Eminem's Triumph.
The three judges looked at Eminem. They didn't even need to discuss it.
"Yes."
"Yes."
"Yes."
Eminem nodded, a small, tight smile breaking his tough facade. He walked off the stage, his head held high. He had done it.
Backstage, the other contestants were buzzing.
"Did you see that?" Michael Peña whispered. "Three yeses. Just like that."
"He killed it," Beyoncé agreed, her eyes shining with respect.
On stage, Will Smith grabbed the mic.
"Alright, folks! Let's keep this energy going! Our next contestant is a master of voices from New York... Paul Zerdin!"
The Puppet Master.
Paul Zerdin walked onto the stage carrying a small suitcase. He looked harmless. Like a librarian.
"Hello," Paul said politely. "I need a volunteer. David?"
The audience roared. David Hasselhoff laughed, throwing his hands up. "Why not?"
David bounded onto the stage. Paul sat him down in a chair and strapped a weird mask over the lower half of David's face. The mask had a mechanical jaw.
"Okay, David," Paul said, holding a remote control. "You are now my dummy. Just relax."
He pressed a button. The mask's jaw snapped open.
"Yes, I am fine, hehehehe!"
The voice that came out wasn't David's deep baritone. It was a squeaky, high-pitched cartoon voice. It sounded like SpongeBob SquarePants on helium.
The audience exploded with laughter. David looked bewildered, his eyes wide.
Paul kept going. He made David say ridiculous things. He made him demand to be a contestant. He made him switch places with Paul.
Suddenly, Paul was sitting in the judge's chair, and David—the biggest star on TV—was standing on stage like a confused puppet.
"Holy crap!" a teenager in the front row shouted, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "You can do that?!"
In 1997, this was revolutionary. Breaking the fourth wall? Humiliating the judges? It was chaotic. It was fresh.
Backstage, the contestants were taking notes.
'Use the judges,' they thought. 'Make them part of the act.'
Then, Paul went for the kill.
"I want to perform a dance!" the squeaky voice announced through David's mask.
The crowd screamed. Sharon Osbourne slammed her hands on the table. "I want to see the Hoff dance right now!"
David sighed, realizing he had no choice. He stood up.
"I call this... the Electric Slide!" squeaked the voice.
David wiggled. He shimmied. He shook his hips.
The theater shook with laughter. It wasn't just funny; it was pure joy.
Zane watched from the wings, shaking his head with a grin.
'I've seen a hundred ventriloquists,' Zane thought. 'But Paul? He's a surgeon. He knows exactly how to cut to the funny bone.'
Three Yeses. Easy.
The Good, The Bad, and The Weird.
The show rolled on. It was a rollercoaster.
A guy did the robot dance perfectly. YES. A woman sang opera. YES.
Then... a middle-aged woman walked out. She stared at the camera.
Blink. Blink. Blinkblinkblink.
She blinked 200 times in a minute. That was it. That was the act.
BZZZT! BZZZT! BZZZT!
Three big red X's.
"Why?" Zane's bodyguard, Zhao, whispered, looking confused. "Why did we let her on stage? She's terrible."
Zane shot him a look. "Because even a rose needs dirt to grow, Zhao. If everyone is amazing, the show gets boring. We need the weirdos. We need the train wrecks."
The audience loved to hate the bad acts. They booed. They laughed. It was part of the fun.
The Final Act.
The last contestant of the day walked out. He was bald. He looked nervous.
"Hi," he said into the mic. "I'm Howie Mandel."
Zane's eyes widened.
'Howie?!'
Zane knew him. In the future, Howie Mandel would be a famous judge on this very show! He would host Deal or No Deal. He would be a legend.
But right now? In 1997? He was just a struggling comic from Canada. He was sweating under the lights, desperate for a break.
'Life is funny,' Zane thought. 'One day you're the contestant, the next day you're the judge.'
Howie launched into his routine. It was fast, frantic, and hilarious. He put a latex glove on his head and blew it up with his nose.
The audience roared. The judges were in stitches.
Another star was born.
It's a Wrap.
The recording ended. The audience filtered out, still laughing and talking about the rapping white boy and the dancing Hoff.
Zane found Raleigh, the director.
"Can you edit this by the 15th?" Zane asked.
"No problem, Boss," Raleigh promised. "We have gold here. Pure gold."
Zane walked out of the theater into the warm Los Angeles night. He felt a hum of excitement in his chest.
The ingredients were perfect. The host was electric. The judges were chemistry. The talent was insane.
'May 15th,' Zane thought, looking at the moon. 'America isn't ready.'
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