The Bieb let out a short bark of a laugh. "My riches? Ha!"
"I don't understand," I said, not understanding. "You must be loaded."
He shook his head sadly. "No. They have all my money. I've got nothing."
I looked at him carefully, searching his expression for some hint at what he could mean. "Who took all your money?" I sat down on a nearby staircase. "Come on, I'm a trained columnist." I patted the space beside me. "Sit down and rap with me."
The Bieb sat down, took a deep breath, and began his story. "Ok. So a few years ago, I was just this regular kid in Canada. You know, working 9 days a metric week down at the socialism mine. But then one day this American, wearing a gold chain with a gold watch hanging from it, came to the mine and 'discovered' me. He convinced me to move to America to be a big rock-and-roll star. All I had to do was sign a contract."
I winced. "And the contract says that you owe them a huge amount of money every week for rent and haircuts and purple outfits." I gestured at his purple outfit. "And that all your earnings go directly to your managers first, to pay off these expenses?"
"That's right. And when I'm not out blushing at girls, they make me work here in the polish factory. But how did you know all that?" The Bieb looked surprised.
"It's a pretty common story I'm afraid," I said. "Cracked tried to do the same to me once. I was lucky though. A judge ruled that I was mentally incompetent to enter into contracts, and after that, all my problems went away," I said. "Well not all of them.