Chapter 98: The Domino Effect
Sunday, February 28, 2016
1:15 AM
The interior of the Prevost was a tunnel of bluish shadows and mechanical silence. While the bus cut through the darkness of the highway toward Tucson, Michael lay on the bed in his private suite. He could still feel the trace of Phoenix’s heat on his skin, even though the air conditioning kept the room at a constant sixty-four degrees. He wore only black sweatpants; his torso, still gleaming from the remnants of adrenaline and physical effort, was propped against the dark silk pillows.
On his legs, the glow of his laptop screen was the only source of intense light. Michael wasn’t really resting; his mind continued operating at the speed of the System’s processors. He had open the master file of “Save That Shit,” one of the most powerful pieces of his new arsenal.
“Phoenix is burning on social media right now,” Michael murmured to himself, watching how the clips recorded by fans at the club were already accumulating tens of thousands of plays on Twitter and Instagram.
He knew the timing was perfect. The traditional industry would have waited weeks, coordinated with radio stations, and planned a marketing campaign costing thousands of dollars. Michael didn’t need any of that. He had total control of the digital infrastructure and a hungry audience that had just witnessed his physical transformation on stage.
Without consulting Karl, or Harris, or anyone at the label, Michael slid the cursor over the “Publish” button on his official YouTube, Apple Music, and Spotify accounts. His fingers moved with icy precision. Next, he opened his Instagram.
He selected a photograph that Big Rob had taken from the side of the stage barely an hour earlier: a grainy, backlit image where his shirtless silhouette could be seen, surrounded by a dense bluish mist and the glow of a thousand phone flashlights. It was the image of a modern idol in his purest state.
“Save That Shit. Out now everywhere. Link in bio,” he wrote as the caption.
He pressed “Share” and left the phone on the mattress. The effect was instantaneous. The screen began to light up with an incessant barrage of notifications that made the bed vibrate. Michael lay back completely, interlacing his hands behind his head and closing his eyes.
“Let the algorithm do the rest of the work,” he thought with an imperceptible smile.
Miles away, on the servers of the streaming platforms, the play counters began spinning like crazy. Michael had just dropped an emotional fragmentation bomb in the middle of the night, and he knew that by the time the bus reached Tucson, the whole world would be singing his new lyrics. Digital dominance wasn’t requested; it was executed.
1:20 AM
Just minutes after the release, the digital world began to convulse. In a room in Tempe, Arizona, a group of fans who had just arrived from the concert turned on a high-fidelity speaker. The atmosphere, charged with the residual adrenaline from the show, froze when Michael’s first line cut through the air.
“Fuck my life, can’t save that, girl” “Don’t tell me you could save that shit”
“Oh my God!” one of the girls screamed, turning the volume to maximum. “Listen to his voice, it sounds like he’s broken but at the same time has total control.”
“All she wants is payback” “For the way I always play that shit”
“It’s about the groupies,” a guy in the group analyzed, nodding his head to the rhythm of the 808 bass that made the windows vibrate. “He knows they all want to charge him for how he ‘plays the game.’ He’s not hiding from anything.”
Meanwhile, on a livestream that already exceeded fifty thousand viewers, a well-known YouTube reactor was holding his head in his hands. The song continued flowing, hitting with brutal honesty:
“You ain’t getting nothing, now I’m saying, don’t tell me you is” “Nothin’ like them other motherfuckers” “I can make you rich (I can make you rich)”
“Look at that audacity!” the YouTuber exclaimed to his camera. “He’s flexing his status. He’s telling them to their faces that he’s not like the other trashy rappers. He has the power to make people rich, but listen to the warning that comes next, this is what separates Michael from the rest.”
“I can make you this, baby, I can make you that” “I can take you there, but baby, you won’t make it back”
“That bar is dark,” wrote a user in a Reddit thread that was growing by the second. “He says he can take you to the top, to extreme fame, but that you won’t come back the same. ‘You won’t make it back.’ It’s a metaphor about the price of your soul in the industry.”
The song advanced toward a vulnerability that silenced the harshest critics. Michael wasn’t just bragging; he was showing the cracks in his new reality:
“Growing sick of this and I don’t wanna make you sad” “Do I make you scared? Baby, won’t you take me back?”
“Here’s the key,” a music critic commented on Twitter. “Michael admits he’s getting tired of all this noise. ‘Growing sick of this.’ He’s a sixteen-year-old kid dealing with the weight of the world. He asks if he’s scary, because he knows his rise has been so violent that it intimidates those who knew him before.”
