Chapter 24: The Shark and the Ghost
Monday, August 3, 2015
Michael passed the entire Sunday locked in the darkness of his makeshift studio, in a video editing trance.
He had hours of grainy footage from the night before. He connected the VHS camera to a small adapter and digitized the entire tape onto his MacBook. The process was slow, the capture played in real-time, but when it finished, he had a massive video file, full of visual noise and lo-fi aesthetics.
He opened his video editing software, a pirated one that cost him an entire afternoon to download.
He dragged the final file of the song <u>Sodium</u> to the timeline. Then, the real work began. He started cutting the footage.
He wasn't looking for a narrative. He was looking for a vibe.
He put the shot of Nate driving the Camry in slow motion, just when the beat dropped. He cut to a shot of himself, under the halogen light, cigarette smoke swirling. Then, a quick cut to his sneakers hitting the asphalt.
He used the strobe effect Sam had created accidentally, syncing it with the hi-hats. He faded the image, superimposed it, added more digital grain. He wanted it to look like a fever dream, a damaged memory.
He worked all night. When the sun started filtering through the window, he had a two-and-a-half-minute video. It was dark, it was cryptic, it was artistic. It was perfect.
He exported the video. The file was ready.
He uploaded the song to SoundCloud. Title: sodium. Image: a blurry frame from the video.
Then, he uploaded the video to YouTube. Michael Demiurge - sodium (Official Video).
The last step.
He opened the social media accounts he had created weeks ago and that had remained blank.
On Twitter, he wrote his first tweet: sodium. (YouTube link)
On Instagram, he uploaded a 15-second clip of the video: him, looking at the camera, the grainy image flickering. The caption: sodium. link in bio.
He did the same on Snapchat.
He looked at his profiles. The transition was complete. He was no longer an anonymous voice on SoundCloud. Now he had a face, even if it was a blurry and shadowed one. His public identity was born.
He closed the laptop. He didn't stay to watch the reactions. He didn't have time to obsess over views.
He had a much bigger problem to solve. He had a house to sell.
…..
Michael closed the SoundCloud tab. The video for <u>Sodium</u> was already uploaded, accumulating its first plays. Twelve, to be exact.
Normally, he would have stayed to watch, refreshing the page. But he didn't have time. Every second counted.
The release of <u>Sodium</u> and his new identity on social media felt like a small achievement, but it was a distraction from the real problem. The real work began now.
He sat on the living room sofa, with the MacBook Pro on his knees. The house was silent. He looked at the calendar in the corner of the screen: August 3.
His heart beat with a dull, heavy rhythm. He had, being optimistic, sixty days. Sixty days to dismantle his life, sell a property, and execute an investment that would define his future.
He opened a new Google tab. He typed: "fast sale real estate agent Northgate".
The page filled with fake smiles and expensive suits. "We sell your house in 90 days!". "Best price in the market!".
Michael sighed. 'Ninety days. I don't have ninety days. I don't even have sixty.'
He ignored the paid ads and looked for the agent with the best reviews. A guy named David Miller, from a large national firm. He seemed professional, reliable. He dialed the number from his cell phone.
A polite receptionist answered. "David Miller's office, how can I help you?"
Michael cleared his throat, trying to make his voice sound deeper, less like that of a 16-year-old boy. "Hello," he said, his tone was all business. "I'm interested in selling my house. Fast."
"Wonderful!" said the cheerful voice. "I'll be happy to schedule an appointment with David. What is the property address?"
Michael gave her the address. There was a silence on the other end of the line, broken only by the sound of a keyboard.
"Ah, yes... the Gray house," said the receptionist. Her tone changed instantly. It stopped being cheerful and became cautious, almost condescending. "We have that property in our files. Excuse me, am I speaking with... Michael?"
"Yes," he said, his patience already wearing thin.
"Honey," she started, and Michael hated that word. "Our records indicate that... well, that you are a minor. Are your legal guardians available to speak?"
"I don't have guardians. My parents died. The house is mine," said Michael, his voice was cold, cutting.
The silence was longer this time. "I understand. And I am so sorry for your loss, Michael. Truly. But... legally, we cannot help you. A minor cannot sign a sales contract. It is void. You will need a legal guardian or a court-appointed executor to sign for you. I'm sorry. We can't do anything."
Click.
The call ended.
Michael stared at the phone, the screen now black. 'Shit.'
Of course. It was obvious. His plan, conceived in a cloud of weed and adrenaline, hadn't taken into account the most stupid and mundane obstacle of all: bureaucracy.
