Life Insurance
The stage lights dimmed, then flared to life in a dazzling display of neon pinks and purples.
A figure sauntered onto the stage, her electric blue hair catching the light. Perched atop her head were two furry cat ears that doubled as a sleek headset mic.
Her outfit left little to the imagination, all tight leather and strategic cut-outs.
"Hey there, kitties," she purred into the mic.
"I'm Pussycat, and I'm here to make you meow. This is my hit single, 'Meow'."
The beat dropped, a generic EDM rhythm pulsing through the speakers. Pussycat's lips moved in perfect sync with the pre-recorded track:
"Scratch my back, I'll scratch yours
Purr purr, baby, let's explore
I'm feline fine, so divine
Meow meow, make you mine"
Brandon's frown etched deeper lines into his forehead with each passing second.
'Christ,' he thought, his inner voice dripping with disdain, 'these lyrics aren't just bad…'
The beat assaulted his ears, a cacophony that reminded him of a malfunctioning robot attempting to breakdance.
'And this beat... oh gosh…'
As Pussycat gyrated on stage, Brandon's mind drifted.
He remembered similar acts from his past life - artists who relied more on sex appeal than musical talent. He'd always found it distasteful, but...
'Can't deny there's a market for it,' he mused.
'Sex sells, always has. Doesn't mean I have to like it, though.'
On stage, Pussycat had dropped to her knees. She arched her back, lifting one hand to her mouth. As she licked the back of it in a exaggerated gesture, the track played on:
"Meow meow meow
Meow meow meow
Meow meow meow"
Brandon pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back a headache.
'Is this really what passes for music here?' he wondered.
Brandon turned to Gordon,
"Gordon, stop this performance. From now on, I want only instrumentals. No more lip-syncing."
Gordon's eyes widened, a mix of amusement and worry flashing across his face.
"Are you sure, Young Master?" he asked, his posh accent tinged with concern.
Brandon nodded firmly, his jaw set.
Gordon sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," he muttered under his breath.
Rising from his seat, Gordon clapped his hands sharply, the sound echoing through the theater.
The music screeched to a halt, Pussycat freezing mid-gyration on stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Gordon announced, his voice crisp and authoritative.
"Mr. Blackstone has requested a change in the proceedings. From this point forward, only instrumentals will play. No more lip-syncing will be permitted."
A collective gasp rippled through the audience.
On stage, Pussycat's cat ears drooped comically.
Brandon's gaze swept across the room, taking in the reactions.
Julian slumped in his seat, a hand covering his face as if to hide from the impending disaster. Derrick and Fred seemed to shrink, sinking deeper into their plush chairs as if hoping to disappear entirely.
Gordon's voice carried a hint of resignation.
"Miss… Pussycat, if you would be so kind as to take it from the top."
As Gordon returned to his seat, Brandon noticed him pulling something from his blazer pocket.
Curiosity piqued, he leaned closer.
"What's that?"
Gordon met Brandon's gaze with a wry smile, inserting the small objects into his ears.
"Life insurance, Young Master."
Before Brandon could process the cryptic response, the music started again.
Pussycat stood center stage, her confident posture at odds with the nervous twitch of her electronic cat ears.
The moment she opened her mouth to sing, Brandon's jaw dropped. The sound that emerged was like a dying alley cat being dragged across a chalkboard.
"ScRAtcH my BaCK, I'LL scrATCh yOUrs,"
Pussycat screeched, her pitch swinging wildly between notes that didn't exist on any known musical scale.
Brandon's eyes widened in horror.
He glanced around, expecting to see similar reactions, but the executives seemed unsurprised. Julian had his head in his hands, while Derrick and Fred looked anywhere but the stage.
"PuRR pURr, bABy, LeT's exPLORE,"
Pussycat continued, her voice cracking on the high notes and growling on the low ones.
Brandon sat in a daze, his mind reeling.
How had the producers managed to edit this into something remotely listenable?
The disparity between the polished track he'd heard earlier and this cacophony was staggering.
As Pussycat reached the chorus, her voice rose to a fever pitch.
"MeOW mEOw MeoW," she yowled, each 'meow' more discordant than the last.
What Brandon didn't expect was that this was just the beginning.
Brandon's head pounded as one excruciating performance bled into the next, each act a new level of auditory torment.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly, each act blurring into the next in a nightmarish parade of musical ineptitude.
A boy band called "The Heartthrobs" took the stage, their choreographed dance moves as stiff and unnatural as their voices.
They belted out a song about puppy love that sounded more like a pack of actual puppies howling at the moon.
Next came a rapper who called himself "Lil' Cash."
His rhymes were as weak as his flow, and Brandon found himself longing for the relative harmony of nails on a chalkboard.
A country singer named Daisy Mae warbled through a ballad about her pickup truck.
Her twang was so exaggerated it bordered on parody, and Brandon wondered if she'd ever actually set foot on a farm.
As the performances dragged on, Brandon's expression cycled through disbelief, horror, and finally, a sort of numb acceptance.
He glanced at Gordon, who sat impassively beside him, earplugs firmly in place.
By the time the twelfth act stumbled off stage - a tone-deaf wannabe opera singer whose aria had devolved into what sounded like a dying whale's lament - Brandon felt like he'd aged a decade.
Brandon turned to Gordon, his voice hoarse from holding back groans of despair.
"Has it always been like this?"
Gordon removed his earplugs, a sympathetic smile playing on his lips.
"I beg your pardon, Young Master?"
Brandon opened his mouth to repeat the question, but sighed instead, his shoulders slumping.
"Nevermind..."
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration etched across his face.
"I'm just glad we're done. Twelve signed acts and not one remotely usable? The rumors about the A&R department must be true."
Gordon's eyebrows shot up, surprise flashing across his usually composed features.
"Oh? You're already aware of that situation?"
Brandon's mind raced, quickly recollecting his eavesdropping escapade while disguised as a janitor and his clandestine conversation with Jessie, the COO. He nodded, trying to keep his expression neutral.
A look of pride crossed Gordon's face as he straightened his tie.
"I must commend you, Young Master. You've managed to uncover a part of the problem rather swiftly."
Brandon leaned forward, intrigued.
"Oh? And you know the rest of it?"
Gordon's lips curved into a knowing smile, his eyes gleaming with both amusement and something deeper—perhaps a silent test.
"Young Master," he said, his voice low and rich with implication, "there's very little that can escape the Blackstone Vanguards. We are the eyes in the shadows, the ears in the walls. Knowledge is our currency, and in that, we are very, very wealthy."
Brandon's gaze sharpened, a challenge in his voice.
"And I'm assuming you're not gonna just hand me the results of your investigation?"
Gordon chuckled softly, his posh accent more pronounced as he replied,
"Where's the fun in that, Young Master?"