America Tycoon: The Wolf of Showbiz

Los Angeles, Brentwood.

Music manager Scoot Braun was busy until the early hours of the morning before he finally managed to fall asleep.

Ever since his top client, Justin Bieber, became famous, he'd been overwhelmed with endless work and troubles, as if his clients were constantly messing up, and he had to clean up after them at all times.

But that wasn't the worst part.

Scoot discovered that the young internet star he had signed from YouTube was becoming increasingly difficult to manage and could lose control at any moment.

That damn client wasn't around, and Scoot was finally able to get some good sleep.

Deep in his slumber, the sudden ring of the phone abruptly woke him.

Scoot sat up stiffly like a corpse, stunned for several seconds before he came to his senses, picked up the mobile phone, and answered. Hearing a few words from the other side, he almost jumped out of bed, "What? Justin made headlines?"

After hanging up, he went to turn on the computer, logged onto the TMZ website, and watched the news video.

Unlike stars, what Justin Bieber thought was just a minor nasty incident, Scoot saw as a massive crisis looming.

He glanced outside at the sky that was starting to lighten and hurriedly dialed Justin's number, only to find it was turned off.

He then tried the landline, but no one answered.

Panic-stricken, Scoot quickly called his collaborator in New York and a friend, instructing them to immediately look for Justin, then he called his assistant, instructing her to rent a private jet as swiftly as possible.

...

Manhattan, near Hudson Square.

Due to the time difference, the sun was already up in the New York sky.

People from all directions gathered near a small square next to an apartment building.

Most of them looked rather unusual, many being groups of men with men or women with women.

The most eye-catching group was men dressed in women's clothing.

Blaire took out a makeup mirror, checked her heavily made-up face, and then took out an eyebrow pencil to touch up her blue eyebrows. Her large and burly body paired with a bizarre explosion of hair made her look almost like a monster.

Even so, she looked more normal than the African descent Michel next to her.

Michel, wearing a patchy white dress with a golden nose ring and white thigh-high boots, looked like a walking dairy cow.

Around them were several other similarly dressed, gender-nonconforming African descents.

Blaire asked, "Are you guys ready?"

Michel patted the purse she was carrying, "We went to Chinatown overnight and bought out a special workshop's stock of eggs."

Blaire realized, "It will just be a few of you making the move."

"I know," Michel glanced at her African descent companions, "We are African descents, homosexuals, transgenders, and also feminist activists."

With that current setup, their Buff was stacked.

Blaire motioned Michel to pay attention to another group of homosexuals gathering from the other side.

Witnessing these unusual groups of people, pedestrians detoured around them, though it wasn't considered strange.

This was the avant-garde New York, not Texas.

Besides these special groups preparing to protest, several NYPD patrol cars also arrived.

Through supporters behind the scenes, these groups had managed to secure legal authorization for the assembly overnight.

Of course, not to mention the journalists and paparazzi who had gotten wind of the event.

Bruce's business van parked nearby.

Leonardo picked up the binoculars, saying, "With so many protesters, will that bastard show up?"

Martin casually said, "Just came to let you have a look, to comfort your wounded heart."

Leonardo spotting the cross-dressers, said, "If each one of them could have a go at Justin Bieber, my emotional wounds would heal on their own."

"You're too cruel, Leo," Nicholson adjusted his sunglasses, looking through the car window at those flamboyantly dressed androgynous figures.

He marveled, "If it really were like you said, all the best proctologists in the world combined wouldn't be able to cure Justin Bieber."

Martin said, "I know a famous proctologist, nicknamed Hyena."

"Looks like something's happening," Leonardo alerted.

Martin also looked over.

The protesting crowd suddenly displayed various signs and moved toward the apartment.

The apartment's security personnel watched these people warily.

Some NYPD officers shouted something, maintaining basic order.

The crowd got a bit closer, then stopped moving.

...

In the elevator, a particularly burly woman leaned to one side, her eyes sweeping over Justin standing in the center.

Remembering what that bastard had said in the video, she really wanted to pick up an umbrella and stab him hard with the sharp end!

The elevator reached the ground floor, and the doors opened. Justin walked out alone.

The burly girl spoke into her Bluetooth headset, "He's left the elevator."

Justin, hands in his coat pockets, walked alone out of the apartment, planning to get some good stuff today without calling anyone else.

Last night's incident had severely wounded Justin's spirit; he wanted to heal alone.

Justin looked up to see the crowd gathered on the sidewalk outside, not taking it seriously. He pulled up his jacket's hood, quickened his pace, and stepped outside.

As soon as he did, the scene, which had been relatively calm, exploded as if water had hit hot oil.