He rubbed his face with his hands. Panic, cold and sharp, began to rise in his throat. What if he couldn't sell? What if his entire multi-million dollar plan, his empire, was ruined by a fucking piece of paper he couldn't sign?
He took a deep breath. 'No. It's just an obstacle. Next.'
He looked for the next name on the list. A bigger agency. "Golden Coast Properties". He dialed. This time, he asked to speak directly with an agent.
A woman named Sarah answered, her voice sounding busy. Michael went straight to the point. "Hi, my name is Michael Gray. I'm 16 years old. I inherited my parents' house. I need to sell it before the end of the month. I know I need a guardian, but I'm looking for someone who is willing to move fast and understands the urgency."
There was a sigh on the other end. At least she didn't hang up on him.
"Oh, sweetie," said Sarah, and Michael felt that pang of irritation again. "That is... that is very complicated. The court process to appoint an executor or for a judge to approve the sale of a minor's property... that can take months. Sometimes up to a year. I can't help you with that deadline. Nobody can."
"What if I sell it below market price?" pressed Michael. "Much lower. A cash sale."
"Even if you sold it for a dollar, the court has to approve it. And the court, believe me, moves at its own pace. I am so sorry, really. Good luck."
Click.
Michael hung up. Now the panic was real. "Months". "A year". He looked at the date on his laptop. August 3.
He went back to Google. "Sell house fast without agent". The results were about "For Sale By Owner" (FSBO), which was even more impossible.
He tried a third agency. "Fast Sales Today". The name sounded promising, albeit desperate.
"Hello," said the guy on the other end, his voice sounding like a used car salesman. "You wanna sell? I buy! Cash!"
"Great," said Michael, feeling a spark of hope. "I have a house in Northgate. I need to close in 30 days."
"Easy, kid. I'll give you 300k for it tomorrow," said the guy.
"$300k... It's worth $500k," said Michael, disgusted.
"That is the price of speed, son. Take it or leave it. The address?"
Michael hesitated, the price was a robbery. But time was more valuable than money. He gave him the address. And then, the hard part. "The house is an inheritance. And I'm a minor."
There was a silence. Then, a loud, unpleasant laugh.
"A minor? Are you wasting my time? Don't call me until you grow a beard, kid!"
Click.
Michael squeezed the phone so hard the plastic case creaked. The frustration was so intense he wanted to throw the laptop against the wall. He got up and started pacing around the empty living room.
He was trapped. A genius with the map of the future, locked in the cage of a 16-year-old body.
He stopped. He took a deep breath. 'Think. What is the mistake?'
'Okay. I need a different type of agent.'
He didn't need the "best" agent. He didn't need the "nicest" one. He needed someone who specialized in disasters. Someone who saw a complicated inheritance of a minor not as a wall, but as a challenge.
Someone who smelled desperation and saw an opportunity to charge a bigger commission. He needed a real shark.
He went back to his laptop. His search strategy changed. He was no longer searching for "fast sale real estate agent".
He typed: "complicated sales real estate agent los angeles".
Then: "fast divorce sales agent".
And finally: "disputed inheritance sales agent".
The results were different. Fewer fake smiles, more aggressive promises. He scrolled past the first page. The second.
And on the third page of results, he found a link. The website design was of spectacular bad taste. Flashing gold letters on a black background. The logo was a shark in a suit with a briefcase.
The slogan read: "RICK DOYLE - PROBLEMS? DIVORCE? BANKRUPTCY? I SELL! CALL NOW!"
'Bingo', thought Michael. This was exactly the kind of scum he needed.
He looked at the number. It was a cell phone. It was almost seven in the evening. He probably wouldn't answer. He dialed.
One ring. Two.
"Doyle."
The voice on the other end was raspy, as if the guy had swallowed gravel. It sounded like he was eating something, loudly.
Michael didn't waste time. He went straight to the point. "Hello. My name is Michael. I need to sell a house in Northgate. It's an inheritance. I'm a minor. I need the money in a bank account before September 15th. No exceptions."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Michael could only hear the sound of someone chewing.
"...Is this a joke?" Rick's voice finally said.
"No. I have the inheritance papers. The house is empty. I'm serious."
Another silence. Michael could almost hear the calculators spinning in Rick Doyle's head. "A minor... inheritance... closing in 30 days..."
Rick let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Son, you don't want an agent. You want a magician. And magic costs. A job like this, with the lawyers I'll have to move, the court paperwork... it's a headache from hell."
"Can you do it or not?" asked Michael, his voice was cold as ice. He didn't have time for games.
Rick laughed again. He liked the kid. He had guts. "I can do anything if the price is right, kid. My normal rate is six percent. For a miracle like this, with the amount of hours my lawyers are gonna bill... it'll be ten percent."
