Hugh Jazz Mofo.
It was the kind of stupid name you'd expect from a pornstar, or maybe a character in some weird Bond movie parody. But definitely not a world-renown e-celebrity with two million subscribers on each of a dozen social media sites. He was one of the most famous people of his generation, though lately his gaming livestreams and pop-culture commentary videos had been losing views significantly.
Dropping under two million subscribers had been what prompted his new marketing gimmick. It had started out as a typical publicity stunt but with an edge; fans were encouraged to buy memorabilia from his online store and get a very small chance of finding a super rare 'golden ticket' in their new hat or shirt or mug, or whatever cheap crap they bought with his logo on it, anyway.
But rather than some lame prize like meeting him in person, the winner of each golden ticket got to change some personal aspect of his brand image. The marketing team had come up with a score of weird ideas and categories and he'd signed off on the whole venture without much thought. After all, they were the experts, and he would rather be playing the newest first-person-shooter than reading complicated marketing contracts anyway.
He'd been a bit taken aback when the first winner had gotten the 'Name Change' ticket, and promptly picked “Hugh Jazz Mofo” as his new name. He'd been even more shocked when the marketing people explained that the name change wasn't just his brand name or his account names, but was meant to be a legal change of identity.
Now Hugh Jazz Mofo was plastered across all of his merch, and his driver's license to boot.
Still, he was selling a ton of merch, and his views and subs had skyrocketed, so he couldn't exactly complain that the marketing gimmick wasn't effective.
The next ticket had been to choose his new tattoo, and he'd been fine with that; at least, he had been, until he crawled off the table and got to see his new trampstamp after the tattoo session had finally ended.
It wasn't until the marketing team informed him that due to the disclaimer on his contest rules he couldn't schedule a laser tattoo removal procedure that he realized the publicity stunt had been a bad idea after all.
“But... Every Hole's A Goal!!!?!!!” He gasped, pointing unnecessarily at the massive tattoo sprawled across the small of his back, flanked by two massive curved arrows that pointed straight to his ass. “I am not keeping this!”
“You have to, Jame—er, Jazz, the rules on the contest specifically state that all changes are permanent, unless changed by another winner. Until someone else finds another Pick-My-Ink ticket and decides to spend it on a different trampstamp design, you are stuck with that.”
“But it's fucking gay--” he started, before years of well-honed publicity skills stopped him from finishing. You never knew when someone was sneakily filming you, and he could not afford another round of cancel culture types trying to destroy his brand for saying something politically incorrect. The last time he'd made a gay joke on a livestream, he'd had to pretend to date a real gay dude for a few months until it all blew over, and he still had nightmares of that humiliating experience.
“--fucking generic as shit,” he amended, mentally congratulating himself on the quick save. “It's just words and solid black and shit. It's boring.”
“And unless you want to get your ass sued off, you're keeping it,” replied Gemma, his main marketing consultant and the wizard behind both the new ticket gimmick and his fake-gay boyfriend rumor-thing last year. She'd made a specialty of saving his ass.
“Fine, but someone had better use their next tattoo ticket to at least add some color to this thing, or something,” he said, staring into the ever-present cameras recording his every waking moment.
* * * * *