"Against discrimination!"

"Equal rights!"

"Transgenders have human rights!"

Most people's slogans were relatively reasonable.

Amidst the shouting, Justin was somewhat confused and unclear about what was happening.

The drag queens were even more radical.

"Discriminators, get out of New York!"

"Scum!"

Justin realized these bastards were targeting him.

But he didn't care and wasn't afraid, as there were plenty of NYPD officers maintaining order at the scene.

Rather than retreating, Justin held his head high and, protected by his apartment's security staff, walked towards the car by the roadside.

Neither the curse words, protests, nor the flash of the surrounding journalists could stop his stride.

The drag queen Blaire caught up and just two meters away, she yelled out, "Scum, you only deserve to eat cow..."

These words immediately reminded Justin of last night's gun, and he exploded.

Slogans, chants, protests—he didn't see any of it.

Justin turned around and flipping off the colorful drag queen with both middle fingers, he shouted, "Fuck!"

He yelled, "You disgusting freaks, I feel like puking whenever I see you, all of you just fuck off..."

Before he could finish, something seemed to fly towards him.

Michel had already pushed through to nearby Justin, not even a few meters away, and flung an egg.

The egg, meant for his mouth, veered slightly and hit Justin on the nose.

The egg broke, and its contents dripped down into Justin's mouth.

The unique foul stench of the rotten egg was nauseating.

Justin not only smelled it but tasted it too, feeling sick enough to vomit.

But Michel and his buffed-up group wouldn't easily let him off.

Four more African descent drag queens took out rotten eggs from their purses and threw them at Justin.

Being too close and already incapacitated by the first 'biological weapon,' he didn't have time to dodge.

A series of chaotic sounds followed as the rotten eggs all smashed on Justin's head.

Michel didn't stop; after the first, he pulled out a second egg.

These were specially bought stink eggs for the early morning!

As the second wave of stink eggs came flying, Justin immediately turned and ran back.

The terrible stench, especially the bits that had gotten into his mouth, made him run and gag, vomiting up the breakfast he had just eaten.

"Stop!" The NYPD, no pushovers, shouted loudly, "Drop the weapons in your hands!"

The cacophony of shouts, protests, and reprimands made the scene a chaotic mess.

The dedicated paparazzi, of course, wouldn't miss this profitable opportunity, shooting photos of the protesting crowd and the desperately escaping Justin despite the stench.

Not far from the car, smelling the nasty odor drifting over, Martin said, "Quick, close the windows!"

Leonardo, without needing a reminder from Martin, put down the binoculars and rolled up the car windows.

Nicholson commented, "The Transformers of New York are stronger than the Iraqis, possessing private biochemical weapons!"

"I didn't expect to witness such a spectacle," Martin admitted with some surprise.

Leonardo was delighted, "No wonder you and Jack love messing with people, it indeed feels thrilling!"

Nicholson summed up a life lesson, "Keep messing with people, and it's always thrilling."

Martin glanced over there and said, "The excitement's over, let's get out of here."

Leonardo nodded, "Let's go."

Bruce started the car, and they left Hudson Square.

...

In front of the apartment, NYPD reinforcements rushed over, and the police managed to subdue the initial aggressors.

Brand and his colleague got ahold of Michel, resembling a large upright dairy cow as an African descent.

As white police officers, their actions were inevitably rough.

Especially when they snatched Michel's bag of weapons, which fell to the ground, shattering the remaining rotten eggs.

Two white police officers each grabbed one of Michel's arms to escort him to a police car.

Michel's fake breasts fell to his waistline, and as he struggled, he yelled, "I'm a woman, you wrecked my breasts, I'm going to sue you! Let go of me, and if you must arrest me, let a woman do it!"

Brand exchanged a look with his colleague, remembering this person's identity, and regretting their hasty attempt to control the situation—what if the credit didn't come, and only trouble?

Michel continued to shout, "I'm a woman, let a female officer..."

This reminded Brand, who was quick-witted and struck by an idea, said, "How can you arbitrarily define someone's gender? We appear to be men, but are actually women who just haven't had surgery yet."

His higher version outplayed Michel, who was stunned for a moment, then shut his mouth, somewhat surprisedly looking at Brand.

Brand, seeing Michel settle down, didn't feel he did anything special, just continued escorting him.

Suddenly Michel said, "Officer, thank you."

This left Brand utterly confused, thinking to himself that this group really was crazy.

Michel didn't say more, but Brand's words opened a door to a new world for him.

Being detained by NYPD and such became inconsequential trivialities.

Michel's mind repeatedly echoed Brand's words—How can you arbitrarily define someone's gender!

Version upgraded.