The frosted glass doors of Paparazzi Model Management swung shut behind him, sealing the warmth and the faint smell of expensive espresso inside. Elias van Kempen stood on the cobblestones of Amsterdam, the bitter wind biting through his threadbare jacket. He didn’t shiver. A man holding a loaded gun doesn’t complain about the recoil, and the thick envelope resting against his ribs was exactly that.
One thousand US dollars. Two thousand Guilders.
It was a pathetic sum compared to the multi-million-dollar buyout clauses he was used to negotiating in his previous life. But in 1991, for a sixteen-year-old kid with nothing but a box of illegally extorted Comp Cards and an attitude problem, it was the seed capital for an empire.
"First rule of capital preservation," Elias murmured to himself, his breath pluming in the freezing air. "Never pay retail."
Three hours later, Elias was leaning against the polished counter of the KLM Royal Dutch Airlines ticketing desk at Schiphol Airport. The ticketing agent, a woman with a perfectly pinned blue scarf and an expression of profound bureaucratic boredom, tapped a pen against her keyboard.
"A direct flight to Los Angeles International, departing today?" She looked up, her eyes scanning his faded clothes with mild skepticism. "That will be one thousand, two hundred dollars, sir. Economy class."
Elias didn’t flinch. He leaned in, his dark, exotic eyes locking onto her name tag. Sanne. He smoothly deployed the charm of a fifty-year-old playboy, a smile so naturally disarming it should have been illegal.
"Sanne, let’s skip the corporate script," Elias said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, velvety tone. "We both know flight KL601 pushes back in forty-five minutes. And I know, based on the statistical no-show rate for transatlantic business routes on a Tuesday, you have at least six empty seats in the back. Currently, those seats are earning KLM exactly zero dollars."
Sanne blinked, her professional mask slipping. "Sir, I can’t just—"
"I am offering you four hundred and fifty dollars in raw, untraceable cash," Elias interrupted, seamlessly sliding a stack of crisp bills across the counter, just enough to be visible under his palm. "You punch me in as a standby passenger who miraculously cleared the waitlist at the gate. The airline gets four-fifty for a seat that was going to fly empty, your supervisor praises your last-minute yield management, and I get out of this freezing country. It is a victimless mathematical victory."
It wasn’t magic. It was the analog ticketing system of 1991. Gate agents had massive discretionary power to fill empty seats before the doors closed, a loophole that would be violently closed by digital algorithms a decade later.
Sanne looked at the cash, then at Elias’s absurdly handsome, uncompromising face. She sighed, her fingers flying across the clunky mechanical keyboard. "Middle seat. Row 42. Right by the lavatory. If you complain, I will have you thrown out over the Atlantic."
"Sanne," Elias purred, sliding the cash forward. "I would sit in the cargo hold with the dogs if it saved me a hundred bucks."
Fourteen agonizing hours later, Elias discovered that Row 42 was, indeed, a psychological torture chamber. He sat wedged between a snoring businessman and a woman who smelled strongly of peppermint and regret. His knees, far too long for the economy pitch, were bruised against the tray table.
Yet, Elias didn’t complain once. Every time his spine screamed in agony, he simply calculated the seven hundred and fifty dollars he had saved. The physical pain was temporary; the retained capital was eternal.
Los Angeles hit him like a physical blow.
He walked out of the sliding doors of LAX into a wall of thick, smog-choked heat. The California sun was unforgiving, baking the concrete and illuminating the desperate, sprawling reality of the city. There was no Hollywood glamour here, just the smell of exhaust fumes, melting asphalt, and shattered dreams.
A line of sleek yellow cabs idled by the curb. A driver rolled down his window, gesturing to Elias. "Hollywood? Fifty bucks, kid."
Elias looked at the cab, then at the driver. "Fifty bucks? For fifty bucks, you better be carrying me on your back while feeding me grapes."
He turned his back on the taxi stand without a second thought. A true capitalist hustler didn’t bleed cash on convenience. Carrying his heavy, battered suitcase in one hand and the dense box of his Comp Cards in the other, Elias walked past the cabs and found the blue-and-white sign for the RTD public bus.
He dropped three single dollars into the mechanical fare box and took a seat in the back. The bus smelled of stale beer and desperation. It lurched forward, embarking on an agonizing, two-hour, stop-and-go journey through the gritty underbelly of Los Angeles, slowly making its way toward the faded glitz of Hollywood Boulevard.
By the time Elias stepped off the bus, his shirt was sticking to his back. The neon lights of cheap liquor stores and adult theaters buzzed in the late afternoon haze. This was the bottom of the food chain.
