Blood on the Canvas, Gold on the Screen

Chapter 6: The Grumpy Coach

Alex Turner sat on a peeling green park bench in Echo Park, a half-eaten hot dog in one hand and a can of Cherry Cola in the other.

It was a beautiful Tuesday afternoon in Los Angeles. Kids were riding oversized skateboards with neon-colored wheels, a boombox on the grass was blasting a distorted cassette tape of A Tribe Called Quest, and the sun was beating down with a comfortable, dry heat.

Alex took a slow sip of his soda, watching a group of pigeons fight over a breadcrumb.

Life was good. His rent was paid, his landlord was terrified of him, and he had successfully planted a musical time bomb in the heart of Sony Music’s biggest asset. Now, all he had to do was wait for the explosion.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his total remaining net worth: exactly four dollars and fifty cents.

"Well," Alex muttered to himself, tossing a small piece of his hot dog bun to the victorious pigeon. "That’s not going to fund a record label."

He summoned the system interface with a lazy thought.

HOST STATUS

Name: Alex Turner

Age: 22

Current Funds: $4.50

ATTRIBUTES

Vocal Range: Level 2 (Studio Professional)

Music Composition: Level 2 (Industry Hitmaker)

Acting: Level 1 (Cardboard Cutout)

Boxing / Martial Arts: Level 5 (Professional Challenger)

Business Management: Level 1 (Clueless)

Stamina: Level 3 (Average Youth)

Charisma: Level 2 (Persuasive)

SYSTEM POINTS (SP): 30

Thirty System Points. It was a decent buffer, but he knew the higher-level upgrades would eventually cost exponentially more. To maximize his lazy lifestyle, he needed absolute, undisputed leverage. He needed capital. In 1996, pressing CDs, renting studio time, and filing LLC paperwork required cold, hard cash.

Alex finished his hot dog, wiped his hands on a napkin, and stood up, stretching his arms toward the sky. He could go get a normal job, perhaps waiting tables or parking cars, but the very thought made his newly acquired [Aura of Tranquility] shudder with distaste. Working for an hourly wage was exactly what had killed him in his past life.

There was a much faster, albeit slightly bloodier, way to make money. And conveniently, it required almost zero intellectual effort.

An hour later, Alex was strolling back down the familiar, grime-caked sidewalk of East L.A., approaching the flickering neon sign of THE RUSTY GLOVE.

The gym was relatively quiet at this time of day. The heavy hitters and gamblers usually came out at night. Right now, it was mostly aspiring amateurs skipping rope and hitting the heavy bags in the humid, sweat-drenched air.

Alex walked through the heavy metal doors, his hands in his pockets, looking like he was completely lost on his way to a library.

Sitting at the folding table near the entrance was Sal, the bald, cigar-chewing manager from the other night. The moment Sal saw Alex’s pristine white t-shirt and annoyingly handsome face, he nearly choked on his own smoke.

"You," Sal rasped, pointing a thick finger at Alex. "What do you want? Maddox is still icing his jaw, and I don’t have any more amateur tournaments this week."

"Relax, Sal. I’m not here to beat up your beginners," Alex said, leaning against the table with a sleepy smile. "I need some seed money for a business venture. I’m looking for higher stakes. Sanctioned, unsanctioned, underground—I don’t care. Who pays the most for a three-round fight in this city?"

Sal stared at the kid. The audacity was staggering. Most guys who walked into this gym were desperate, angry, or trying to prove something. This kid looked like he was ordering a pizza.

"Higher stakes?" Sal scoffed, though there was a tremor of genuine nervousness in his voice. He had seen Alex slip Maddox’s punches like a ghost. "Kid, you don’t want to swim in that water. The underground circuit here isn’t a bunch of local tough guys. It’s run by the syndicates. The fighters are ex-convicts, washed-up pros, and monsters who hit hard enough to break a cinderblock. The buy-ins are huge, and the payouts are under the table."

"Sounds lucrative," Alex nodded approvingly. "How much is the payout for the main event?"

