Chapter 92: The Parade of Excess
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
The air in Beverly Hills smelled different from the rest of Los Angeles. It smelled of old money, five-hundred-dollar perfume, and the total absence of real problems.
The black rental SUV pulled up in front of the marble and gold facade of the Gucci flagship store on Rodeo Drive.
Michael stepped out of the vehicle. He was wearing his usual uniform: black cargo pants, worn-out sneakers, and an unbranded gray hoodie. Beside him, Karl was adjusting a leather jacket that was trying to look more expensive than it was.
"Are you sure about this, Mike?" asked Karl, looking at the window display where a single handbag cost more than his first car. "The budget is high, but this is... aggressive."
"It's an investment," said Michael, putting on his sunglasses. "We're not buying clothes. We're buying costumes."
They entered the store.
The temperature change was immediate. The air conditioning was so cold it seemed designed to preserve corpses or expensive furs. The store was almost empty, save for a couple of Asian tourists and an older man trying on shoes.
Three employees, dressed in impeccable black, looked up. Their eyes scanned Michael and Karl in less than a second.
Young. Street clothes. No visible jewelry.
The verdict was instant on their faces: Waste of time.
One of the salespeople, a tall man with a sharp nose and an attitude of professional disdain, approached them. Not to offer help, but to watch.
"Can I help you find something... specific?" asked the salesman, his tone implying that they had probably walked into the wrong store. "The small accessories section is in the back."
Michael took off his sunglasses and looked him directly in the eye.
"I don't need accessories," said Michael. "I need logos."
He walked past the salesman, heading to the ready-to-wear racks.
"I want that," said Michael, pointing to a faux fur coat with the Gucci monogram on the back. "And those pants. And that track jacket."
The salesman blinked. "Sir, those pieces are from the new collection, the prices are..."
"I know the prices," Michael cut him off. He started pulling things off the racks. He didn't look at sizes. He didn't look at style. He was looking for one thing only: the double G.
"Karl, grab that," he ordered, tossing a neon-colored technical sweatshirt to his manager.
Michael swept through the store like a silent tornado.
"I want five belts. The ones with the big buckle. I want those glasses. Yes, the yellow ones. And the pink ones."
The salesman followed them, increasingly nervous. "Sir, please, if you wish to try something on..."
"I'm not trying anything on," said Michael. "It's for a shoot. I need to dress ten people. Give me ten of those t-shirts."
The salesman stopped. "Ten?"
"Ten. Assorted sizes. And bring out the shoes. Those loafers with the fur. Give me three pairs."
In fifteen minutes, the marble counter was covered by a mountain of clothes, shoeboxes, and accessories. It looked like the loot from an elegant looting.
The salesman looked at the pile, and then at Michael. His disdain had transformed into a mix of fear and greed. If this kid could pay for that, his commission for the month was set. If not... he was going to have to fold a lot of clothes.
"Will that be all?" asked the salesman, his voice a pitch higher.
"Yes," said Michael.
"The total comes to... forty-eight thousand, five hundred dollars, plus tax."
Karl swallowed audibly. Fifty thousand dollars in clothes that would probably end up stained with syrup and ash.
Michael didn't blink. He reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out a matte black card. The "Gray Matter, LLC" corporate card.
He extended it to the salesman.
The man took the card with two hands, as if it were a relic. He inserted it into the terminal.
There was a moment of tense silence in the store. Karl looked at the ceiling. Michael looked at the salesman.
Beep-beep. APPROVED.
The receipt printer began to spit paper with a rhythmic and happy sound.
The salesman's attitude changed so fast it was comical. His back curved into a servile bow.
"Excellent, sir! Would you like us to offer you a glass of champagne while we wrap your items? Perrier water?"
"No," said Michael, putting the card away. "Just put everything in bags. Big bags. I want the brand to be seen."
They left the store ten minutes later, loaded with green and gold Gucci bags. Tourists on the street turned to look at them, wondering who that kid in the gray hoodie was who had just bought half the store.
Michael threw the bags into the trunk of the SUV with the indifference of someone throwing out the trash.
"That was obscene," said Karl, laughing nervously.