He needed a base of operations. Something cheap, untraceable, and desperate enough to not ask questions about a sixteen-year-old checking in alone.
He found it three blocks off the main strip: The Pelican Motel.
It was a two-story, U-shaped cinderblock building surrounding a murky swimming pool that hadn’t seen chlorine since the Reagan administration. The neon sign out front was missing the ’P’ and the ’C’, buzzing angrily as ’ ELI AN MOTEL’. It was the legendary, unofficial purgatory for immigrant hustlers, failed musicians, and actors who were one bounced check away from living in their cars.
Elias walked into the tiny, stiflingly hot reception office. The manager, a heavy-set man with a spectacular comb-over and a stained undershirt, was aggressively chewing a toothpick.
"Two hundred a week. Cash upfront. No refunds, no pets, no cooking meth in the sink," the manager grunted, not looking up from a portable TV showing a baseball game.
Elias placed his box of Comp Cards on the counter. He didn’t look like a runaway teenager. He looked like a loan officer sent to foreclose the property.
"I’ll give you one hundred and fifty," Elias stated, his voice a flat, uncompromising baritone.
The manager finally looked up, letting out a wheezing laugh. "Listen, pretty boy. This ain’t a flea market. Two hundred, or go sleep on the Walk of Fame with the junkies."
"Let’s be rational," Elias countered, leaning his tall frame over the counter, invading the manager’s space. "You have twelve empty rooms. I counted the missing air-conditioning hums from the courtyard. The pool is a biological hazard, which means you’re currently in violation of California health codes. If a health inspector happens to wander by, they will shut this entire compound down and fine you five thousand dollars. I, on the other hand, am offering you one hundred and fifty dollars of guaranteed, tax-free cash for a room that is otherwise generating zero revenue."
Elias pulled out a wad of cash, separating exactly one hundred and fifty dollars. He placed it on the counter, keeping his hand over it.
"One-fifty. And I won’t accidentally drop a dime to the city inspector about the swamp you’re operating out back. Do we have a market equilibrium?"
The manager stared at Elias, his jaw slightly slack. The kid’s eyes were utterly dead, devoid of any youthful bluffing. It was a purely clinical extortion. The manager swallowed hard, his bravado crumbling. He snatched the cash off the counter and slammed a brass key down.
"Room 104. Ground floor," the manager muttered, wiping his forehead. "You’re a real piece of work, kid."
"I’m a survivor," Elias corrected, picking up the key.
Elias walked out of the suffocating office and into the courtyard. The air smelled of chlorine, cheap weed, and exhaust. As he navigated the cracked concrete pathway toward Room 104, a commotion near the communal payphone caught his attention.
A young man, looking to be in his early twenties, was frantically patting down his pockets, his face a portrait of absolute, hyperventilating panic. He had floppy dark hair, wore a slightly oversized flannel shirt, and possessed an incredibly expressive, inherently comedic face.
"Come on, come on," the young man muttered, dropping to his knees and desperately sweeping his hands under the grimy payphone. "Just one quarter. Please, universe. I have to call my agent back. If I don’t call her back, she’s going to drop me, and I’m going to have to move back to Kansas and work at my uncle’s tire shop!"
Elias stopped. His Photographic Memory immediately matched the face, the voice, and the sheer, unfiltered panic.
Paul Rudd.
In thirty years, this man would be a global superstar, a beloved comedic icon, and a multi-millionaire. But right now, in the brutal reality of 1991, he was just another starving actor losing his mind over twenty-five cents in the courtyard of a slum motel.
Elias watched him for a moment. In his past life, Elias had fought alone. He had trusted managers who eventually sold him out. This time, he needed loyal pawns. He needed a Brotherhood. And nothing bought absolute, unquestioning loyalty quite like saving someone from the indignity of working at a tire shop in Kansas.
Elias walked over to a rusted vending machine humming loudly against the wall. He fed fifty cents into the slot, hit a heavy plastic button, and caught the cold can of generic cola that clattered to the bottom.
He walked over to where Paul was still crawling on the concrete. Elias casually tossed a shiny silver quarter onto the ground, right in front of Paul’s nose.
Paul froze. He looked at the quarter as if it were a holy relic. He snatched it up, scrambling to his feet, and turned to Elias, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and gratitude.
"Oh my god. Man, you have no idea. You literally just saved my life. I mean, not my physical life, but my spiritual, artistic life, which is arguably more important," Paul babbled rapidly, his words stumbling over each other in sheer relief. "I’m Paul. Paul Rudd. I would shake your hand, but I’ve been touching the floor of the Pelican Motel, and we both know what happens here after dark."