"Ten grand," a gruff, gravelly voice interrupted from the shadows.

Alex turned his head. Stepping out from the dimly lit hallway leading to the locker rooms was an older man. He looked to be in his late sixties, with a face like a worn-out catcher’s mitt and a nose that had been broken at least four times. He wore a baggy grey tracksuit, a towel draped over his shoulder, and a scowl that looked permanently etched into his features.

This was Mickey "Pops" Gold, the gym’s resident trainer and a relic from the golden age of boxing. In his prime, he had trained two world champions, but a bad deal with a corrupt promoter had left him bankrupt and exiled to this dingy East L.A. basement.

Pops walked up to Alex, looking him up and down with absolute disdain.

"Ten thousand dollars," Pops repeated, his voice like grinding stones. "That’s the purse for the ’Iron Fist’ underground invitational this Friday down at the docks. But they don’t let pretty boys in white t-shirts walk in off the street. You need a sponsor. A manager."

"And let me guess," Alex smiled, not intimidated in the slightest. "For a generous percentage, you’re offering your services?"

"I’m offering to keep you from dying," Pops growled, stepping into Alex’s personal space. He smelled of menthol rub and old coffee. "I saw what you did to Maddox the other night. The crowd thought it was a fluke. Sal here thought Maddox just gassed out. But I saw your footwork. I saw the micro-adjustments in your hips. You didn’t dodge by guessing. You read his center of gravity before he even threw the punch."

Alex raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed. The old man had a sharp eye. Most people couldn’t comprehend the mechanics of [Boxing: Level 5].

"You’ve got natural talent, kid. Staggering talent," Pops continued, poking a stiff, calloused finger into Alex’s chest. "But you’re arrogant. You didn’t throw a single punch. You were playing with him. If you step into the syndicate ring with that lazy attitude, they won’t just knock you out. They’ll shatter your ribs and ruin that pretty face permanently."

"I appreciate the concern, Pops," Alex said smoothly, gently brushing the man’s finger away. "But I didn’t throw a punch because hitting people requires stamina, and I really hate sweating if I don’t have to."

Sal coughed, trying to hide a laugh. Pops, however, turned a shade of deep crimson.

"You hate sweating?" Pops hissed, looking at Alex like he was a blasphemer in a holy temple. "Boxing is the sweet science! It’s blood, tears, and agony! It’s waking up at four in the morning to run five miles in the freezing cold! It’s discipline!"

"That sounds terrible," Alex replied honestly, shuddering slightly at the thought of waking up at 4:00 AM. "No offense, Pops, but if I have to run five miles, I’m just going to buy a car. Now, about that ten grand. Will you sponsor me or not?"

Pops stared at the kid’s calm, unbinking dark eyes. The sheer, overwhelming serenity radiating from Alex’s [Aura of Tranquility] was incredibly disarming. Pops wanted to scream at him, to throw him out of the gym, but there was a strange gravity to the boy. He wasn’t joking. He was entirely, fundamentally confident.

Pops let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing his weathered face.

"Ten percent," Pops grunted. "I take ten percent of the purse as your manager. And you do exactly what I say in the corner. If you start showboating and getting yourself killed, I’m throwing in the towel."

"Deal," Alex said easily, extending a hand. "I’m Alex."

Pops didn’t shake it. He just glared. "Be here tomorrow at noon. We’re going to do pad work so I can see if you actually have any punching power, or if you’re just a glorified ballerina. And don’t eat a heavy lunch."

"Noon?" Alex beamed. "Perfect. I get to sleep in."

Before Pops could suffer a stress-induced aneurysm, a sharp, electronic chirping sound echoed from Alex’s pocket.

Alex casually pulled out his cheap, black plastic pager. He looked at the tiny LCD screen.

There was a phone number he didn’t recognize, followed by a specific numeric code: 911 - 777.

Alex’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied grin. The bait had been swallowed whole. ’911’ meant it was an emergency, and ’777’ was the studio room number at the Record Plant—a legendary recording studio in Hollywood that Sony Music frequently rented out for their top-tier artists.