Ten percent. It was a robbery. It would be over forty thousand dollars.
"Done," said Michael, without hesitating for a second.
Now it was Rick who was surprised. There was no haggling. This kid wasn't kidding.
"When can you come?" asked Michael.
Rick recovered his composure. "Tomorrow. Ten in the morning. And you better not be wasting my time, kid."
"I won't," said Michael. "Ten o'clock sharp."
He hung up.
He stared at the phone, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He had found his shark. The first step was taken. The race against time had just begun.
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
At ten o'clock sharp the next morning, the doorbell rang. Michael opened the door.
The man on his porch was exactly as he had imagined, and worse. He wore a suit that was too shiny, a color somewhere between electric blue and gray, that looked like it was made of polyester. His blond hair was slicked back with an excessive amount of gel, and his tan was such an intense orange it couldn't be real. It was Rick Doyle.
But the most striking thing was his fake smile, a wide, toothy grimace that didn't reach his eyes. His eyes were small, sharp, and moved quickly, calculating the value of everything they saw.
"Michael Gray," said Rick, his voice a cheerful growl. He extended a hand with too many rings. "A pleasure. Rick Doyle."
Michael shook his hand. It was dry and calloused. "Come in."
Rick entered the living room, his expensive shoes making noise on the wooden floor. He didn't sit down. He simply stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, and started scanning.
"Hmph," he grunted. "Good structure. The foundation looks solid. Typical nineties Northgate house. Three bedrooms, two and a half baths, I assume. Decent backyard?"
"Yes," said Michael, watching him from the kitchen door.
"Okay." Rick took out a notepad. "The kitchen needs a total renovation. Those tiles are a crime. And this carpet..." He made a gesture of disgust toward the living room rug.
"The market is slow, but the location is good. It's in a good school district." Rick rubbed his chin. "We slap a coat of cheap paint on it, fix up the garden. I think we can ask for five hundred thousand."
He was about to continue, but Michael interrupted him. His voice was calm, but it cut through Rick's monologue like a knife.
"We aren't going to paint anything," said Michael.
Rick turned, his fake smile faltered for a second. "Excuse me?"
"We aren't going to fix the garden. And we aren't going to ask for five hundred thousand," said Michael, walking toward the living room. He stopped in front of Rick. "We list it at four hundred and fifty thousand."
Rick stared at him. The smile disappeared. "What?"
"Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars," repeated Michael. "Ten percent below market price."
Rick stared at him, his sharp eyes now analyzing Michael, not the house. "Why would you do that? You're throwing fifty thousand dollars in the trash, kid."
"I want it sold this week," said Michael. "Not next month. This week. And on one condition: cash buyers only, closing in fifteen days. No long inspections, no nonsense."
Rick's fake smile was replaced by a genuine one of amazement. He laughed, a short, explosive laugh.
"Fuck, kid," he said. "You're a fucking shark. I like you."
"Can we do it?" asked Michael, ignoring the compliment.
"Can we? Of course we can! At that price, we'll unleash a bidding war among investment companies. We'll have it sold before Friday," said Rick, his energy now real, that of a predator smelling blood in the water. "But, you're giving away fifty thousand dollars..."
"I'm buying time," Michael cut him off. "Time is more valuable."
Rick nodded, his respect for the kid growing by the second. "Okay. I like it. It's a scorched earth strategy. Quick and dirty."
"And there is another thing," added Michael, his voice even colder. "I've been researching. The house was appraised at five hundred thousand dollars when my parents died, late last year. The cost basis updates, right?"
Rick stood still. The smile disappeared, replaced by a look of pure concentration. "Yes... where are you going with this?"
"If I sell at four fifty, technically I'm selling at a loss of fifty thousand on paper," said Michael. "So there would be practically no profit. Which means I won't have to pay capital gains tax, correct?"
Rick Doyle stood in silence for a long moment. He looked at the sixteen-year-old boy in front of him, a boy in a worn black hoodie who had just described a perfectly legal tax avoidance strategy that would have taken most of his adult clients hours to understand.
"Correct," said Rick finally, his voice low, impressed. "Shit, kid. You're smart. Very smart."
"So, do we have a deal?" asked Michael.
Rick was about to shake his hand, ready to start. But then, he stopped. The gleam in his eyes went out.
"Almost," said Rick. "Your plan is great. It's aggressive. It's smart. But it has a flaw. A gigantic flaw."
Michael's heart stopped. "Which one?"
"You can't sign the papers," said Rick, his voice flat. "You told me you were a minor. You are a minor. Which means that, legally, you cannot sign a sales contract. It's illegal. You can't sell a pack of gum, let alone a half-million-dollar house."
