"I just wanna break you down so badly
Well, I trip over everything you say
Well, I just wanna break you down so badly
In the worst way"
— Taking Back Sunday
Vincent stormed out of the resplendent Redding residence, quickly dodging all of the cell phone cameras recording his game-changing misfortune. Some party-goers even managed to live stream the entire pivotal event.
Lena raced after him as she wrapped herself in a navy blue cashmere throw. "Wait! Where are you going? C'mon, talk to me!"
Vincent turned around and faced her with an extremely stern expression. "You don't get it, do you? Tyson just torpedoed Rufus' untarnished reputation. Come tomorrow morning, every major news outlet will be covering this." He then sighed, absolutely deflated. "And I let it all happen."
"No, no, no," Lena retorted, grabbing Vincent by the shoulders. "This is not your fault. You couldn't have known Tyson would do something like this."
"Oh, I could have; I just didn't. What did I do instead? I went gallivanting around the city when I should have been thoroughly investigating anything and everything available concerning Tyson Joules. This is my fault."
"Look—it really doesn't matter whose fault it is. What matters is what we do from here. If you think I'm gonna let you wallow around in self-pity, you've got another coming. So, tell me, what should we do next?"
Vincent stared into Lena's light brown eyes. "We are not doing anything. I'm not going to be responsible for bringing you down, too. This is my problem. I will be the one who fixes what's broken."
A gray Ford Escape pulled up onto the large brick driveway. The Uber driver flashed his high-beams and waved at The Prince.
"Please," Lena begged. "Don't do this."
"Happy birthday, Lena," Vincent said as he handed her a brown-papered gift box tied up with string. "Go back inside and enjoy the rest of your party." He gave a half-hearted smile and then climbed inside the SUV which immediately zipped off while Lena hung her head in disappointment.
After a moment, Lena ripped open the gift. It was a sterling silver wristlet with a single purple and orange charm—the flag of Verastoria. A small folded note fell to the ground as she crumpled up the brown paper. She knelt down and picked it up, reading what Vincent had written: "One of these days, I'd like to show you my hometown. You're going to love it." She sighed and then turned around, putting on the plastic smile of a hostess as she rejoined the raging party.
After an $80 Uber ride, all thanks to the wonderful concept known as surge-pricing, Vincent made it back to The Spencer Estate. During the drive, he tried thinking up any and all solutions to his predicament, but in every scenario, he fell short of success.
He walked through the back entrance and rounded the corner where he found Savannah sitting on the blue suede sofa, surrounded by stacks of paperwork, while she bickered with someone on her Bluetooth headset.
"I don't think you understand," she said as she flipped through a few pages. "I'm paying you to nip this in the bud. If you don't deliver within the next 48 hours, I'll take my business elsewhere." She glanced over at Vincent and held up her index finger as she finished her call. "Yes, that's correct. Okay. Great. Remember—the clock's ticking."
"So..." Vincent said, putting his hands in his pockets. "I assume you already know."
Savannah exhaled deeply. "Before I give you my thoughts about the situation, I'd like to hear your side of things."
"There's honestly not much to tell. It's a ridiculous accusation. That's really the long and short of it."
Savannah closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. "Do you happen to know what kind of evidence Tyson has to back up his claim?"
"I'm sorry. I don't."
"Well, then. That's just great. I suppose we'll just wait and get blindsided whenever it happens to surface."
"Give me some time to look into it. I'm sure I can find something."
"You don't understand the gravity of the situation, Roo. We don't have the luxury of time. In case you didn't know, you're trending. And not in a good way." Savannah held up her phone, showing Vincent the top trending topics in the United States according to X (But, let's be honest. It's always going to be Twitter. Sorry, Elon.). And there it was, at the top of the list: "JoulesVsSpencer".
"Oh, my God," Vincent muttered as he scrolled through the thousands of posts made within the last few hours. For the most part, social media fiends were divided into two camps—one, supporting Tyson; the other, defending Rufus. As of this moment, no concrete evidence had been unveiled, so everything boiled down to public opinion.
"And did you see this?" Savannah asked as she pulled up Tyson's profile.
At 6:01 p.m., Central Standard Time, he posted: "Popstar Rufus Spencer is a thief. But, don't worry, kids. He's going down." This accusation had been reposted over 125,000 times with even more likes. Tyson only responded to one reply which asked, "What would it take for Rufus Spencer to make things right?" To which he answered, "50% of the net profits and a public apology."
"What should I do?" Vincent asked earnestly. "Should I counter with a post of my own?"
