End of April.
I collapsed onto the leather sofa in my office, staring at the ceiling. My bones felt like they were made of lead.
"I'm a freaking billionaire," I groaned to the empty room. "Why am I this tired?"
The last 35 days had been a war zone.
600 staff mbers.
Tens of thousands of weirdos, singers, and drears.
Cities across Arica.
And we had whittled it down to 200 people.
Two hundred souls who believed they were about to beco stars. The ones we cut? They cried. They begged. So of them cursed out. It was brutal.
But we didn't just throw the audition tapes away. Oh no.
We took the best ones—and the absolute worst ones—and slapped them together into "preview specials."
They were rough. The lighting was bad. The sound was grainy. It looked like sothing fild in a basent.
But when we aired them on UPN?
Boom.
16 million viewers per episode. The final special hit 20 million.
"People love watching a train wreck," I thought, rubbing my eyes. "And they love watching a diamond in the rough even more."
The hype was real. It was a forest fire, and I was holding the gasoline can.
The Money Fight.
Then ca the sponsors.
Usually, you have to beg companies for money. You have to buy them steak dinners and promise them the moon.
Not this ti. This ti, they were banging on my door.
"Mr. Blackwood!" the Coca-Cola rep shouted, slamming his hand on my desk. "Money is no object! We want the Title Sponsorship!"
"Ha!" The Pepsi guy sneered from the doorway. "Whatever Coke bids, we'll double it!"
"Gentlen, please," the Ford executive interrupted, adjusting his tie. "We aren't backing down. We want the cars in the shot."
Even my old friends showed up.
"Zane," the Microsoft rep said, sweating a little. "We are partners in ICQ. You have to save a spot for us."
And then there was the bald head of Jeff Bezos, gleaming under the office lights. "Zane! We're old friends! Amazon needs a spot!"
I sat back, steepling my fingers. On the outside, I looked calm, cool, like a shark in a suit.
'Inside? Inside I am doing the Macarena.'
This was sweet, sweet cash.
The Result:
Title Sponsor.
5 verbal ads.
3 product placents.
Total Revenue: $120 Million.
People at NBC and FOX were green with envy. $120 million for a new show on a small network? It was unheard of.
"But Zane," my assistant Alexander warned, looking at the contracts, "these terms are strict. If the ratings drop below 2.2%, we have to give the money back."
I laughed. "And if they go above 2.8%?"
"They pay us a bonus."
"Then start counting the bonus money, Alex," I grinned. "I'm not aiming for 2.8%. I'm aiming for 3%."
I knew the future. In my old life, season four—the worst season—had a 2.4% rating. This was Season One. The novelty alone would carry us.
The Contestants.
While I was counting money, the 200 lucky winners were sweating bullets.
In a cheap motel room: A young man nad Marshall Mathers (Eminem) was pacing the floor. He hadn't slept in three days. The floor was covered in crumpled paper. 'One shot,' he thought, his pen scratching violently against the notebook. 'I have one shot to make them listen. If I ss this up, it's back to the trailer park.'
In Texas: Beyoncé grabbed her friends' hands. Destiny's Child stood in a circle, heads bowed. "We don't miss a step," she whispered, her eyes burning with a scary kind of focus. "The championship is ours. No mistakes."
And elsewhere... A chubby, bearded guy nad Zach Galifianakis was practicing jokes in a mirror, looking terrified. A funny guy nad Michael Peña was trying to stop his hands from shaking.
And a 7-year-old girl nad Jennifer Lawrence? She was bouncing off the walls, tripping over her own feet, and laughing maniacally while her parents tried to get her into a dress.
They were ready. I was ready.
But as the clock ticked down to the premiere, a phone call shattered the peace in my office.
"Boss," Victor's voice was tight. Panicked.
"What is it?" I asked, sitting up straight.
"It's David Hasselhoff," Victor whispered. "He... uh... he's stuck."
"Stuck?"
"In the bathroom. The lock jamd. And the show goes live in twenty minutes."
I stared at the phone.
'Seriously? The Hoff is trapped in a toilet?'
"Get an axe," I ordered, grabbing my jacket. "I'm coming down there."
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