While Bill was just about to enter a meeting with an ambitious and wildly wealthy billionaire—one of those rare men with enough vision and capital to bend reality to his will—across the city of Los Angeles, his second set of meeting partners for the day were having a much less straightforward journey.
You could say it had started smoothly enough. Two guys—Max Clemons and Trey Steiger—childhood acquaintances from the small town of Bowling Green, Kentucky. Though calling them friends back then would've been a stretch. Not quite classmates in the traditional sense—Max was a jock, varsity basketball royalty, the kind of guy who had his photo framed in the school gym before graduation. He was tall, broad-shouldered, naturally athletic, and led his high school team to the state finals, nearly punching their ticket to the nationals. He had the swagger, the sneakers, and the girlfriend. The golden boy.
Trey, on the other hand, lived in a world far removed from locker rooms and cheerleaders. He was the quintessential nerd: glasses perpetually sliding down his nose, a love for Dungeons & Dragons, coding, comic books, and an endless curiosity about systems—whether they were economic, digital, or social. While Max soared on the court, Trey thrived in robotics competitions and debate tournaments. If Max's world was lit by the roar of crowds, Trey's glowed with the soft hum of computers and the quiet flip of comic book pages.
But they didn't just orbit different circles—they collided. In high school, Max was, quite frankly, a bully to Trey. Not the evil, villain-twirling-mustache kind, but the casual, daily torment kind. Locker shoves. Nicknames like "Four-Eyes 2.0." And a long-standing tradition of turning Trey's lunch tray into a modern art project.
Their relationship was toxic, one-sided, and humiliating… until fate—or rather, Coach Delaney—intervened.
It was during senior year. Max was on the verge of failing Chemistry, the one subject standing between him and eligibility for the state finals. The school's last hope for glory was about to go up in flames.
Enter Trey.
Coach called him into his office and pleaded with him—well, practically begged him—to tutor Max for the next three weeks. Trey didn't want to. Not even a little. But the school gave him extra credit, and more importantly, the chance to finally prove he was good for something other than being picked on.
He showed up at Max's house one Thursday afternoon after school, expecting to suffer through a few hours of explaining molarity and valence electrons to a brainless jock. What he found, instead, blew his mind.
Max's room wasn't just posters of Kobe and stacks of sneakers. It had a lab bench. Beakers. Vials. A whiteboard filled with molecular formulas. And on his desk, a lineup of oddly labeled bottles—homemade energy drinks, no less. Trey's jaw practically hit the floor.
"You… do chemistry?" Trey had asked, stunned.
Max, half-embarrassed, shrugged. "Yeah. My uncle's a biochemist. I got into it a couple years ago. Started messing around with my own formulas for hydration. Gatorade tastes like toilet water."
Trey, intrigued, picked up one of the bottles. "You made this?"
"Yep. Try it."
He did. And holy hell—it was good. Clean. Refreshing. Almost addictive. Not too sweet, not too sour. Something you'd expect from a company, not a high schooler.
That was the moment their relationship began to change.
Trey started hanging out at Max's house more often—not just for tutoring, but because he was fascinated. The bully he once feared had depth, brilliance, a raw talent for chemistry that bordered on genius. And Max, in turn, realized Trey wasn't some emotionless robot—he was sharp, visionary, the kind of guy who saw ten steps ahead.
As Trey dived deeper into Max's world of flavor compounds and rehydration science, something in him clicked. Where Max saw a hobby, Trey saw a future. A company. A brand.
"You know," Trey said one night as they mixed another batch, "this isn't just something cool you do in your garage. This… this could be a business. A real one. Like, Gatorade-level. Monster, Rockstar, Red Bull—we could compete."
Max raised an eyebrow. "You think so?"
"I know so."
And so the seed was planted.
After high school, Max ditched sports—much to the surprise of everyone back home—and threw himself fully into studying food science and chemical engineering. He wanted to understand the science behind commercial-grade beverage creation. Trey, meanwhile, majored in business with a focus on branding, supply chains, and startup growth. They stayed close through college, sending ideas back and forth, building a network, and refining Max's formulas through hundreds of test batches.