Savannah pursed her lips. "That might do more harm than good. Right now, we're playing defense. We need to detract and deflect. That's the name of the game."
"Just tell me what to do and I'll do it," Vincent said, straightening his posture.
"I'll give you the list as soon as I'm finished with it," Savannah said, reaching for some documents on the far end of the sofa. "But, you should get some rest. We have to meet up with Terry and the band tomorrow for a full tech walkthrough. We'll be using some pretty elaborate pyrotechnics for the world tour and y'all need to know where and when to hit your marks, so you're not burned to a crisp."
"Yeah, I'm not one for being set ablaze," Vincent said as he made his way to the stairs.
That night, Vincent didn't sleep a wink. He sat on his bed, poring over countless posts across several social media platforms—from Facebook to TikTok, Instagram to YouTube—everyone was putting in their two cents about the breaking celebrity news. Some ardent fanatics even began piecing together the entire history of Rufus Spencer and Tyson Joules—all of their ups and downs throughout their storied rivalry. There were even some that believed Rufus' malevolence toward Tyson went beyond their professional relationship, citing that Rufus was responsible for the breakup between Tyson and Lena. Bitter lies stacked up atop even more hateful lies and the major news outlets were there to see it all unfold. Variety slammed Rufus with convincing circumstantial evidence, which wasn't surprising as The Joules Family held a significant amount of stock in the Penske Media Corporation, the parent company of the entertainment magazine. Deadline sided with Rufus as they listed out all of the popstar's numerous accolades and expanded on the point that theft would be wildly out-of-character for the seventeen-year-old performer. The number of topical articles grew at an astonishing rate and by morning, the story was everywhere and even became a 10-minute talking point during Today with Hoda & Jenna.
As they were chauffeured to The Pavilion for rehearsal, Savannah and Rufus traveled in silence, focusing on their phones as the news began being translated into memes. Rufus was the plain-Jane girl walking alongside the boy with a wandering eye, checking out the more attractive girl, who was labeled as Tyson.
"This is absurd," Savannah said as she locked her phone and rubbed her tired eyes. "I don't understand how people could be so awful with their opinions. They shouldn't be allowed to procreate."
"Did you see the Buzzfeed article?" Vincent asked, holding up his phone so Savannah could read it. "They really crucify me. I didn't realize there are so many out there who are just waiting for me to lose."
"There's nothing we can do about it right now," Savannah replied. "Right now, just focus on the task at hand. We've got to make sure that Terry doesn't see us sweating this. I'm sure he's well aware of the situation. It's absolutely vital that he sides with us and if he sees any lack of confidence, we'll definitely lose his support."
Vincent took a deep breath as they pulled into the crew entrance of The Pavilion. "Okay. I'm glad there's no pressure." He then shook his head, clearing his thoughts as he pocketed his phone.
When Vincent walked out onto the stage, he found only one member of 90 Percent Ninja waiting for him, sitting on a large space rack case with its casters locked in place. It was Pete, the exceptionally talented bassist of the band.
"Hey, Rufus," Pete said as he thumped the black case with the heels of his shoes.
"Hey," Vincent replied, looking around for the missing members. "Is it just you?"
"It's just me. Ben and Scott were here with their lawyers a little earlier. They found a way to legally break their contracts, due to the whole copyright scandal. They're out, man. It's not looking good."
A thundering voice suddenly filled the stage. "Ah, Mr. Spencer—exactly who I wanted to see," said a tall, thin man wearing a meticulously pressed Tom Ford pinstripe suit. "How are you doing this morning, kid?" Vincent's mind raced as he met eyes with the sharp-dressed man.
Terry Dillman, executive producer of the reputable record label, The Warner Music Group. At the end of 2022, he put together a group of talented individuals to form 90 Percent Ninja, much like Simon Cowell did with One Direction. He's been known to be terribly two-faced and analyzes the numbers from the business side of the entertainment industry rather than the quality of the music that is being produced. He's incredibly well-connected and doesn't think twice when it comes to burning a bridge. Over the course of his career, he has ended a number of artists' careers before they have a chance to take off.
"Good morning, Mr. Dillman," Vincent replied, trying to stay calm and collected. "I'm doing just fine, thank you for asking. How are you?"
"Me? I'm peachy keen," Terry retorted. "Hey-a, Pete. Would you mind giving us a moment alone?"
"Sure thing, boss," Pete said, hopping off the large case.
Once the bass player was out of earshot, Terry firmly gripped Vincent's shoulder. "Look, kid—I've got to know: Should I be worried?"
Vincent clung to his composure. "No, sir. I promise—I'll take care of it."