Elias just stared at him, maintaining his cold, aristocratic posture. He didn’t introduce himself like a peer. He popped the tab of the generic soda, took a sip, and handed the cold can to Paul.
"Drink," Elias commanded softly, sounding less like a sixteen-year-old neighbor and more like an aging Mafia godfather bestowing a favor upon a street rat.
Paul instinctively took the can, looking utterly bewildered by the commanding aura of the much taller, impeccably handsome teenager in front of him. "Uh... thanks?"
"Make your call, Paul," Elias said, turning toward Room 104. "And when you become famous, remember who gave you the quarter."
"Yeah! Right! Famous! That’s the plan!" Paul called out, already shoving the coin into the payphone slot, his hands shaking. He paused, looking at Elias’s retreating back. "Wait, how old are you, man? You sound like my dad’s accountant!"
Elias didn’t answer. He unlocked the flimsy door of Room 104 and pushed it open.
The room was exactly what he expected for a hundred and fifty dollars. A sagging mattress, a buzzing fluorescent light, and a carpet that had seen too much human tragedy. It smelled distinctly of old cigarette smoke and despair.
Elias locked the door behind him and tossed his heavy box of Comp Cards onto the bed. He let out a long, heavy exhale, the tension of the intercontinental flight finally catching up to him. He was in Los Angeles. The belly of the beast. The center of the global entertainment monopoly.
He sat down on the edge of the mattress and pulled his cash from his jacket pocket. He counted it with the meticulous precision of a bank teller.
One thousand dollars initial advance. Minus four-hundred and fifty for the standby flight. Minus three dollars for the miserable RTD bus ride. Minus one hundred and fifty for this prison cell of a room.
He had exactly four hundred and fifteen dollars left ($415.00), alongside his initial $18.00 from Amsterdam. He was technically solvent. He had a roof over his head, a box of weapons-grade portfolio cards, and enough cash to buy cheap food for the next month while he hunted for a vulnerable catalog agency to extort.
He smiled, feeling a rare moment of genuine safety.
And then, the universe decided to remind him who was actually in charge.
A sound, so loud and violent it felt like a physical slap, detonated inside his skull.
[CHA-CHING!]
Elias flinched, gripping his head as the harsh, green-and-red interface of the Shameless Capitalist System materialized forcefully in front of his eyes. The numbers on the retro stock-ticker screen were spinning wildly, flashing in a panicked crimson red.
[SYSTEM ALERT! CRITICAL OVERHEAD EXPENSE DETECTED!][USER HAS CROSSED MULTIPLE CONTINENTAL TIME ZONES.][SERVER RELOCATION & INTERCONTINENTAL ROAMING TARIFF APPLIED.]
Elias’s jaw dropped. "What? Server relocation? What servers? You live in my head!"
The system ignored his entirely logical protest. The text continued to scroll with cold, bureaucratic cruelty.
[THE SYSTEM IS A PREMIUM SERVICE. GLOBAL MOBILITY INCURS ROAMING CHARGES. DEDUCTING EXORBITANT FEE FROM LIQUID CASH RESERVE NOW.]
[-$400.00 USD]
Elias watched in absolute, paralyzed horror as the green number representing his total liquid wealth rapidly spun backward. It didn’t stop until it hit a truly pathetic, single-digit figure.
[CURRENT LIQUID CASH: $15.00]
"You absolute parasite!" Elias roared, slamming his fist onto the cheap mattress.
He frantically checked his jacket pocket. The physical cash was still there—the bills hadn’t magically evaporated. But the system didn’t care about physical paper; it tracked his solvency. By applying a phantom $400 debt to his ledger, the system was effectively rendering his physical cash useless for its own maintenance fees.
[WARNING: TOMORROW’S DAILY MAINTENANCE FEE IS PENDING. FAILURE TO PAY WILL RESULT IN: PROJECTILE VOMITING BLOOD IN FRONT OF A CASTING DIRECTOR.][ADVICE: STOP RESTING. GO HUSTLE.]
Elias slumped forward, burying his face in his hands. A massive, cartoonish sweatdrop materialized on the side of his head. He had crossed an ocean, extorted a top-tier photographer, blackmailed a booking agent, and manipulated a ticketing system, all to secure his survival.
And the system had bankrupted him in ten seconds flat.
He had fifteen dollars to his name. The rent was paid for a week, but he was entirely broke again. The illusion of safety was shattered. The loan shark was tapping its bat against his knees.
Elias van Kempen let out a long, dark chuckle. He raised his head, his exotic eyes narrowing with a ruthless, desperate hunger.
"Fine," Elias whispered, staring at the flashing red zero on his HUD. "You want me to be a monster? Tomorrow, Hollywood pays the bill."