In a lonely corner of some random city, a fan listened with headphones, feeling the bridge of the song like a chill down her spine:
“Down another lonely road, I go” “Just another lonely road, oh” “I just wanna know, I just gotta know” “Do you wanna glow?” “Baby we could glow”
She closed her eyes. For her, it wasn’t a party song; it was an invitation to shine in the midst of loneliness. Michael made the emptiness feel beautiful. But the song didn’t allow the listener to stay in the sadness, returning to the chorus with overwhelming energy:
“Fuck my life, can’t save that, girl” “Don’t tell me you could save that shit” “All she wants is payback” “For the way I always play that shit” “You ain’t getting nothing, now I’m saying, don’t tell me you is” “Nothin’ like them other motherfuckers” “I can make you rich (I can make you rich)”
“It’s an anthem,” the YouTuber concluded on his livestream, while the chat filled with fire emojis. “He’s taken the sound of the street, the sadness of trap, and turned it into a luxury product that anyone can sing. Michael didn’t just release a song, he released his testament of victory.”
Finally, the track closed with a repetition that sounded like a fulfilled prophecy:
“Do I make you scared? Baby, won’t you take me back?” “Nothin’ like them other motherfuckers I can make you rich”
The silence that followed on social media was brief, only to be broken by the sound of millions of people pressing the “Repeat” button. Michael, lying in his bus, didn’t need to see the statistics to know that the Domino Effect had just knocked down the first tile.
1:35 AM
In a studio lit by purple LED lights in Atlanta, a famous YouTube “reactor” known as D-Rex had just interrupted his regular programming. His Twitch chat was moving so fast it was impossible to read the names. Thousands of people were screaming the same thing at him: “MICHAEL DROPPED SOMETHING!”
“Calm down, calm down!” D-Rex shouted at the camera, adjusting his headset. “I’ve got it right here. They say it came out twenty minutes ago. Let’s see what the wonder kid brings this time. It’s called Save That Shit.”
D-Rex hit play. As soon as the rhythmic base kicked in, the YouTuber threw himself back in his gaming chair, eyes wide open.
“That bass is disrespectful!” he exclaimed, pausing the song to talk to his audience. “Listen to how clean that production is. But wait, let’s get into the lyrics. This sounds very personal.”
He hit play again and closed his eyes to concentrate on the bars Michael was dropping with a hypnotic cadence. The phrases began to parade by, each one loaded with a weight the reactor didn’t expect:
“I can make you this, baby, I can make you that” “I can take you there, but baby, you won’t make it back”
D-Rex paused again, with an expression of absolute disbelief.
“Did you hear that?” he asked the camera, pointing at the screen. “He says he can turn you into whatever you want, that he can take you to the top, but he warns you that you won’t come back. ‘You won’t make it back.’ It’s a direct reference to how the industry changes you. This kid is sixteen years old and he’s writing about the loss of innocence like he’s forty.”
He continued listening, letting the song flow toward the emotional bridge:
“Growing sick of this and I don’t wanna make you sad” “Do I make you scared? Baby, won’t you take me back?” “Nothin’ like them other motherfuckers” “I can make you rich (I can make you rich)”
D-Rex started nodding his head violently to the rhythm of the 808.
“He’s a genius!” he shouted over the music. “The juxtaposition is incredible. In one bar he tells you he’s tired of everything (‘Growing sick of this’) and in the next he reminds you that he’s not like the others and that he can make you a millionaire. It’s the saddest flex I’ve ever heard in my life.”
The chat exploded in fire and skull emojis. Viewers were analyzing Michael’s vocal technique, noting how the autotune wasn’t used to correct, but to create a texture of electric crying.
“Look at the structure,” D-Rex continued, ignoring the thousands of dollars in donations falling on his screen. “He repeats the chorus but each time it sounds more desperate.”
“Fuck my life, can’t save that, girl” “Don’t tell me you could save that shit” “All she wants is payback” “For the way I always play that shit”
“He’s exposing the ‘groupies’ and the people who only want money, but he blames himself for how he ‘plays the game,’” the YouTuber analyzed. “It’s insane. Michael just released the official anthem of self-destruction in success. If this doesn’t hit the Top 10 in a week, the industry is broken.”
D-Rex ended the video in silence, simply letting the final guitar melody fade away. He removed his headphones and looked at the camera with genuine respect.
“Guys, we just witnessed something historic. This isn’t just a surprise release. It’s Michael marking his territory. He’s not a pop star; he’s a problem for every other artist.”
2:10 AM
The sliding door of the suite slid open smoothly. Karl entered with unusual calm, holding his iPad in one hand and an energy drink in the other. There was no panic on his face, just that analytical look of someone watching the numbers in their bank account rise in real time. Since Michael was an independent artist, there were no boards of directors to explain things to or exclusivity contracts to protect. It was just the two of them and the algorithm.
“Michael, the traffic is absurd,” Karl said, sitting on the edge of the production desk. “We just bypassed all industry protocols. No radio, no prior press, just an Instagram post and the Spotify and YouTube links. We’re monetizing every second of this chaos.”