"That's my soldier," Terry said, releasing his tight grasp. "Is your mom here? I haven't spoken to her in quite some time. We had a dinner together with some sparkling conversation, but ever since then, she's been radio silent."
"Well, she's been really busy. Her schedule is pretty demanding."
"I've always admired her work ethic, you know. She's an amazing woman. Consider yourself lucky."
"I do, sir. I really do."
"Now, while you take care of this Tyson Joules situation, I'll sniff out some suitable replacements for drums and second-guitar-slash-background-vocals. It shouldn't take much time at all; they're truly a dime a dozen."
Vincent gave a tight-lipped smile. "Thank you, Mr. Dillman. Your support means everything. You have no idea."
Then, Terry leaned in so close, Vincent could smell the raspberry and saffron notes of his Frédéric Malle cologne. "You should know, if this whole legal quandary doesn't bend in your favor, I will drop and bury you. And don't think you can just scamper off back to your acting career. I know a lot of very powerful individuals who can be easily swayed by a 30-year-old bottle of Macallan and a night out with a high-end escort. You won't have a pot to piss in. Are we clear?"
Vincent cleared his throat, trying to mask his gulp. "Crystal."
"Alright, then!" Terry exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "What do ya say we go over some performance logistics, huh? Let's get to work."
After a grueling 10-hour tech rehearsal, Vincent and Savannah were chauffeured back to their home as they sifted through the abundant and accumulating Google Alerts. After reading over a number of articles, they both seemed to breathe a little easier simply because nothing supporting Tyson's allegations had been brought to light. Then, Vincent's phone chirped with a text message notification. It was Lena. She forwarded him a link which opened his YouTube app.
The video was a leaked time-stamped recording of Tyson from 2018, the year Rufus and Tyson attempted to collaborate and form their very own garage band. The video quality was particularly poor, but the audio was clear as a bell. The shot framed a then 13-year-old Tyson Joules with a vintage Gibson Les Paul electric guitar, playing the distinct riff from the current hit-single "Douchebag". Vincent's eyes widened as Tyson continued to play; his arrangement, while without lyrics, was identical to the arrangement that was known the world over. This was it. This was the damning evidence.
"I don't understand," Savannah said quietly. "That's your song. How did he do this?"
"He must have—no—he had to have—no—he... he..." Vincent struggled as his mind was now all over the place.
"Okay, Roo," Savannah said, turning slightly in her seat. "I have to ask you this and you have got to be honest with me. Did you steal from Tyson?"
"You know I would never do that," Vincent replied, as he refused to believe someone he had studied for so long would ever do something so underhanded.
"That's what I thought," Savannah said as she patted Vincent's leg. "We'll just have to figure out a way to appropriately respond. We can do this." She then started to stare off into space. "Yeah, we can do this."
Over the next few weeks, Vincent found himself in a strikingly familiar position; he was holed up in a lavish home, unable to leave due to the badgering press or, what's more, the crazy, shameless members of Team Tyson, who had already snuck into The Spencer's gated community and egged their estate. The smell lingered for days. Vincent continued exploring every corner of the internet, trying to dig up something that would effectively neutralize Tyson's concrete evidence, but even with all of his knowledge and his wide skill-set, he was unable to find anything of merit. The road ahead was plagued with nothing but dead ends. He needed help and he positively hated to admit it.
On Wednesday, November 22, 2023, Vincent swallowed his pride and set aside his ego as he made a phone call.
"Hey, I didn't think you'd actually cave and call me," Lena said. "Color me surprised."
"Believe me, this is the last thing I wanted to do," Vincent replied.
"Look, I gave you some time and some space, but the only way we're going to make things right is if we work together."
"I'm not in a position to disagree with you."
Then, there was a knock on the front door. Vincent quickly went to answer it.
And there she was, bearing that Cheshire smile. "Well, let's find a way to bring that bastard down," Lena said, rubbing her hands together.
Over the following hours, they went through everything that Vincent had searched through and finally realized that what they needed wouldn't be found on the digital landscape.
"Maybe Rufus has something stored away in that studio of his," Lena mentioned. "It couldn't hurt to check it out."
"His studio?" Vincent questioned. "Is that the room upstairs with the padlock?"
"Yeah, he really only uses it for his paintings, but there just might be something we can use. You weren't at all curious about what was in that room?"
"I've already deconstructed a majority of Mr. Spencer's life. I figured he deserved to have something that was his and his alone."
"Now's not the time for courtesy," Lena said as she pulled a set of keys from her Marc Jacobs leather handbag. "Let's see what we can dig up."