Mariah had listened to the tape. And clearly, she was in the middle of a war zone.

"Well, gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure doing business," Alex said, turning toward the door and giving Sal and Pops a lazy two-finger salute. "I have to go attend a music emergency. See you tomorrow at noon."

"Wait!" Pops barked. "What weight class are you even fighting in? Have you weighed in?!"

"Put me down for whatever class pays the fastest!" Alex called over his shoulder, already pushing the heavy metal doors open.

As the door clicked shut, Pops turned to Sal, his face a mixture of deep intrigue and total exasperation.

"Sal," Pops muttered, pulling the towel off his shoulder. "That kid is either the greatest natural prodigy I’ve ever seen, or he’s completely out of his mind."

Sal struck a match, relighting his damp cigar. "I’m betting on the second one, Pops. Make sure you get your ten percent upfront."

Out on the street, Alex walked toward the nearest payphone, feeling the warm California sun on his face. He dropped a quarter into the slot and dialed the number on the pager.

The line rang twice before it was picked up in a frantic hurry.

"Who is this?" a hushed, panicked female voice whispered. It wasn’t Mariah. It sounded like an assistant.

"This is the Ghost," Alex replied smoothly, leaning against the graffitied phone booth. "I believe Mary paged me."

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by the sound of the phone being hastily fumbled and passed over.

"Alex?" Mariah’s voice came through the receiver. It was low, tense, and thick with unshed frustration. In the background, Alex could hear the muffled, muffled sound of a man yelling angrily through heavy studio glass.

"Hey, Mary," Alex said, his voice dropping into that soothing, hypnotic cadence. "Sounds like the corporate machine is grinding its gears. How did you like the cassette?"

"It’s... it’s perfect," Mariah whispered fiercely, stepping further away from the noise. "I played it for my vocal producer. He cried, Alex. He literally cried. But Tommy found out I brought outside material into the session. He’s furious. He’s threatening to scrap the entire recording session and freeze the album budget if I don’t record the corporate version right now."

Alex checked his watch. It was 3:00 PM. He was planning on going home and taking a nap, but setting the foundation of his future record label required a little bit of legwork.

"Where’s Tommy right now?" Alex asked.

"He just left the studio," Mariah said, her voice shaking slightly. "He’s going back to the Sony executive building for a board meeting. He told the producers to lock me in the vocal booth until I sing the track exactly as written. They won’t even let me change the key."

"Okay. Take a deep breath," Alex instructed softly. The [Charisma: Level 2] flowed through the phone line, immediately cutting through her panic. Mariah felt her heart rate physically slow down, anchoring herself to his steady voice. "I’m coming over. Record Plant, right? Room 777?"

"You can’t," she gasped. "Security won’t let you in. Sony has the entire floor on lockdown. If you show up looking like... well, looking like you, they’ll throw you out onto the street."

Alex laughed, a rich, warm sound that made the hair on Mariah’s arms stand up.

"Mary, relax. Let me worry about the security," Alex said casually. "Just tell the producers you need a thirty-minute vocal rest. Drink some room-temperature water with lemon. I’ll handle the rest."

He hung up the phone before she could protest.

Alex stepped out of the phone booth, looking down at his faded white t-shirt and ratty Converse sneakers. She wasn’t wrong. The Record Plant in Hollywood was a fortress for billionaires and platinum artists. A guy dressed like a homeless college student wasn’t going to get past the front desk, no matter how good his Aura of Tranquility was.

He needed a suit. And he needed it in twenty minutes.

With exactly four dollars and twenty-five cents in his pocket, buying a bespoke Armani was out of the question. But Alex Turner didn’t need money when he had the cheat codes to the universe.

He opened the system interface in his mind.

[Upgrade ’Acting’ from Level 1 to Level 5 (Oscar-Winning Mastery)? Cost: 20 SP.]

Alex smiled. This was going to be fun.

Confirm.

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