March 15, 2017:
Boy was he wrong.
In his arrogance he sized me as the button-pusher, my erstwhile business partner as the musician. Reinforced by catching Mr. Partner on the one productive night of his year, an audition he'd prepared for and wanted to ace.
He was blind to the hours I spent re-recording the sloppy performances, playing all the instruments myself. And to the head arrangements I'd shared with Mr. Partner days before. So that when I wrote and recorded the theme song on my own, after Mr. Partner had left to become his new Mr. Partner rather than mine, he seemed entirely baffled.
Still, he recovered his composure enough to demand half the writing credit, being "Producer" and all, a practice I not particularly patiently explained was known as "payola", was illegal, and hadn't been done since the 1950s.
I never heard from him again. Good riddance and sighs of relief. I assume his project failed. I was the musical brains, and the organizational brains, and coincidentally the recording engineer. He was the grifter who swiped Mr. Partner and ruined that friendship. Whatever future he's had since then he stole from someone else.