"It's the costume, Karl," said Michael, closing the trunk. "For Friday, I have to be the richest idiot in the world. And I just bought the character's skin."
Thursday, February 25, 2016
The location was a high school in Van Nuys, closed for renovations or vacation, a campus of red brick and gray asphalt that looked like any school in America. It was the perfect blank canvas.
Michael arrived early. Cole Bennett's art team was already there, transforming the hallways, covering the boring lockers with bright colored vinyls and stickers.
But Michael wasn't interested in the decoration. He was interested in the toys.
At 10:00 AM, a vehicle transport truck pulled into the parking lot. The ramp lowered with a hydraulic hum.
And the machine descended.
A neon lime green Lamborghini Aventador.
It shone under the California sun like radioactive candy. It was low, wide, and aggressive. It looked like a spaceship that had landed by mistake at a public high school.
The truck driver handed the keys to Michael. "Treat it with care, kid. Insurance covers accidents, not stupidity."
Michael grabbed the keys. He approached the car. Opened the scissor door, which rose toward the sky smoothly.
He dropped into the driver's seat. The smell of new Italian leather enveloped him. He gripped the steering wheel.
He pressed the start button.
VROOOOOM.
The V12 engine roared behind his head, a guttural sound that vibrated his teeth.
Michael revved it in neutral once. The digital tachometer flashed.
In his other life, he drove a practical sedan. In this one, he drove a Corolla. But sitting here, in this half-million-dollar machine, he felt the shift. This car represented the speed of his ascent. Zero to sixty in 2.9 seconds.
"It's ridiculous," said Karl, leaning through the window. "And it's perfect. It's going to look incredible on camera."
"It's a spaceship," corrected Michael, turning off the engine. "But this is just the machine. Where is the beast?"
As if summoned, a second truck, this one larger and enclosed, entered the parking lot. It bore the logo of a "Animals for Film & TV" company.
The truck stopped far from the film crew. A man in work boots and a khaki vest got out.
Michael got out of the Lamborghini and approached. Karl stayed a few steps back, visibly nervous.
The trainer opened the side door of the trailer.
There was a low growl, a sound that vibrated in Michael's chest louder than the car engine.
Inside a reinforced cage, pacing back and forth, was an adult Bengal tiger.
It was immense. Its muscles moved under the striped skin like liquid steel. Its yellow eyes fixed on Michael with predatory indifference.
"Holy shit," whispered Karl, hiding a bit behind Michael. "Is that... safe?"
"His name is Rajah," said the trainer, stroking the bars. "He's a professional. He's been in more movies than you. But he's still a 400-pound tiger. Don't make sudden movements. Don't turn your back on him if you can avoid it. And for the love of God, don't try to pet him."
"Is he sedated?" asked Karl, his voice trembling.
"Enough so he doesn't eat you, but not so much that he falls asleep," said the trainer. "We want him to look dangerous, right?"
Michael approached the cage, ignoring the primal instinct in his brain screaming at him to run. He looked the tiger in the eye.
The beast looked back and yawned, showing fangs the size of kitchen knives.
Michael smiled.
He imagined the shot. Him, dressed in Gucci from head to toe, walking down a high school hallway with this predator on a gold leash.
It was the absolute definition of excess. It was absurd. It was dangerous.
"It's perfect," said Michael. "Bring him out."
Thursday, February 25, 2016 (Noon)
While Rajah the tiger rested in his cage in the parking lot, the real transformation work was happening inside the red brick building.
Michael, Cole, and Karl entered through the school's double doors.
The main hallway was the epitome of suburban boredom: worn beige lockers, scuffed linoleum floor, and flickering fluorescent lights that gave everything a hospital tone.
"It's depressing," said Michael, his voice echoing in the empty hall. "Perfect."
Cole snapped his fingers. His art team, a group of four guys with tool belts, sprang into action.
"Okay, I want this to look like a cartoon," ordered Cole. "No reality. I want 100% saturation."
They started working.
They had giant rolls of adhesive colored vinyl. In a matter of an hour, the sad beige lockers disappeared. They were covered with sheets of neon pink, lime green, and electric yellow vinyl. They stuck giant tiger decals and fake Gucci logos over the metal. They changed the fluorescent ceiling tubes for colored gel tubes. The hallway stopped looking like a public school and started looking like the inside of a radioactive gumball machine.