By 2021, after years of planning, research, and trial-and-error, they officially launched their startup: Congo Brands. The name was bold. Symbolic. Meant to evoke power, nature, vitality.
And their flagship product? A sleek, zero-sugar, hydration-focused drink they called: Prime.
Trey and Max were ecstatic when the first shipment rolled out. The bottles looked good, the formula was strong, and the mission was clear—compete with the giants: Gatorade, Powerade, Monster, Rockstar, BodyArmor, Celsius, Red Bull. Prime wasn't just another drink—it was their shot at changing the game.
At least, that's what they thought.
Then reality hit. Hard.
The first three months were a brutal wake-up call. Despite their optimism, Prime wasn't selling. Retailers passed on it. Gas stations wouldn't stock it. Grocery chains didn't return calls. People had no clue what Prime was—or why they should care.
Their dream, once gleaming like a polished bottle under showroom lights, was now collecting dust in a warehouse. Tens of thousands of units sat unsold. Their investors had gone quiet. The money was gone—poured into production, logistics, and packaging. Advertising? They couldn't afford a single billboard.
Broke and defeated, they ended up back where it all began: Max's parents' garage. The same place they first bonded over chemistry and business plans. Now, it was their war room. Or more accurately, their place of mourning.
They sat in silence for hours. Around them were unopened boxes, perfectly sealed, perfectly flavored drinks nobody wanted. The company was hemorrhaging. Bankruptcy wasn't just on the horizon—it was days away.
"We're screwed," Max muttered, head in his hands. "We've got everything except what actually matters—popularity."
Trey looked at him, eyes red from stress but still sparking with a strange fire.
"Then let's buy some," he said.
Max stared. "What?"
"Let's get celebrities to endorse us," Trey said, suddenly animated. "Big ones. Athletes. YouTubers. Musicians. People the world actually listens to."
Max blinked. "Trey, are you high? We couldn't pay a clown to dance at a kid's party, let alone a celebrity to hold our drink on camera."
Trey grinned, undeterred. "Oh, but we do have something we can offer…"
Max Clemons and Trey Steiger had been in California for days now, working tirelessly to bring their dream of Prime to life. The company, now officially known as Congo Brands, had started with ambition and a sense of boundless potential. But in just three months, reality had come crashing down. They'd poured every last dollar they had into production, only to watch as their drink – which they knew had something special – barely made a dent in the marketplace. It wasn't just a slow start; it was almost a complete failure. The product, the formula, even the taste – everything was perfect. But there was one problem. No one knew who they were.
The shelves of every retailer had rejected them. No one had heard of Prime, and the drink was barely making waves in the circles that mattered. They'd spent months in the trenches, meeting with distributors, hoping for that one breakthrough that would put them on the map. But the cold truth was hard to ignore: they had a great product, but no one cared.
And now, as they sat in the garage of Max's parents' house – the very place where their journey had begun years ago – the reality set in. They were almost broke. The last of their money was tied up in thousands of unsold units of Prime, and if they didn't figure something out, bankruptcy loomed on the horizon.
"I don't know how much longer we can keep this up, Trey," Max said, staring down at his hands as if they could offer some sort of solution.
Trey, always the more optimistic of the two, wasn't about to give in. "We have equity, Max. We have ownership. That's our trump card."
Max looked up at him, confused. "What are you talking about?"
Trey leaned forward, his eyes brightening as he explained his plan. "We don't have the money for celebrity endorsements, but we have something better: equity. We both own 50% of Congo Brands. What if we turn it into a parent company, and then create Prime as its own entity? We could sell 30% of Prime to investors, and the remaining 40%—we could offer that to celebrities, give them equity in the company."
Max's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Wait, you want to give away ownership of Prime?"
Trey nodded. "Yes, but not just any celebrity. I'm talking about getting celebrities who have real skin in the game. They wouldn't just be endorsing us—they'd be owners, too. They'd promote it, not because they're paid, but because their success would directly tie to ours."
