Chapter 42: Welcome to Hell
Monday, November 2, 2015
Michael felt better. His illness had turned into a mild cold. And the song 'Paris' was finished, an MP3 file that looked like a block of compressed noise on his desktop.
The hype from his Instagram live was palpable. His Twitter and Instagram were flooded with a single message: "DROP THE DARK SONG".
He saw no reason to wait. He wanted to get it over with.
He sat in his studio, opened SoundCloud, and uploaded the file. He did the same on YouTube, this time attaching a simple static image: an inverted pentagram roughly drawn in white on a black background.
Then, he went to Twitter. His announcement was short, cryptic, and direct, an echo of the live stream from the night before.
"You were sick. Me too. Here is the medicine. 'PARIS'. (link)"
He pressed "Send". And he went to make himself something to eat.
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
Michael woke up and the first thing he did was check his phone. He expected an explosion.
What he found was carnage.
He opened the SoundCloud and YouTube comments, and it was like entering a war zone. His new fans, the thousands who had arrived for the laid-back and commercial vibe of 'White Iverson', were horrified.
"What is this shit? It blew out my speakers!"
"Dude, are you okay? This isn't music, it's noise. Go back to making songs like White Iverson."
"This is trash. You can't hear anything he's saying. Just screaming and distorted bass."
"Unfollowed. He sold out to the dark side or something."
"RIP Michael Demiurge, 2015-2015. It was good while it lasted."
Michael read the comments, one after another. The mass confusion was evident. He had built a bridge to the mainstream with 'White Iverson', and with 'Paris', he had just dynamited it.
Part of him felt a pang of panic. 'Did I mess up? Have I gone too far?'
But as he kept reading, a slow, satisfied smile began to draw across his face.
'Good.'
He didn't want those listeners. He didn't want the tourists.
He had wanted to filter out the casual listeners. And he had succeeded.
For him, 'Paris' was a gatekeeper at the door. If you couldn't handle the noise, you didn't deserve to enter to see what came next. The confusion of the masses was proof that the song was doing exactly what it was supposed to do.
In a gray and rainy suburb of New Jersey, a kid named Damien skipped gym class. He was hiding in the back of the school library, with headphones on so loud he could feel the hum in his teeth.
Damien was an outcast by choice. He dressed in black, listened to industrial metal and hardcore punk bands that no one knew. He despised everything popular.
He hated popular rap.
For him, it was the sound of conformity, the music of the idiot jocks who threw things at him in the hallway.
He had seen Michael's video at the 'White Iverson' party. He had rolled his eyes so hard he almost got dizzy. 'Great', he had thought. 'Another sellout. Another pretty boy making pop music for idiots.'
His friend, another outcast who shared his taste for dark music, sent him a link via text message.
"Wait, this guy went dark. Very dark."
Damien snorted. 'Yeah, right. "Dark" probably means he used a minor chord.'
But out of boredom, he clicked. The title was 'Paris'.
The cover was a pentagram. 'How edgy', he thought sarcastically.
He pressed play, ready to hate it.
The beat started. It wasn't a watery synth. It was a distorted, dark sample, like the sound of an air raid siren in the distance. And then, the 808 hit.
It wasn't a bass. It was a wall of sound. It was so distorted and dirty that it sounded like a building collapsing.
Damien sat up in his chair. 'Okay... what is this?'
The atmosphere was oppressive, claustrophobic. It was the soundtrack of an abandoned warehouse at 3 AM. It was perfect.
And then, the voice. It wasn't the soft singing of 'White Iverson'. It was a growl.
'Tell me what you know 'bout a motherfucker out the bottom...'
'With a gold grill gleamin', makin' all these hoes problems...'
'Ugh. Gangster lyrics. I knew it.' He was about to close the tab.
But then, the verse changed.
'Suicide, night time, no, we don't fight crime, oh...'
'It's the Grey59 with the real red eyes, and we dyin' inside, ooh...'
'Bodies in fluoride, let the rope untie, just crucify me...'
'Yung Christ wrists sliced, couple hoes on ice, singin', "RIP"...'
Damien froze. The lyrics. The rawness. "Suicide". "Dying inside". "Crucify me". This wasn't the fraternity party kid. This guy understood.
He listened to the second verse with renewed intensity.
'Ruby was a motherfucking reject...'
Damien felt that line in his chest. He was the reject.
'Ruby the result of a reject from a small town...'
'Turned into a demon, I'm evolved now...'
'Loud growl, $now Leopard on the prowl...'
The transformation. The rejection turning into power. The outcast turning into a demon.
'Stay the fuck back, ho, slay the whole pack, ho...'
'Paint the globe black, ho...'
'Soon I will shed this skin, turn to the devil'
'Then I'll never reminisce...'
When the song ended with that final scream, Damien sat in silence. The librarian was giving him a dirty look from across the room, probably because he was banging his head to the rhythm without realizing it.
