Chapter 816: Biological Weapons

Brentwood, Los Angeles

Music manager Scooter Braun worked tirelessly into the early hours of the morning, finally succumbing to exhaustion. Since Justin Bieber's meteoric rise to fame, Scooter's life had been a relentless whirlwind of tasks, troubleshooting, and cleaning up messes, both literal and metaphorical, left by his high-profile clients.

Yet, managing Bieber wasn't his only headache. The young internet celebrities he had signed from YouTube were proving to be an increasingly volatile bunch, their erratic behavior and unpredictable antics threatening to spiral out of control at any moment.

With Bieber out of town, Scooter finally enjoyed a rare, uninterrupted night of sleep. But that peace was short-lived.

The shrill ring of his phone jolted him awake. Bolting upright, his heart raced as he grabbed the phone, barely coherent. The voice on the other end delivered news that almost made him leap from his bed: "What? Justin is on the headlines?"

Frantic, Scooter powered up his computer and navigated to TMZ's website. The unfolding scandal was no minor hiccup, what Justin perceived as a trivial incident, Scooter recognized as a potential career-ruining crisis.

Dawn was breaking as he dialed Justin's number, only to be met with a dead line. He tried the landline next, but there was no response.

Panicking, Scooter reached out to his partner and a trusted friend in New York, urging them to locate Justin immediately. He then instructed his assistant to secure a business jet, knowing he needed to address the situation in person.

Hudson Yards, Manhattan

The morning sun cast long shadows over New York City as crowds began to gather near an apartment building by a small square in Hudson Yards. The eclectic assembly of people, some in drag, others with exaggerated makeup and outlandish attire, created a spectacle that was hard to ignore.

Breya, with her heavy makeup and vibrant blue eyebrows, adjusted her afro in a compact mirror. Her muscular frame made her stand out, yet she still managed to look more composed than Michelle, who stood beside her.

Michelle, a statuesque black woman, sported a floral dress, a gleaming gold nose ring, and pristine white boots, resembling a flamboyant figure striding confidently through the crowd. Surrounding them were other individuals, similarly dressed, their appearances blurring gender lines.

Breya turned to Michelle, "Are we all set?"

Michelle patted her handbag, a sly grin spreading across her face. "We raided Chinatown last night. Got all the eggs we could find."

Breya nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. "Make sure you're ready for the signal."

Michelle scanned the crowd, her companions standing at the ready. "Don't worry. We're African American, gay, transgender, and feminist activists. We've got every angle covered."

Breya gestured towards another group gathering across the square. "The gay rights group is here too."

The air was electric with anticipation. The diverse crowd, united by their cause, was ready to make a statement.

New York City

In the heart of New York, a city known for its embrace of freedom and diversity, an unusual gathering of people caused pedestrians to take detours, though few found it strange. This wasn't Texas; this was New York, the avant-garde bastion of liberty.

Alongside the eclectic mix of protestors, NYPD patrol cars arrived on the scene. The major protest groups, having secured authorization for their legal gatherings through their supporters, were prepared for a demonstration. Reporters and paparazzi, ever vigilant, swarmed the area, ready to capture the unfolding events.

A sleek business car driven by Bruce pulled up nearby. Leonardo, seated inside, raised a pair of binoculars and scanned the crowd. "With so many protesters, do you think that bastard will come out?"

Martin, lounging casually, responded, "I brought you here just to give you some closure, Leo."

Leonardo's gaze shifted to the cross-dressing men. "If every one of them could have a go at Justin Bieber, my heart would mend itself."

Nicholson, adjusting his sunglasses, chuckled. "You're ruthless, Leo. If that happened, even the world's best anorectal surgeons couldn't fix Justin Bieber."

Martin joined in the laughter. "I know a top-notch anorectal surgeon, goes by the nickname Hyena."

Leonardo's attention sharpened. "There seems to be some movement."

The crowd began to hold up various banners, inching towards the apartment. The security guards tensed, their eyes locked on the advancing protestors, while NYPD officers shouted, trying to maintain order. The throng moved closer and then paused.

Inside the Apartment

In the elevator, a burly girl eyed Justin, who stood nonchalantly in the center. Her mind flashed back to the derogatory comments he had made in the video. Anger simmered within her, and she resisted the urge to use her umbrella as a weapon.

When the elevator reached the first floor, the doors slid open, and Justin stepped out alone. The girl murmured into her Bluetooth headset, "He's out of the elevator."

Justin, hands buried in his coat pockets, exited the apartment building. He was on a mission to clear his head, still reeling from the previous night's events and craving solitude for his emotional recovery.

