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Leon had no mind to pay attention to the old geezer; he found a bad signal while scrolling through social media.
P. Diddy had been sarcastic and cynical lately, mostly posting excerpts from the Holy Bible like a devout believer.
His most recent tweet was a picture of Jesus being crucified on the cross with his head tilted.
There was a text on the picture: "From 33 AD to 1996... so when is the next time?"
It took Leon two seconds to understand the meaning behind this picture.
Jesus died in 33 AD, and Tupac was shot dead in 1996.
It went without saying who the next one would be.
Opening the comment section, a few comments left a deep impression on him: [Look... another blind guy is going to suffer.]
[To make the new generation kids learn what 'respect' is, sometimes sacred violence must be used.]
Phil leaned over and looked. "Looks like your situation isn't good."
"It's nothing." Leon leaned back on the pillow and said leisurely, "This ngga wants to pull strings behind the scenes, but he won't rush to do it now."
"Why? I don't think there's anything Diddy dares not do. He won't let you go just because you know some Mexicans who aren't to be trifled with."
Leon pointed to his temple. "Use your brain. I'm still Jay-Z's man now; I'm still making big money for him!"
"Alright... I'm just reminding you not to take it lightly." Phil leaned against the balcony railing and lit a cigarette. "Diddy claims to be a devout believer; can you believe this? Usually, when he makes a fuss about faith, he's mostly serious."
"Pfft."
Leon couldn't help but laugh out loud.
Diddy a devout believer?
This was as ridiculous as Satan holding an orgy in heaven.
Phil reminded him with a serious face, "I'm not joking, kid. In 1999, my friend Steve Stoute offended him because of faith issues. Have you heard this name?"
"Never heard of him."
"Steve was Nas's producer. He deserves half the credit for Nas's glory in the nineties. He produced the album It Was Written."
Only then did Leon show a trace of interest. It Was Written was widely regarded as Nas's best album, establishing his status as "God's Son" in the rap circle.
"Steve was beaten half to death by Diddy and his bodyguards. Two ribs were broken, and severe internal bleeding almost cost him his life." There was obvious anger in Phil's eyes, as if fighting against the injustice suffered by his friend.
He took a deep drag on his cigarette and continued, "And the cause of this incident was just a joke. In the MV, Steve crucified the actor playing Diddy on a cross. He thought it was very funny."
"If Nas hadn't stepped in, Steve might have been taken out directly."
"Since that incident, the conflict between Nas, Jay-Z, and Diddy completely exploded."
Ariana blinked her big eyes, like a child listening attentively in class.
These bloody gang stories were very attractive to a 17-year-old girl.
"OMG, Mr. Phil, are these things you said true? I liked listening to Diddy's songs when I was little."
"Of course it's true!" Phil laughed maliciously twice. "Little girls like you are his favorite... You have to be careful not to be caught by that ngga! The entertainment circle is not as beautiful as you imagine, full of flowers and flashing lights everywhere."
Ariana showed a shocked expression and jumped onto the bed like a frightened kitten, hugging Leon's arm.
"No matter what the situation, Mr. Leon will protect me!"
"Right, Mr. Leon?"
Leon looked rather helpless. He hadn't even settled the trouble in front of him yet, and he was thinking about protecting others.
Ariana's twinkling big eyes offered no resistance. He still rubbed her head dotingly. "No one can bully Little A."
"Don't call me that weird name!"
The dull atmosphere became lively under Ariana's provocation.
After a simple rest, Leon went to the show venue, Palm Beach, Miami.
This is known as the backyard of American billionaires, with an average mansion price exceeding $30 million.
For those aging capitalists, being in Manhattan is for harvesting leeks, and being in Palm Beach is for living.
The residences of the Kennedys, Rockefellers, Carnegies, the British royal family, and many celebrities are located on this island.
Compared to Washington symbolizing the highest power, the influence of retired capitalists living here on the entire United States is not inferior.
Tomorrow, many new investment upstarts and old magnates would come to watch this show.
Then they would choose girls like choosing commodities according to their personal fetishes, letting them taste the flavor of a Sugar Daddy.
The show time was tomorrow noon, but the organizer Sports Illustrated magazine arranged the rehearsal for today.