This wasn't rap. This was digital punk. It was a nihilistic war cry.
It was the first "popular" song he had heard that captured his own rage against the world. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't catchy. It was ugly, loud, and perfect.
He opened SoundCloud and followed Michael Demiurge.
The 'White Iverson' kid was a sellout. But the 'Paris' kid... the 'Paris' kid was one of his own.
Mid-week (Wednesday, November 4 - Thursday, November 5, 2015)
The confusion of the 'White Iverson' fans was loud, but short-lived. They were drowned out by a new wave of listeners who not only understood 'Paris', but worshipped it.
The song spread like a virus through the dark subcultures of the internet. Goth music forums, punk subreddits, imageboards... everywhere, people were sharing the link.
Michael watched the comments on SoundCloud and YouTube change drastically. The "What is this noise?" were replaced by:
"Finally. Music for people who hate everything."
"This beat sounds like my nightmares. I love it."
"THE LYRICS. 'Ruby the result of a reject from a small town.' FUCK."
"Thanks for making something ACTUALLY dark. Not that fake emo shit on the radio."
This new audience, the goths and emos, the kids who didn't fit into any group, had found their new prophet. They had been waiting for someone to take the nihilistic energy of metal and punk and fuse it with modern trap beats.
And Michael had just done it.
On Thursday, at lunch, Michael sat with his own group of outcasts.
"Okay, Zombie," said Leo, without even saying hello. "I have to admit it. 'Paris' is... brutal. I love it."
Michael looked up from his food, surprised. "I thought you would hate it. It's loud."
"It is loud, yes," said Leo. "But it's honest. It's aggressive. It's the most 'punk' thing I've heard in rap. It's... brutal. I like it."
"It scared me!" said Sam, shaking exaggeratedly. "Dude, that bass! It sounded like my PS4 was about to explode! It's too dark for me. But... it's cool. I mean, the production is next level."
Michael looked at Nate. The silent giant. Nate, the metalhead.
Nate had his own headphones on, something he rarely did. He was listening to 'Paris' on his phone, his head nodding slowly to the rhythm of the distorted beat.
He took off his headphones. Looked at Michael. And for the first time, Michael saw a genuine smile on Nate's face.
"Good song, Mike," said Nate, his voice deep. "Sounds heavy."
For Michael, that simple "sounds heavy" from Nate was the biggest compliment of all. He had managed to impress the metal purist.
He realized that his audience wasn't just one "tribe". It was several.
He had the sad kids ('Star Shopping'), the cynics ('Life Is Beautiful'), the angry outcasts ('crybaby') and now, the dark nihilists ('Paris').
He was building a multi-faceted cult. And he loved it.
Friday, November 6, 2015 (Night)
Michael was in his studio. He had spent the week watching the civil war unfolding in his comments sections. 'White Iverson' fans arguing with the new 'Paris' fans.
The song had lost casual listeners, but those who stayed... stayed with fanatical loyalty. The numbers for 'Paris' weren't as explosive as 'White Iverson's', but its "engagement rate" (likes and comments per view) was much higher. People didn't just listen to it; they reacted to it.
He plugged in his phone, which now had thousands of new goth and punk followers sharing the song like a dark gospel.
It was time to see the real scoreboard.
He summoned the System interface. He knew the "Soul Connections" would be different this time. They wouldn't be about sadness or loneliness. They would be about rage and alienation.
He looked at the top right corner. The balance: 96,645 IP.
Michael did the math. His previous balance was 81,445 IP.
He had earned 15,200 Impact Points.
He opened the transaction history. The System had classified this new audience.
[IMPACT ANALYSIS COMPLETE]
Source: Release of 'Paris'.
Resonance Level: Niche Specific (Aggression and Alienation).
New Soul Connections detected: 152
Impact Points generated: +15,200 IP
TOTAL BALANCE: 96,645 IP
Michael stared at the number. 152 deep connections. 15,200 points.
He had almost reached 100,000 IP. He was incredibly close to the 10-song milestone that would unlock the next roulette for 25,000 IP.
He leaned back in the chair. 'Paris' had been a resounding success. Not on the radio, not with the masses. But with the people who mattered. With the "rejects".
He realized that his audience had fractured, and that was a good thing. He had lost the tourists, but he had gained a new army. An army of devoted and dark fanatics.
And what was more important: he had released 8 songs.
'Ghost Boy', 'Star Shopping', 'Sodium', 'crybaby', 'White Iverson', 'Life Is Beautiful', 'let's pretend we're numb' and 'Paris'.
Eight.
He was just two songs away from reaching his Milestone. Two songs away from unlocking the next System Roulette.
The path forward was clear. The Ethereum anxiety was still there, a constant hum. But now, he had a short-term goal that consumed everything.
He needed to finish his first catalog.