Bimbo Pop Princess
Prologue — Candy Records
The auditorium was filled to the brim. In the modest country town, high-profile entertainment was a rare occurrence. Knowing this, when the local high school got to host a sponsored singing competition, the locals didn’t stop to ponder whether they really were interested in watching teenagers make fools of themselves.
Indeed, most of the townsfolk had never heard of this “Candy Records” label, and generally expected nothing more from the event than an utterly tacky marketing ploy. Perhaps the company would show off one of their artists after a string of half-assed performances by the local kids. Perhaps they would be content with just selling merchandise. Not of it really mattered to the townspeople, as long as they got to do something with their evening other than going to the goddamn dart club or whatever.
Of course, not all of the people present were just desperate to shake things up. Some were genuinely here to sing or listen to the aspiring artists. And since Candy Records allowed contestants until age 25, there was at least a reasonable chance that some of them actually knew their stuff. Rock bands, metal bands, some solo singers, the town had its share of competent, starry-eyed musicians seeing this as their opportunity to take off. But this story isn’t about them. It is about the quiet, lanky brunette sitting in the back rows, fiddling away with her Smartphone as one of teenage rock bands take the scene.
“Last ones before I’m up.” She types to her bedridden best friend. “I really do hope you appreciate this.”
“Thx thx thx Brooke!” Comes the reply. “I swear Ill make it up 2 you!”
“If your song really makes it, just make sure it’s interpreted by someone who actually likes singing.”
“Oh, cmon gal! You know you have a great singing voice.”
“Whatever.”
Brooke Wendell doesn’t really care for her voice, singing or otherwise. It was a bit nasal ; Nothing to be called a straight speech impediment, but enough to make her stand out. Sure, at least when she was singing she sounded less like a trumpet. Not enough of an incentive to start socializing, if you ask her.
Calling Brooke a nerd would no doubt be excessive. She is reserved and technologically inclined, but also a very clean-cut and serious young woman. With a smooth, refined short hairstyle, plain androgynous clothes and utter lack of makeup, she was readily identifiable as an all-business kind of gal. And indeed, she was working freelance in graphic design. Always looking at a screen, she had neither the taste nor the patience for face to face interaction.
Still, she had made a promise to her childhood friend Elisa, and she’ll be damned if she ever gets back on her word. As soon as the rock band is done, Brooke sighs, gets up and walks to the stage. The townspeople are understandably surprised to see her there—she is known for her distant demeanor. She quickly moves to reassure them.
“I’m just here to play the song Elisa Sloane wrote. She’d done it herself, but she came down with the flu just two days ago. Lisa loves this song and really wanted to get it out there. Please give her all the credit.”
Without further ado, Brooke takes the mic as Elisa’s guitar tune recording plays in the background. The gaunt brunette closes her eyes to drown out the crowd as she begins to sing. She would really rather be somewhere else, but for her friend, she’s ready to give it her all. She delivers the poetic, romantic verse with a rare heartfelt quality to her voice.
It doesn’t send the audience into incredulous awe. It isn’t the accidental discovery of the world’s best singer. But it is a surprisingly touching performance of a lovingly crafted song by a young, flat young woman known as icy around town. People nod in acknowledgment of miss Sloane’s composer skills, and boys make the resolution to talk to that Brooke girl a bit more. But it doesn’t light a fire under anyone’s butt, and that’s just how Brooke likes it. She finishes, and bow as the mandatory applause comes. The graphics designer walks off the stage and texts her friend.
“There. All done. Crowd liked it okay.”
“Aw, thx Brookie, luv ya!”
“No problem. I hope those Candy Records guys get interested.”
“I hope too!”
“Get well soon, alright?”
Uninteresting in staying there a moment longer, Brooke swings open the auditorium’s doors and goes out. She has a freelance business to take care of. But just as she strides through the lobby, checking her professional email box, a man’s voice calls her.
“Miss Wendell? Could I have a moment, please?”
Brooke raised her eyes and turned around, annoyed and ready to explain again she was just here to do her friend a solid. She was given pause, however, when he saw the thirty-something, handsome man in a sharp suit complete with a Candy Records badge. He was one of the sponsors...She had to at least try to get him to sign Elisa.
“Sure.”
“Miss Wendell”, the man began by saying, “My name is Ian Horne, Candy Records’ head of A&R department. I realize you’re acting as a proxy here, and I assure you I’d be excited to get in talks with your friend once she gets better. But your voice is exactly what Candy Records has been looking after for months.”
“What, really?” Drably replied Brooke, incredulous. “I’m not a singer and I’m not looking to be. It’s Elisa you’re looking f...”
“Yes, yes, I understand!” He answered with the utmost diplomacy. “And I know this is a bit cavalier as far as business offers go, but before you cut me off, understand we are talking about an at least six-figure yearly salary here.”
The young graphics designer might have been cautious and in active dislike of all public affairs, but money could also make her nod her head at inappropriate times. Dollar signs would have popped out of her eyes right then and there had it been possible.
“I’m listening.”
“Let’s go into a more private location first. Coffee?”
“Tea, thanks.”
Fifteen minutes later, another Candy Records’ executive walks back toward the high school auditorium, a bag of countryside fast food under his arms. He got bored of the pointless “contest” right about the time yet another inexperienced rock band showed up, and left his colleague Ian deal with the small town folk. Suddenly, his phone rings. It was Ian.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Rick, my man, we got her! We friggin’ got her!”
“What? The mother of all boredom?”
“No, you idiot, the Voice! Just when you left, this flat and boring girl comes in and sings some poetic stuff, and she sounds exactly -and I mean exactly- like her! Give her a cartoony redneck accent and she’s fucking Trixie Smiles!”
“You’re kidding. We got send across the country looking for a one in a million shot and we fucking hit it?! Where is she?”
“Sleeping in the diner across the street. Sure glad we got this sleight of hand course...We have to get her to HQ, fast!”
“Coming right away, Ian-o!
Rick O’Neill cannot believe his and his colleague’s luck. He was so convinced Candy Records’ already loony bosses had finally gone the useless kind of crazy, and yet, after just a few months of searching, they found someone who sounded exactly like the completely fake Internet starlet the “record label” has created. Indeed, Candy Records had never dealt with actual artists—they were part of a shadowy consortium exploring the mechanics of popularity. They created real-sounding artificial voices, gave them some characterization, and threw them at YouTube to see what sticks.
Their most successful fake singer by far was Trixie Smiles, a bubbly Southern cutie with a major case of the chatterboxes. She was a real airhead, but her down-to-earth, modest village gal image and her open-hearted rants had managed to melt the heart of many an internet cynic. She simply appeared too naive and earnest to be fake. The fact that she was too bashful to readily post pictures of herself apparently helped fuel the interest as well. Quickly, her popularity exploded. Candy Records Frankensteined together blurry photoshops of her as a modestly clothed, really busty redhead, but that soon proved insufficient. The fake label understood they had to make her real.
They had the means to do so—the consortium they were a part of dabbled in body modification, nanotechnology and mind control. Taking one girl as turning her into Trixie Smiles was a piece of cake for them. The only problem was that the first thing people knew about her was her voice...And all their body mod technology couldn’t manipulate something as complex as the human voice.
Which was why they had taken to hunt down the one-in a million girl with the exact same voice as their fictional Southern bimbo. The only suitable candidate for transformation.
And now, they had found her. The two nefarious record label employees discretely spirited the knocked-out Brooke Wendell away, driving her toward Candy Records’ headquarters, and toward her new life.
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