Facing hundreds of wealthy celebrities and media personnel, this performance could not afford any mistakes.
The person liaising with Leon was Claire, the editor-in-chief of Sports Illustrated.
Although this event was jointly funded by dozens of swimwear manufacturers, the organizing work was entirely managed by Sports Illustrated.
This magazine publisher possesses unshakable authority in the global swimwear industry. Their Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue released in mid-February every year is called the arbiter of supermodels.
"Hurry up! Girls, move quickly! Even though it's a rehearsal, you have to be fully alert!"
"Whoever moves slowly again, I'll spank her ass!"
Claire, dressed in a casual suit, roared with a stack of scripts in her hand.
Under high pressure, the scantily clad girls completely lost their elegant model posture and hurriedly lined up backstage.
Leon's first impression of Claire was poor. In fact, he had never had a good impression of this kind of workplace iron lady image who dressed like a man and was mean.
Capable women don't need to rely on dressing like men to establish an authoritative posture.
Claire noticed Leon and walked straight over to scold him. "Do you have no concept of time? Do you know how important tomorrow's performance is!"
The other party's domineering attitude was unexpected to Leon.
Since his debut, he had run dozens, if not hundreds, of commercial performances, big and small. It was the first time he saw an inviter speak to a guest like this.
He glanced at his watch; he arrived neither early nor late, just right.
"Go backstage and try on the performance costumes! Sound engineer, where is the damn sound engineer?!"
"Damn it, I'll be angered to death by you useless men sooner or later!"
Leon didn't intend to pay attention to this woman, but Bonnie's endurance had reached its limit.
If it were in Brownsville, she would have rushed up and torn this woman's clothes off long ago.
She stood in front of Claire, her full headlights pressed close to the other party, looking down from a high position with the help of high heels. "Please watch your tone and wording!"
Claire was suppressed by Bonnie's aggressive attitude, stunned for more than ten seconds before reacting: "Who is this chick?!"
"Let's go, ignore this bitch." Leon couldn't be bothered with Claire and pulled Bonnie into the dressing room.
"WTF? Who are you calling a bitch!"
Claire cursed angrily, but no one paid attention to her.
In the backstage dressing room, Phil cursed indignantly: "Look at that bitch's arrogant face. It's just a magazine agency about to close down. This industry is rotten to the core and can't make any money."
"Even if it's rotten, standing behind it is Time Warner," Leon responded.
"No matter how rich Time Warner is, they won't keep a bunch of money-losing idiots." Phil raised his eyebrows. "Don't you know from reading newspapers often? Time Warner is looking for buyers for its many magazines, including Sports Illustrated."
Under the impact of the 2008 financial crisis, after a long dozen months, the magazine industry had not walked out of the valley; instead, it was deeply mired.
The number of magazines suspended in 2009 was staggering; many magazines with decades of history could not withstand the cold winter.
There was too much foam in this industry. Under economic pressure, publishers began to tighten their belts and reflect on their advertising strategies.
Some simply gave up and chose to suspend publication.
Phil bent down, wiping his leather shoes while saying casually, "Those magazines worth hundreds of millions of dollars have now shrunk in value by more than five times... Even so, it's still hard to find buyers."
"Old magazines like Glamour and Vibe are still suspended seeking buyers."
"Before long, that bitch Claire will be unemployed, crying at home, and being a housewife with peace of mind."
Phil's daily trash talk suddenly reminded Leon of something.
Vibe, a music magazine founded in 1993, mainly reporting on Black music such as R&B and Hip-Hop, was once considered the wind vane of the hip-hop industry.
After laying off half of its employees and intermittently suspending publication, this magazine announced its suspension in 2009.
"Vibe... Mike mentioned this magazine agency to me. He worked there as a full-time photographer for a while."
When Leon said this sentence, his eyes were vacant, as if thinking about something.
Phil quickly saw through his thoughts. "I know what you want to do, man. Abandon that stupid idea quickly. Traditional print media, especially entertainment magazines, have reached a dead end."
Leon didn't care about these pros and cons at all; he just wanted to know how much this magazine agency was worth now.
Since venturing into the media industry, the revenue of the radio sector had been poor, barely breaking even.
His requirements for media investment were not high, as long as it didn't lose too much money.
