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.
The Bieb looked at me carefully for a few seconds. "Do you think that will work for me?"
"Are you willing to poo your pants in a court of law?" I asked, leaning in, peering at him intently. "Most people think they could, but it's way harder than it sounds."
"You hesitated, and that tells me the answer is 'no.'"
"But you've got to help me escape."
"I've got to help you escape," I repeated, trying the words on for size.
"You could go to the authorities!"
I shook my head. "You're Canadian. They'd just push you down. I once had my car broken into, and when I reported it to the police, when they found out I was Canadian, they pushed me down the stairs. There wasn't even any stairs nearby - he actually lured me to some stairs to do it."
The Bieb frowned, and looked frustrated. "Well you could spread word about my plight in your column. Maybe one of your readers could become a lawyer or something? Or at least start a collection to get me out of debt?"
I inhaled through my teeth. "Eeeeeeeessssh. My readers kind of hate you. In fact, they are generally just really bad people. Telling them you were in distress would cause them no end of amusement, and in fact, a less scrupulous journalist than myself might even fabricate just such a story in order to generate some cheap pageviews."
"I see," Bieber said after considering that for a few seconds. "Isn't there anything you can do?"
I bit my lip. "Here," I said, reaching into my pocket, from which I produced a bill. I handed it to him.
He took the bill from my hand, a dejected look on his angelic little face. "Five bucks? You're giving me five lousy bucks?"
I looked embarassed. "Well... no."
I shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I mean... am I getting any change back from that?
"You're giving me less than five bucks?"
"I'm trying to."
So it turns out that Justin Bieber is just a real huge white-slave-baby, and is also a vicious little fuck when armed with a nail polish mixing paddle. He proceeded to smack me in the face and torso a couple dozen times, growing ever angrier by my lack of resistance and because "I smelled like I'd pooed my pants." When he eventually left to fetch the the security guard I made my pantsless escape, having heaved my indeed-very-soiled trousers into the vat of nail polish before bolting.
So if there are any genuine nail polish/Justin Bieber fans reading this, you know, fair warning. Wash your hands before you eat I guess.
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