Max took a moment to digest the idea. Trey was right. This could be a game-changer. A normal endorsement deal was just a transaction, but if a celebrity had their own equity, their financial success would be directly linked to the company's growth. They'd have more motivation, more passion. They'd push the product as if it were their own.
"This could work," Max admitted slowly. "But, there's one huge problem... We don't exactly know any A-list celebrities, do we?"
Trey grimaced. "Exactly. Getting someone like that is impossible. We're just two guys from Kentucky with an idea. Celebrities have agents, and they don't exactly take meetings with unknowns like us."
Max leaned back in his chair. "Then we're screwed, right?"
"No," Trey said, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "There's another way. There's a whole new class of celebrities—streamers, YouTubers, and content creators. These guys have massive followings, some even bigger than traditional stars. They don't have the baggage or the tight connections to agents that A-listers do. They're still hungry for new opportunities."
Max's mind was working quickly now, considering the possibilities. "You mean influencers, right? People like Kai Cenat, Adin Ross and Mr Beast?"
"Exactly," Trey replied, grinning. "These guys aren't just content creators; they're brands unto themselves. They have insane reach, and the best part? They don't have the same hurdles as movie stars or musicians. They're more willing to take risks and collaborate. Plus, they're often looking for new ways to grow their brands."
And so, after months of planning, negotiating, and navigating the complex world of influencer marketing, they set their sights on KSI and Logan Paul—two of the biggest stars in the YouTube and streaming worlds. Both had enormous followings and had branched out into everything from boxing to business ventures. The potential was huge.
But just as they thought they were closing in on their deal with KSI and Logan, something monumental happened.
One evening, while Max and Trey were sitting in their hotel room, discussing the next steps, they received a call that would change everything. It was from John, a friend they'd met during their college years. John had told them that his girlfriend worked at a talent agency and that he'd overheard something that could change their lives.
John's voice was filled with excitement as he relayed the news. "Guys, you won't believe it. My girlfriend represents Ethan Jones. Yeah, THE Ethan Jones—the rising star in the music industry! I overheard her talking about how he's looking for his first endorsement deal. This could be it."
The room went silent. Max and Trey exchanged a stunned look.
Ethan Jones. The name hit them like a ton of bricks. Ethan was a sensation. Just a year ago, he was a kid with a viral YouTube video. But now? He was everywhere. His debut album had taken the world by storm, charting at the top of every major music platform. His concerts were sold-out events, and his name was a household one. He was the rookie who had shattered records and was now standing at the precipice of becoming a global superstar. He was, in every sense, the hottest name in entertainment.
Max could hardly believe it. "Wait, you mean THE Ethan Jones? The one with the crazy rise? The guy who's literally everywhere? The one with the most talked-about tour of 2022?"
"Yes," John said, clearly excited. "That's the one. He's the real deal, guys. If you can get him, you won't just be working with a celebrity—you'll be working with a phenomenon."
Max and Trey were speechless. Ethan Jones was the type of person who could elevate Prime to a level they never imagined. If they could secure his endorsement, it would not just be another deal—it would be the deal that would change everything.
Without wasting a second, Max and Trey begged John to set up an introduction. They promised him everything, from a cut of the deal to endless gratitude, but it wasn't just the money that drove them. It was the chance to finally make Prime a household name.
And so, the two friends worked quickly, pulling together everything they could to show Lisa—the girlfriend who worked with Ethan's agency—the potential of their plan. They pitched their idea with sincerity, explaining how their drink was not just another product, but a revolutionary brand. Their passion, mixed with the sincerity of their pitch, convinced her to take it to her boss—Ethan's personal manager.
The news was earth-shattering. They now had a meeting scheduled with Ethan's management. This was the golden opportunity they'd been waiting for.
But before they could even get their hopes fully up, a moment of truth arrived. They were just about to leave their hotel room for the meeting when a knock echoed at the door. Max and Trey exchanged nervous glances.
When they opened the door, standing there, just outside their hotel room, were KSI and Logan Paul—the two very content creators they had been negotiating with for months.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still. They had worked so hard to get here, but now, it was clear: the decision they had to make was going to define everything