The Twelve Million Dollar Signature
Zane sat in his office, his pen hovering over a check. The ink hadn't even touched the paper, but he could already feel the phantom pain in his bank account.
$12,000,000.00
He stared at the zeros. They seemed to be mocking him.
'Seriously? Twelve million? For a host? I could buy a small island for this. I could buy a factory. I could buy... a lot of cheeseburgers.'
He rubbed his temples.
To be honest, inviting Will Smith hadn't been Plan A. Or Plan B.
Zane knew the future. He knew Will Smith would eventually become... complicated. The controversies, the "slap heard 'round the world," the heavy-handed activism. It was a lot of baggage.
But right now? In 1997?
Will Smith was golden. He was the Fresh Prince. He had just saved the world in Independence Day (which made nearly $900 million). He was charming, funny, and undisputedly the coolest man on the planet.
'And he hasn't done Men in Black yet,' Zane reminded himself, trying to soothe the pain in his wallet. 'If I waited six months, his price would double. He'd be in the $20 Million Club. I'm getting a bargain. A very expensive, painful bargain.'
Zane signed the check.
Scritch, scratch.
It was done.
He needed Will. Not just for the fame, but for the balance.
America in the late 90s was a melting pot, but television was still segregated in many ways. Zane looked at his judge lineup: A British journalist, a white TV icon, and a white music manager.
'Three white judges? In 1997?' Zane grimaced internally. 'If I don't get some diversity on that stage, the press will eat me alive. Will isn't just a host; he's the bridge. He's the guy everyone loves—Black, White, Asian, Hispanic. He's the universal glue.'
February 20, 1997.
The TV screen flickered in millions of homes. SpongeBob ended, and the UPN logo flashed.
The music swelled—dramatic, orchestral, exciting.
"Meet the Judges."
First up: Piers Morgan. The Editor. Sharp suit. British accent. A sneer that could curdle milk. Audience Reaction: "Who?"
Next: Sharon Osbourne. The Manager. Red hair. Loud laugh. The woman who kept Ozzy Osbourne alive. Audience Reaction: "Wait, isn't that the rock star's wife?"
And then... the heavy hitter.
David Hasselhoff.
The Icon.
The screen showed clips from Knight Rider and Baywatch. The slow-motion running. The red swim trunks. The hair that defied gravity and logic.
In living rooms across America, middle-aged women gasped.
"Oh my god!" a mom in Ohio shrieked, dropping her laundry basket. "It's Michael Knight! It's Mitch Buchannon!"
The Hoff wasn't just an actor; he was a cultural force. Baywatch had over 1.1 billion viewers worldwide. Even the guys from Friends—Chandler and Joey—worshipped him.
"Run, run, run!" Joey would scream at the TV.
Zane had paid $5 million for the Hoff alone. And listening to the buzz the next morning, he knew it was worth every penny.
But the promo wasn't done. The screen went black. A beat of silence.
Then, a familiar, infectious laugh echoed through the speakers.
"Yo, America! Let's get it!"
Will Smith stepped into the frame, flashing that million-watt smile.
"I'm your host, Will Smith. And this... is America's Got Talent."
Boom.
The reaction was instantaneous.
In a barbershop in Chicago, the clippers stopped buzzing. "No way," a customer said, staring at the small TV in the corner. "The Fresh Prince is hosting a talent show?"
"That's huge," the barber muttered, impressed. "That is huge."
Will Smith was the secret weapon. He was the energy. He was the cool factor that made a "talent show" feel like a blockbuster event.
Three Days Later. The Deadline.
Donna rushed into Zane's office. Her hair was a little messy, and she was holding a stack of papers so thick it looked like a phone book for giants.
"Boss," she panted, dropping the stack on his desk with a heavy thud.
"Please tell me those are lunch menus," Zane joked, though he sat up straighter.
"Registrations," Donna said, her eyes wide. "We closed the channels at midnight."
"And?"
"12,360."
Zane blinked. "Twelve thousand?"
"Twelve thousand, three hundred and sixty applicants," Donna corrected, wiping sweat from her forehead. "From every state. We have singers, dancers, magicians, dog trainers, a guy who plays music with his armpits... it's chaos, Boss. We don't have enough staff. We don't even have enough bathrooms for the audition venues!"
Zane stood up, the adrenaline kicking in.
'Over 12,000 people chasing a dream. And I'm the gatekeeper.'
"Call Victor," Zane ordered, his voice snapping into command mode. "Mobilize the Group. Every spare hand from Golden Dawn helps UPN. Writers, interns, janitors—I don't care. We need everyone."
"We have until the end of April to filter through twelve thousand crazy people," Zane said, a grin spreading across his face. "This is going to be a disaster. Or a miracle."
He walked to the window, looking out at the Los Angeles skyline.
"Let the auditions begin."
But as the first wave of audition tapes began to play in the screening room down the hall, a shout erupted from one of the junior producers.
"Mr. Blackwood! You need to see this! Tape #402! Something is... wrong."
Zane turned around, his eyebrows knitting together.
"Wrong how?"
"I... I think this guy just set the stage on fire. Literally."
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