Michael remained lying down, watching the ceiling of the bus. The sound of the newly released song filled the space, the bars cutting the air with a coldness that contrasted with the euphoria of the metrics.
“I can make you this, baby, I can make you that” “I can take you there, but baby, you won’t make it back”
“That line about not being able to come back… the fans are using it as a caption everywhere,” Karl commented, sliding his finger across the screen. “What I love most about you being independent is that one hundred percent of this impact is ours. There are no labels taking seventy percent. Tomorrow, the scalpers in Tucson are going to triple the ticket prices.”
Karl drank from his can and pointed at the speakers as the lyrics advanced toward the most vulnerable part of the track.
“Growing sick of this and I don’t wanna make you sad” “Do I make you scared? Baby, won’t you take me back?” “Nothin’ like them other motherfuckers” “I can make you rich (I can make you rich)”
“That contradiction is pure gold, Michael,” Karl continued with a cynical smile. “You say you’re tired of all this, but then you remind them that you can make them rich. It’s the perfect fantasy for kids today. They want success, but they also want to feel misunderstood.”
Michael sat up slowly, looking at Karl’s iPad. The revenue from direct streams and the increase in official merchandise sales on the website were creating a vertical curve.
“I don’t need a label telling me when to release my music, Karl,” Michael replied in a flat voice. “They would have wanted to save this track for summer. But the fans’ hunger is today. If you give them food when they’re hungry, they belong to you forever.”
Karl nodded, completely agreeing. His job was to manage that hunger and turn it into an empire. He didn’t care if Michael released a song at three in the morning or in the middle of a concert; as long as the digital impact translated into power and capital, Michael had absolute freedom.
“Nothin’ like them other motherfuckers” “I can make you rich (I can make you rich)” “Nothin’ like them other motherfuckers” “I can make you rich (I can make you rich)”
“Exactly,” Michael said as the song reached its end. “I’m not like the others. And they already know it.”
Karl got up to let Michael rest, knowing that the Domino Effect was just beginning. Tomorrow in Tucson, the audience wouldn’t just know the song; they would sing it as if it were the anthem of their lives.
3:00 AM
The hum of the Prevost’s engine was a constant lull as the vehicle devoured miles southward. Michael sat in front of his production desk, watching how the SoundCloud play graphs updated every sixty seconds. The curve wasn’t organic; it was a vertical shot that defied any traditional market logic.
A couple of soft knocks on the door announced T-Roc, who entered with his DJ headphones hanging around his neck. Unlike the euphoria of Phoenix, his expression was more technical and focused.
“Michael, the impact of ‘Save That Shit’ is breaking the algorithm, but we need to talk about tomorrow,” T-Roc said, sitting on the edge of the suite’s sofa. “The venue in Tucson is much smaller. It’s almost an intimate club. We’re not going to have the space Phoenix had for those massive moshpits.”
Michael turned his leather chair, nodding. He had already processed that information.
“I know. Tucson is going to be personal. I want them to feel like I’m breathing on top of them,” Michael replied. “T-Roc, forget today’s setlist. We’re going to change the energy completely. I need the order to be surgical.”
T-Roc pulled out his laptop and opened the track management software, waiting for instructions.
“We’re going to open with ‘Ghost Boy’ to set the tone,” Michael dictated while T-Roc typed. “Then we go straight to ‘Star Shopping.’ I want the club to be silent, just with phone lights. After that we lower our guard more with ‘Jocelyn Flores.’ That’s where we’ll drop the premiere: ‘Save That Shit’ has to come in right after, when the atmosphere is charged with tension.”
“It’s an emotional rollercoaster, Mike,” T-Roc commented, reviewing the transitions. “And after?”
“After the new one, we drop the heavy artillery so the place explodes: ‘Lucid Dreams’ and ‘XO Tour Llif3’ back to back,” Michael continued. “But we won’t end there. To close, I want to bring down the revolutions with ‘Betrayed’ and end the night with ‘Crybaby.’ I want the last image they have to be of a movement, not just a rapper.”
T-Roc saved the changes and closed the laptop with a sharp snap.
“It’s a risky setlist for a small venue, but it’s going to work,” T-Roc said. “In a place like that, ‘Crybaby’ is going to leave them speechless. It’s the perfect closer for them to take the feeling home.”
“Exactly,” Michael replied. “Tell the lighting guys that in Tucson I don’t want violent strobes all the time. I want long shadows and cold colors. I want it to feel like we’re in my bedroom, not on a national tour.”
T-Roc left the suite to go rest in his bunk. Michael turned off the studio monitors, leaving the room in total darkness. He got up, poured himself a glass of water, and lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling while the bus continued its journey. Tomorrow there wouldn’t be large stages or thousands of people screaming in the distance; tomorrow in Tucson, he would see the tears and sweat of his fans just inches from his face.