The Opening Number
The lights dimmed. A single spotlight hit center stage.
Boom. Boom. Clap.
The beat kicked in—hard, fast, and anthemic.
Will Smith grabbed the mic, his eyes burning with intensity. This wasn't the Fresh Prince; this was a rock star.
"I am not the same as all the others you've met before!"
He belted out the first line of "Sold Out" by Hawk Nelson.
"I'm gonna stand up, I'm gonna run, I'm gonna give it all I've got!"
The crowd went wild. Fifteen hundred people were on their feet, clapping to the rhythm. The energy was infectious. It felt less like a TV taping and more like a stadium concert.
Backstage, Zane Blackwood watched from the wings, trying to look cool.
"Boss," his bodyguard leo whispered, staring at Zane with wide eyes. "You wrote that? Seriously?"
Zane smirked, adjusting his cuffs. "Hehe. Your boss has many hidden talents. Just wait and see."
'Please don't ask me to write another one,' Zane prayed internally, wiping a bead of cold sweat from his neck. 'I barely remembered the lyrics to this one. My musical memory is basically just SpongeBob songs and one-hit wonders.'
On stage, Will was tearing it up.
"I'm on a mission! And I will not quit now!"
"In a world full of followers, I'll be a leader!"
The song was perfect. It was about giving 100%, about ignoring the haters. It was the anthem of every dreamer in the building.
Back in the holding room, Eminem nodded along to the beat, his foot tapping a rapid-fire rhythm.
"Not bad," he muttered, pulling his hood up.
Michael Peña, the future Ant-Man star, laughed nervously. "Glad I'm not a singer. That guy set the bar too high."
The Verdict
"I'm sold out!"
Will hit the final note, striking a pose as the music crashed to a halt. The audience roared.
BZZZT!
A giant red X lit up above the judges' table.
Piers Morgan glared at Will. "Why did you have to be so good?!" he shouted over the cheers. "Do you know how selfish that was? Now every singer who comes out here is going to look terrible compared to you!"
BZZZT!BZZZT!
Sharon and David hit their buzzers too, laughing.
Will clutched his chest, pretending to be heartbroken. "Alright, alright! My bad!"
He grinned at the crowd. "Okay, folks. Fun time is over. Let's get serious. Please welcome our very first contestant... all the way from Missouri... Eminem!"
The First Contestant
Zane watched from the shadows. Putting Eminem first wasn't an accident. It was a tactical nuke.
'Start with a bang,' Zane thought. 'Don't give them a chance to change the channel.'
He looked at the lineup. Eminem. Beyoncé.
'I need to buy a record label fast,' Zane realized, tapping his chin. 'If these guys blow up on my show and sign with Sony, I'm going to look like the world's biggest idiot.'
On stage, a young man in a baggy white hoodie walked out. He looked small. Angry.
He grabbed the mic. No smiles. No waves.
The beat dropped—a quirky, bouncy rhythm that sounded like a twisted cartoon theme.
"Hi! My name is... what? My name is... who?"
"My name is... Slim Shady!"
Eminem launched into "My Name Is."
It wasn't like other rap songs. It wasn't about money or cars. It was weird. It was funny. It was aggressive.
His blue eyes scanned the audience, intense and unblinking. It felt like he was staring into everyone's soul, daring them to look away.
'Is he going to sing or start a fight?' a woman in the front row thought, clutching her purse.
But then, the flow took over. The rhymes were intricate, sharp, and delivered with machine-gun speed. He was mocking himself, mocking the world, mocking the very idea of fame.
Zane nodded along backstage.
'This is it,' Zane thought. 'The song that changes everything. In my old life, this won a Grammy. Tonight, it wins America.'
Eminem finished the song, sweat glistening on his forehead.
"My name is... Slim Shady!"
The audience erupted. They didn't fully understand what they just saw, but they knew it was electric.
David Hasselhoff leaned forward, flashing his famous smile.
"Eminem, right?" The Hoff said. "Well, you certainly made sure we know your name. But tell me, son..."
The Hoff paused for dramatic effect.
"What is your dream?"
Backstage, Zane groaned and covered his face with his hand.
'Oh god,' Zane thought. 'Not the "dream" question. It's so cheesy I can smell the cheddar from here.'
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