where does it come from?

In a large metropolitan area in California there is an average recording studio. It has numerous glass-encased records lining the walls. Some have signatures on them. There is a photograph of a sound engineer and Ringo Starr displayed prominently above an immense and expensive-looking soundboard, on which the sound engineer from the photo is resting his elbow. His eyes are closed and he is gently squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger. Looking through a large pane of glass, we see a twenty-four year old male standing in front of a microphone. His name is Zach. His hair is cut in a deliberately uneven manner that is consistent with the prevailing fashion sensibilities of his social circle. It is dyed black in places. There is a ring in his left ear that stretches his earlobe into a six centimeter circle, revealing a portion of his neck that would otherwise go unnoticed. His eyes are decorated with a small amount of black eyeliner.
At the moment, he is pressing a set of headphones to his ears with both hands and melodically reciting the lyrics to a song he wrote entitled “What Goes Around Comes Around.” The song is a departure for Zach--an acoustic number lacking in much of the heavy percussion and layered guitar work that characterized his prior musical endeavors. He has recently moved to this city from the suburbs of Ohio, leaving behind his band, “In Silence Prevails the Glory,” to seek out greater opportunities. However, until he is able to find a group of like-minded and similarly dressed musicians, he will be limited to a certain musical asceticism.
His voice reaches a whiny, slightly effeminate crescendo and he stops singing. He gives a “thumbs-up” to the sound engineer on the other side of the glass who does not notice. He pulls up his pants, which have drifted below his knees during the course of the vocal take, delicately rests the headphones on the microphone stand, and enters the room where the sound engineer is staring blankly at his computer monitor. The sound engineer speaks languidly, without looking at Zach.
“Alright.”
“I think that was the one,” Zach says. “We can probably call it a day.”
The sound engineer nods. “Cool.”
“So are we good for tomorrow?”
The sound engineer stretches and tilts his head slightly, evincing doubt. “I dunno. I think I’m busy tomorrow. We’ll check the calendar.”
Zach understands. “Cool.”
“So,” the sound engineer begins, “Let’s go ahead and square-up before we start mixing.”
“Yeah, cool.” Zach is slightly put off by the request.
The sound engineer begins to punch numbers into a small calculator. “It’s going to be seven hundred and eighty all-together.”
Zach’s eyes widen. “What?”
“Sixty-five dollars an hour. Twelve hours. Seven hundred and eighty.”
Zach pauses. “Man…”
“I’d prefer cash if you can do that.”
“I don’t really have it,” Zach says quietly.
The sound engineer frowns.
“I mean, I didn’t think it would be that much.”
“You’d better get it,” the sound engineer says calmly.
“I can’t.”
“How much do you have?”
Zach reaches down, fishing for his wallet, which is at the end of an enormous chain. He pulls out several bills, counts them, and hands them to the sound engineer. “Two-fifty,” he says.
“Get out.”
“ Well, okay,” Zach says nervously, “but could I have the recording? I can pay you when I get a band together and stuff. I just want to get this thing out there, you know?”
“No. Get out.”
“Well, I mean, it’s my recording-”
“It’s not your recording,” the sound engineer hisses, “it belongs to Harris Teeter now.”
“What?”
The sound engineer retrieves a wooden baseball bat from somewhere underneath the console. Before Zach has a chance to process the strange turn of events, he is running down the studio hallway, holding his pants up with one hand, being chased by the bat-wielding sound engineer. His shoulder slams into a glass record frame, knocking it off of the wall. He hears it shatter behind him. He stumbles down a staircase, slipping and bruising a butt cheek. He limps through the front door and continues down the street. Looking back he can see the sound engineer standing in the doorway, bat in hand. “Don’t come back you fucking bum!”
Two blocks away, deciding that he is safe, Zach slows his pace. He glances over his shoulder and notices several Starbucks patrons eyeing him through the store window. A terrible thought runs through his mind: what if he never becomes famous? A tear runs down his cheek, ruining his eyeliner.
Meanwhile, in the recording studio, the sound engineer presses a speed dial button on his phone labeled “HT HQ.”
“May I speak to Mr. Morganthall please?” The sound engineer waits patiently, staring at the recording on his computer screen.
“Hello, sir. I have another…yes…yes sir, it’s a real shitter.”
In a richly decorated office in the heart of Atlanta, a man sits behind a desk in a large leather chair, gently petting a black cat in his lap. “Excellent, Mr. Jones. I know the perfect branch.” He looks at a large map of the American South, his eyes focus on a pushpin labeled “Carrboro.”
Both men laugh maniacally.