"Now, the classroom," said Michael.
They moved to Room 104.
It was a standard classroom. Chalkboards, orderly desks, a globe on the teacher's desk.
"Destroy it," said Michael.
The art team started filling the space with the props they had been preparing.
On the teacher's desk, where there should be apples and textbooks, T-Roc began stacking bags of marijuana. Not small baggies. Gallon freezer bags, filled with a mix of oregano, industrial hemp, and, for the close-up shots Michael would handle, the real high-quality weed T-Roc had procured.
They built a weed pyramid. It looked like a DEA raid, but with fun lighting.
Then, the drinks arrived. Karl brought a box of white Styrofoam cups.
"The Holy Grail of trap," joked Karl.
They started preparing the prop "Lean".
They mixed corn syrup with purple food coloring and lemon-lime soda. They filled dozens of cups, stacking them two by two (the famous "double cup") and distributed them across all the desks.
The classroom transformed. It was no longer a place of learning. It was a temple to teenage hedonism.
Michael walked through the set, inspecting the details. He picked up one of the double cups. The purple liquid shone under the studio lights Cole was setting up.
It was absurd. It was a caricature of the gangster life, filtered through the eyes of a rich internet kid.
"It's offensive," said Michael, with an approving smile. "Parents are going to have a heart attack when they see this."
"And kids are going to love it," added Cole, adjusting the focus of his camera. "It's the forbidden dream. Taking the school and turning it into a party."
The set was ready. The colors screamed. The weed (fake and real) was stacked. The syrup was served. It all looked like a million-dollar meme waiting to happen.
"Okay," said Michael, looking at his watch. "The stage is ready. Now the actor is missing."
He turned to Karl.
"Bring the Rodeo Drive bags. It's time to get dressed."
Thursday, February 25, 2016 (Night)
Michael returned to his canyon house after supervising the school transformation. The house was silent, a sharp contrast to the neon chaos he had left behind on set.
He took the Gucci bags up to his room. He emptied them onto the bed.
It was a mountain of expensive fabric and bad taste. Leopard prints, giant logos, colors that shouldn't exist in nature.
He took off his usual clothes —the gray hoodie, the black pants— and stood in his underwear in front of the full-length mirror.
It was time to put on the costume.
He put on the Gucci sweatpants with the full monogram. They were comfortable, but ridiculous. He put on the belt with the double G buckle the size of a plate. He put on the loafers with fur.
Then, the top.
He picked up the faux fur jacket with the embroidered tiger on the back. He put it on. He didn't put a shirt on underneath.
He looked in the mirror. He looked absurd. He looked like a designer store had vomited on him.
But something was missing.
He went to the bathroom. He had bought a temporary dye spray at a pharmacy on the way home. Neon pink and lime green.
Without hesitation, he sprayed strands of his dark curly hair. A little green here. A little pink there.
He looked again.
He put on the yellow sunglasses he had bought on Rodeo Drive. He hung the gold chains (high-end prop rentals Karl had secured) around his neck.
The Michael Gray he knew —the software engineer, the Ethereum investor, the sad kid from 'Ghost Boy'— had disappeared.
What looked back at him from the mirror wasn't a person. It was a character. It was a living meme. It was the physical embodiment of ignorance and excess.
Michael smiled, showing his teeth. He struck a stupid pose, pointing at his own reflection with imaginary finger guns.
'Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang...' he whispered.
He felt ridiculous. And he felt invincible.
He knew the critics would destroy him. They would say it was the death of culture. They would say he was a clown.
"Exactly," thought Michael. "I am a clown. But I am a clown who is going to own the circus."
This wasn't a music video. It was a false flag operation. He was going to infiltrate the brain of every teenager in America using bright colors and repetition.
He took off the glasses and threw them on the bed.
He was ready.
The set was built. The tiger was in its cage. The car was waxed. And the character was complete.
Tomorrow, Michael Demiurge would die for a day. And in his place, a viral legend would be born.
He went to sleep, leaving the thousand dollars worth of clothes lying on the floor, just as the character he was about to play would do.
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