According to the previous layout, the biggest role of these media was to serve as a channel for promotion and voicing for himself and the singers under the Apocalypse label.
Thinking of this, Leon asked straight to the point: "How much do you think Vibe is worth now?"
"I don't know about this; maybe you have to ask relevant practitioners." Phil shook his head repeatedly in disappointment. "Fxxk, investing in radio stations was stupid enough. Why do you always pick up those sunset industries that no one wants to invest in?"
"Many profits are hidden in places not reflected in financial statements." Leon stood up from the makeup chair and examined his styling in the mirror.
For him, as long as the promotion achieved satisfactory results, it was fine.
Some businesses might look unprofitable, but those invisible and intangible traffic flows had long been secretly integrated into the profits of record sales.
Phil shook his head repeatedly to express helplessness. Whatever Leon decided on, he couldn't change it.
"You will soon dispel this idea. The owner of Vibe, Quincy Jones, is an extremely sinister guy. He is a 'Black Jew' with a Black appearance."
As the first-generation godfather of Black music, the nearly 80-year-old Quincy Jones had a lofty status in the music world.
He was once a mentor and helpful friend to MJ on his musical path.
In 1985, Quincy Jones initiated the activity hailed as very meaningful in the history of pop music—"USA for Africa."
In the same year, MJ gathered 45 popular singers to respond to this event and launched the century-famous song We Are the World.
Mentioning Jones, Phil couldn't help reprimanding: "This guy pretended to be a good person all his life, but everyone in the circle knows his true face."
"Look what he did to MJ; he was a traitor more than once!"
"Don't look at that guy being almost 80; his frequency of attending Diddy's parties is ridiculously high, and he is only interested in girls young enough to be his great-granddaughters!"
Leon didn't care at all about whether Jones's character was good or bad. The only thing he cared about was how to get Vibe from this old fox Jones at the most suitable price.
Currently, to get a solution to this problem, he probably had to pin his hopes on Old Mike pulling strings.
The rehearsal for Leon and Ariana only went through once. Although the performance effect was excellent, the mean Claire was never satisfied.
When she proposed doing it again, Leon ignored her completely and turned away with Ariana.
At noon the next day, on the beach of Palm Beach, Miami, the exquisite stage had been fully set up.
Those prominent wealthy businessmen from all over the US sat steadily in the first row, appreciating the charming bodies of the girls with the best view.
After the show opened, with models with voluptuous figures appearing one by one, the atmosphere at the scene heated up rapidly.
The biggest difference from Victoria's Secret here was not that models wore less, but body shape.
Miami Swim Week has always focused on carnal desire. Those girls whose size was not C and whose tail lights did not exceed 95 cm were not qualified to be on stage.
Many wealthy men over seventy disregarded decency, pointing at the girls' figures while emitting wretched smiles.
Phil was also one of them. He was sitting with Leonard, the Vice President of Warner Music North America, talking eloquently. All this was seen by Leon backstage.
His peripheral vision swept across and surprisingly found another familiar figure in the audience.
Jennifer Lopez.
She was sitting with a man with Latin looks, talking and laughing. That man had a bald head brighter than a light bulb, exceptionally conspicuous.
Leon quickly recognized that it was the currently hot Cuban-American rapper Pitbull, who also had a gang background.
In the 1980s, Miami's underground world was almost completely ruled by Cuban gangs, and Pitbull's parents were members.
Halfway through the show, Leon walked onto the runway holding Ariana's hand.
The audience below instantly offered applause and cheers, except for those old wealthy men.
In their eyes, no matter how wonderful the performance was, it would only obstruct their view of choosing pets.
The prelude of Señorita sounded. Ariana, wearing a red short dress, quickly entered the state.
One second she looked youthful and ignorant, the next she became alluring, even more charming than Kardashian.
"I love it when you call me señorita, I wish I could pretend I didn't need ya."
"But every touch is ooh la la la, It's true la la la..."
Ariana's fingertips slid across Leon's chest, as if she were the dominant one now.
In the extremely Caribbean-style melody, the models on the runway were obviously more unrestrained.
They didn't hesitate to swing the "weapons" on their bodies significantly. Leon even felt that if he made a mistake in positioning, the "big guns" would smash into his face.