Inside the locked room were several enormous canvases, measuring 36"×48", with enlarged, hyper-realistic paintings of things like a human eye or hands playing Cat's Cradle or a sneaker stepping on a guitar effects pedal.
"This is masterful work," Vincent remarked, turning in place and taking in the beautiful illustrations. "How does he do this?"
"It's actually pretty ingenious," Lena replied as she opened the closet. "He uses various shades of spray paint and those plastic bags you get at the grocery store to form make-shift stencils. This makes it so he can easily manipulate the hard lines on any given painting. Everything else is just blended until it's fully rendered."
"That is ingenious," Vincent retorted, undeniably impressed by this facet of Rufus Spencer.
After throwing a few things aside, Lena sighed deeply, utterly defeated. "There's nothing here. I can't believe there's nothing here."
"Perhaps there's a storage unit of some kind," Vincent suggested.
"No, no," Lena replied. "Rufus likes to hold onto his valued possessions closely. I mean, he takes that ratty knapsack everywhere he goes. God, I can't believe this." With that, she walked out of the studio, frustrated and crushed.
After one more minute of admiration for Rufus' artistic ability, Vincent went downstairs and sat on a bar stool next to the kitchen island with Lena. Things weren't looking great and there was a razor-thin chance that they'd get any better. Vincent placed his elbows on the marble surface, bearing the weight of his head which he held with his hands.
"I can't believe this," Vincent said, massaging his temples. "There has to be something we can do."
"I know you're a fierce optimist, but I think we're at the end of the road," Lena replied. "His case is airtight and the support he's received—well—it's actually kinda impressive. I hate to admit it, but our ship is sinking and there aren't any lifeboats. Well, there is one. Have you thought about the settlement offer?"
"You want me to give up?" Vincent asked, slightly surprised.
"It might just be your only option," Lena said, letting out a sigh.
"No, absolutely not," Vincent quickly replied. "This is not how this story ends. Tyson cannot win."
Lena folded her arms as she crossed her legs. "Honestly—and you know it kills me to tell you this—but, I think he's already won."
Vincent winced at the bitterly truthful words. "Bloody hell. Perhaps he has."
Lena looked over at the clock on the oven. "Shit. It's 1 a.m. I've got to get home. Have to wake up, bright and early for our big family get-together celebrating the genocide of countless indigenous people."
"Oh, that's right. American Thanksgiving is tomorrow—well, technically it's right now, but thank you for reminding me. In Verastoria, we have Thanksgiving on March 21st, the first day of spring. It celebrates the triumph over the bitter winter months and the hope for a bright future."
"I like that," Lena said with a slight smile. "You really can't go wrong with a holiday like that."
"Wow, I just got a little homesick," Vincent admitted. "I never expected that to happen."
"Nostalgia is a funny thing. You never know what it might bring."
"True. Very true."
"Well, Prince Vince, I am off. Native American massacre aside, Happy Thanksgiving."
"Happy Thanksgiving, Lena."
The next day, Vincent had prepared himself for hours in the kitchen, helping out in whatever way he could, be it with garnishing appetizers or basting the bird as it roasted. However, Thanksgiving in the Spencer household was anything but conventional. Instead of a wide spread of food that would satisfy the most gluttonous of people, Savannah ordered almost every item off the local Thai restaurant's menu and had it promptly delivered in exchange for a hefty tip. She and Vincent then opened every container and placed them on and around their coffee table in the den while they watched the entire Star Wars trilogy—the original episodes from the 70's and 80's, the only ones worthy of repeat viewings. This had been Rufus and Savannah's Thanksgiving ritual since 2009. And it surprisingly brought a certain level of calm to Vincent; it was simple and understated, while also being comforting and enjoyable.
As the John Williams score played over the credits of Return of The Jedi, Vincent looked over at Savannah who had slipped into a food coma. With nothing to distract him now, he started to dwell on the situation with Tyson. There was something that he hadn't thought of quite yet and it flustered him to no end. That's when an idea took hold of his mind and he wondered why he had waited so long to wander down that avenue. He quietly moved to Rufus' bedroom, doing his best not to stir Savannah. Then, he opened Rufus' laptop which was set up on a standing desk and quickly bypassed the password-protected device. He clicked on the Chrome browser icon followed by a click on the Google Meet application. That's when he entered in Rufus' information and started a web-call. Rufus picked up on the other end, using his cell phone versus a laptop.
"Hello?" Rufus said as he adjusted the camera's positioning so that his face was in the center of the frame.
"Hello, Mr. Spencer," Vincent said. "We need to talk."
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