Rick saw the color drain from Michael's face. The shark kid, the genius, suddenly looked like what he was: a scared child.
"So yeah," continued Rick, leaning against the wall, now he had all the control. "Your plan is fantastic. But it is completely useless. We can't do anything without an adult."
Michael remained silent. Panic was a metallic taste in his mouth. His whole plan. His multi-million dollar empire. His entire future. Dead. Ruined by a signature he couldn't make.
He sat on the arm of the sofa, the world feeling blurry.
"Months," whispered Michael, the words barely audible. "The other agent said the court would take months. Or a year."
Rick Doyle watched him. He let the kid drown in panic for a second. He wanted him to understand the value of what he was about to offer.
Then, his shark smile returned, this time genuine.
"Yes," said Rick, his voice a satisfied growl. "It would take her months. Because she would file form A-27B and wait in line like everyone else. She doesn't know how to play the game."
Michael looked up, a small spark of hope in his eyes.
"I don't wait in line," said Rick, leaning forward, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. "I skip it. That's why I charge ten percent."
Rick straightened up and started pacing the room, now like a general planning a battle. "Look, kid. Your plan is great. But you're missing the key piece: me. The seller says there is no problem."
"But you said it's illegal," said Michael, his voice still weak.
"I said you signing is illegal," corrected Rick, pointing a finger at him. "But I didn't say the house couldn't be sold. As long as everything is in order, everything will be fine. And my job is to make it be in order."
Rick took out his phone. "And here is the rule, kid. When your parents died, the court took charge of their estate. You are a minor, so legally, they had to appoint someone to manage the inheritance. An executor, a legal guardian... do you know who it is?"
Michael thought about it. "No... I don't know. Nobody told me anything. Only the school counselor and a social worker who came once."
Rick's smile grew even wider. "Perfect! Even better. It's probably an overworked county bureaucrat who doesn't even know this house exists. That makes it easier, not harder."
Rick started dialing a number on his phone. "Here is what we are gonna do. I'm gonna call a friend, 'The Shark' Harris. He's a bastard, but he's my bastard. Tomorrow morning, Harris will file an emergency petition in Probate Court."
"A petition for what?" asked Michael.
"To sell the house," said Rick, as if it were obvious. "And we aren't gonna tell the judge shit. We are gonna tell him the truth. But our truth."
Rick started walking around the room, his voice filling with energy. "The 'truth' is this: You are a minor. This asset, the house, is generating costs. Property taxes, utilities, maintenance, insurance. You are a high school student, you have a shitty job at a Burger Barn."
Michael tensed at the description, but Rick was right.
"You can't afford the maintenance," continued Rick. "Therefore, it is in the 'best interest of the minor' to liquidate this 'unprofitable' asset and put the cash in a secure trust account. To pay for your living expenses and your future education."
Michael saw the logic. It was brilliant.
"And the best part," said Rick, his voice triumphant, "is your price. The judge will see that you have a cash offer below market. But since you are selling it 'as is' to a cash buyer, and it closes in fifteen days, it is a solid offer. It eliminates all risk. The judge will see it as a prudent and responsible decision. He'll sign it without blinking."
The last and biggest obstacle remained. "But... who signs the contract? If I can't..."
"Harris will take care of that," said Rick, dismissing the concern. "He will ask the judge to appoint him as special 'Guardian Ad Litem', just for this transaction. The judge signs the order. The guardian signs the sale. The money goes to a trust account in your name... and the beauty is that nobody but you will be able to touch that money when you turn 18."
Rick put away his phone. "Technically, you don't sign anything. It is completely legal and feasible."
The relief was so intense Michael felt his legs shaking. He sat on the sofa. The plan was back on track.
"But... how fast?" asked Michael, barely daring to breathe. "I need the money by September."
Rick looked at his fake gold watch. "Today is Tuesday. Harris will file the petition tomorrow. The judge reviews emergency cases on Friday. With luck, we'll have the court order signed by Monday. We start showing the house next Tuesday, only to my cash investors. With your price, we'll have it sold in 24 hours. Closing in fifteen days."
Rick did a quick calculation in his head. "You'll have the money in your account before August ends."
The shark extended his hand, the one with the rings.
"Ten percent. And I take care of all the paperwork. The lawyer, the court, the buyers, the sale. You just have to... well, keep looking like a responsible orphan who needs the money."
Michael looked at the man's hand. It was a deal with the devil. It was a robbery. And it was the only way.
He shook Rick's hand. The grip was firm, almost painful.
"We have a deal. Get me that money."