to stare at your feet."

The text was so over-the-top that even Leon felt it was a bit much.

Adidas dropped millions on PR alone, but the total value of the first batch was only a little over $10 million.

According to Torben, the company's investnt would continue to increase because the market reaction was too explosive.

Everyone at Adidas was confident about snatching a piece of the sneaker pie from Nike's Jordan Brand.

"Why do you succeed at everything you do?" Phil walked into the office and threw a copy of Hypebeast magazine on the sofa. "Even the btches at Manhattan Beach can't get enough of these shoes."

"I heard so girls even took part-ti jobs there for a week just to buy a pair. Can you believe that?"

Leon raised an eyebrow. "That's an exaggeration."

"You don't believe ?" Phil spread his hands. "This is a big country, and there's no shortage of idiots... Before, they'd work the streets for an iPhone. Now they've degenerated to doing it for a pair of shoes."

It wasn't much of an exaggeration. Because of the hunger marketing, it was impossible to find a pair on the primary market.

Online communities were full of "WTB" (Want to Buy) posts.

[The mont you put on Chestnut shoes, you've achieved class mobility.]

[The collection value of Chestnut shoes is comparable to antiques! Decades from now, you might see them in a museum.]

[One pair lasts three generations; the person might be gone, but the shoes remain.]

Scalpers bought massive numbers of bot accounts to post this stuff.

They were making more money than the retail stores. A pair of Chestnut 350s could be flipped for three tis the price, and the 750s were briefly bid up to $2,000.

Phil continued, "Your na is driving the street kids crazy. They're calling you the Godfather of Fashion..."

"Fxxk, I can't understand how a pair of shoes can be worth $2,000."

Leon, the father of the Chestnut shoe, agreed.

He was making money off these hypebeasts while mocking them as fools.

Working hard frying fries at McDonald's for a month, only to hand the cash over to a scalper for a pair of shoes.

They were dosticated by materialism.

"People are willing to spend big money on luxury goods just to buy a logo," Leon said, lighting a cigarette. "These idiots think buying luxury goods lets them jump social classes."

"If Louis Vuitton can take these idiots' money, why can't I?"

Just then, Bonnie pushed open the door and walked in. Unsurprisingly, she was rocking a pair of Chestnut shoes.

And not just any pair—the limited edition 750s.

"Look, here's one of the idiots," Phil teased. "Sneakers don't suit you, Bonnie. Stockings and heels are where your charm is."

Bonnie couldn't be bothered to respond to the old geezer.

As an influencer and fashion vlogger, she didn't need to spend money on shoes.

Before the launch, she received samples from Adidas and a hefty advertising fee.

By posting a video titled "Step-by-Step Guide: How to Match Sneakers with a Thong," she achieved her first video with over a million views.

"This is the target list picked by Dawn Realty." Bonnie placed a stack of papers on Leon's desk.

Each sheet had a photo of the property and detailed information.

"These places all look the sa." Leon frowned. "Fxxk, look at this house. It looks older than Phil's grandma. It might collapse at any mont."

"But it's cheap. Only $5 million," Bonnie said.

The real estate waters were deep.

$5 million for a 30,000-square-foot building in the Brooklyn business district?

Even Leon wouldn't dare take that kind of "bargain."

"That looks like a giant coffin worth $5 million..."

After so selection, Leon's eyes finally locked onto a picture.

413 Fulton Street. Built in the 1980s, it had always operated as a hotel.

Because a murder had occurred in one of the rooms, the hotel had been struggling.

Ever since the horrifying events at the Cecil Hotel in Los Angeles beca widely known, the superstitious Arican public had been resistant to these non-chain hotels.

Since the financial crisis exploded in 2008, this hotel had been closed, covered in cobwebs.

The area was about 35,000 square feet, asking price $12 million. Sounds very reasonable.

"Are you sure you want to buy a murder house?" Phil quickly made the sign of the cross on his chest.

Although he drank, did drugs, and chased won, it didn't stop him from being a Christian.

"Only fools care about that." Leon shook his head. "I'm an atheist. Or you can say I'm a believer in the Church of Coke and Burgers."

"Say what you want. Just keep the room where soone died far away from my office." Phil couldn't win, so he just spread his hands helplessly.

An hour later, famous DJ David Guetta arrived at the studio.

regarding the arranger for Old Town Road, Leon originally intended to use the more experienced Max Martin.

But considering the song was fully electronic with massive use of synthesized audio, he decided to let the more experienced DJ David handle it.

Thanks to the global explosion of Faded, David was likely to top the DJ Mag Top 100 DJs list this year.

David brought the initial backing track into the studio and started complaining. "Boots, horses, revolvers... this song is country as hell, but you asked to make a Trap beat. I don't get what you're thinking."

Country music was dominated by whites, while Trap was black-led.

This song crossed racial boundaries, playing with a Country-Trap fusion.

Leon was confident in this bold style.

Taylor had driven a country revival, and Trap was the hottest genre in the market.

For the greedy Leon, the choice was obviously: "I want it all!"

David Guetta perfectly recreated the beat according to his requirents.

Every detail was infinitely close to the original version from the Inspiration Refresh.

"Excellent work," Leon praised.

"Your request was too weird. I was clueless at first." David shook his head helplessly. "I only found the vibe you were looking for while playing a video ga."

"A ga?"

"Yeah, Red Dead Redemption. Haven't you heard of it? It's a masterpiece..."