As he stepped outside, Justin noticed the crowd but paid them little mind. He pulled up his hood and quickened his pace. The moment he emerged, the previously calm scene erupted like water hitting hot oil.

"Anti-discrimination!"

"Equal power!"

"Trans people have human rights!"

The chants were loud, and for the most part, reasonable. Amid the cacophony, Justin stood bewildered, struggling to comprehend the chaotic scene unfolding around him.

The cross-dressing protestors were more radical than the rest.

"Discriminators, get out of New York!"

"Scum!"

Justin realized that these hostile shouts were directed at him. But he remained unfazed, confident in the presence of the NYPD officers maintaining order. Instead of retreating, he held his head high and strode towards a car parked by the road, flanked by apartment security.

Neither the curses, the protests, nor the flashing cameras of the surrounding reporters could deter him.

Breya, the cross-dressing leader, followed him closely, yelling from just two meters away, "Scumbag, you only deserve to eat cow manure!"

The mention of manure brought back memories of last night's gun incident, fueling Justin's anger. Ignoring the slogans and protests, he turned around, raising both middle fingers at Breya. "Fuck off! You disgusting freaks make me sick. Get out of here!"

Before he could finish his rant, something whizzed through the air. Michelle, having squeezed through the crowd, hurled an egg at him from a few meters away. It missed his mouth and instead splattered against his nose. The rotten egg broke open, its foul contents dripping down and into Justin's mouth.

The unique stench was nauseating. Justin gagged, both from the smell and the taste, his stomach churning.

But Michelle and his comrades weren't done. Four more men in drag, armed with rotten eggs, advanced. With no time to dodge, Justin was pelted relentlessly. The first wave of eggs hit with a sickening crack, leaving him covered in foul-smelling goo.

Michelle didn't stop there. He pulled out a second egg and launched it. These were specially sourced rotten eggs, bought in the early hours of the morning.

As the second round of eggs flew, Justin turned and fled. The putrid smell clinging to him, especially the one in his mouth, made him retch. He vomited up his breakfast as he ran.

"Stop!" The NYPD officers shouted, "Put down the weapons in your hands!"

The scene devolved into chaos, with constant shouting, protesting, and scuffling. The dedicated paparazzi, sensing a golden opportunity, ignored the stench and snapped photos of the pandemonium, capturing Justin's frantic escape.

From a nearby car, Martin, wrinkling his nose at the smell wafting through the air, quickly rolled up the window. "Close the window, quick!" he urged.

Leonardo lowered the binoculars and raised the car window, preempting Martin's reminder.

Nicholson chuckled, "These transgenders in New York are more formidable than Iraqis. They even smuggle in biological weapons!"

"I never expected to witness such a spectacle," Martin admitted, his voice tinged with surprise.

Leonardo grinned, reveling in the chaos. "No wonder you and Jack enjoy pulling pranks so much. It feels incredibly satisfying!"

Nicholson nodded sagely. "It's always a blast messing with people."

Martin glanced out the window one last time. "Now that we've seen the show, it's time to leave."

Leonardo agreed. "Let's head back."

Bruce started the car and smoothly drove away from Hudson Yards.

In Front of the Apartment Building

NYPD support forces arrived swiftly, and the officers quickly subdued the initial troublemakers. Brand and his colleagues wrestled Michelle, the towering figure who resembled a massive upright cow, to the ground. As a white officer, Brand's actions were necessarily forceful, especially when he seized Michelle's bag of rotten eggs, causing the remaining contents to spill and break.

Two white policemen each grabbed one of Michelle's arms, trying to drag her to the police car. Her fake breasts slipped down to her waistband as she struggled, shouting, "I'm a woman! You broke my breasts! I will sue you! Let me go! Even if you arrest me, a woman must do it!"

Brand exchanged a wary glance with his colleague, realizing the potential implications of their actions. He regretted acting so hastily.

Michelle continued to shout, "I am a woman! Call a policewoman!"

This sparked an idea in Brand's quick-thinking mind. "How can you define someone's gender so casually? We might look like men, but we're actually women. We just haven't had time for the surgery yet."

Michelle was stunned into silence, looking at Brand in disbelief. Seeing her calm down, Brand felt he had diffused the situation and proceeded to escort her away.

Michelle suddenly said, "Thank you, officer."

Brand was taken aback by her words, thinking, "These people are truly insane."

Michelle didn't speak further, but Brand's comment had opened a new perspective for her. Being temporarily detained by the NYPD now seemed inconsequential.

As she was led away, Michelle kept replaying Brand's words in her mind, how can you define someone's gender at will? This revelation was more significant than her detainment, marking a profound shift in her understanding of identity.