The sound of ice clacking against the walls of a rock glass is almost deafening within the silent confines of Manuel Estrella's smoking room. His wrist gently rolls to stir his drink as he lounges in his red leather Queen Anne chair with nailhead accents. His expression, equal parts unworried and undeterred as his eyes seem to struggle to stay open as he listens to the hypnotic sound of ice on glass while carrying out his alcoholic ritual.
"Integrity is important to Ghost Organization. It's been our maker's mark since arriving to this island paradise. We demand it of our roster. We demand it of our champions. We demand it of our own ruling ranks. Some among us have not lived up to that expectation. They slack, or rebel, or simply fail to understand our mission statement. When challenging title holders, they fell short of our demanding requirements. This is true of both of our camps, World's Finest. Just as your Crimson Bouquet have not lived up to the standards of Ghost Organization, our own Layne Driver has came under scrutiny as of late. However we plan to remedy both failures to live up to our upstanding and dominant reputation. We will...correct Layne, just as we plan to correct Crimson Bouquet if they so continue to fail to meet our up to standards of excellence."
Manuel purses his lips and takes an almost forced swig of his beverage, as if acting as a child forcing itself to take it's medicine. He gulps down his poison almost reluctantly as his head snaps violently on it's neck swivel as he smacks his lips in forced satisfaction. His eyes light up momentarily with life before settling back to their sleepy half open resting expression.
"When you look upon your ranks Cloud, do you see others living up to our golden example of excellence? When you look at Arata do you see a two time champion, or a two time loser? When you stare at Claudia Michaels do you see a uniting matriarch, or an unwilling martyr? When you stare at Chris Sabertooth, do you see a man possessed, or a broken man abandoned by even his own demons? When you look at Cynthia Rose do you see the hard nosed resolve of sportsmanship, or a broken little girl barely holding it all together? And what do you feel when our judgmental gaze falls upon you? Are you leading the charge into Wrestleworld's revolutionized future, or playing reluctant leader to an island of misfit toys? I wont even bother asking about Crimson Bouquet, because sooner than later they'll be subservient to us, and that makes them a failure even in our eyes."
Manuel watches boredly as he bounces the ice in his glass, not particularly interested in it's nature, but more so disappointed in the lack of liquid spirits hugging it. With a belabored groan and a few creaks of leather, he rises from his comfy seat and slowly saunters toward the bar.
"You have failed us most of all, Crimson Bouquet. Your contrarian nature has left us not knowing what to do with you. We tell you to prove yourselves as heads of our division or head to the back of the line, but instead of proving your mettle as champions you lose decidedly to us at our first challenge and continue to pester us for another shot at our division's gold. We thought about it and said 'bien chicas'. After all, if we can appreciate anything here in Ghost Organization it's tenacity and an unwillingness to step in line and wait your turn, but then what do you do when we ask for your bid at our titles? As if ignoring the message we're trying to pound into Wrestleworld's edict, you offer subservience to Ghost Organization."
Manuel shrugs as he sets to pouring himself another drink, this time opting to stir it with a long golden cocktail spoon instead of manually mixing. After finishing his concoction, he lifts the glass up and studies his work, takes a swig, and then shrugs once more with mixed acceptance.
"When the offer came across our desk, Neron and I weren't in total agreement with one another as to whether we should take it. After all, what benefit are two women to our ranks if we've shown time and time again that they aren't tough enough to compete on our level? He quickly countered that if things didn't play out to our liking that we could turn you out to the streets for a few quick pesos. I found this to be a cruel and crude approach, even coming from a salacious man like my partner. I quickly overruled this decision in favor of making an example of you if we couldn't manage to efficiently weaponize you. We'd show that you weren't even good enough stock to put on the corner by making you carry our bags, fix our drinks, and roll our cigars. We'd turn you into ringside coat racks, force you to fold our gear on the apron and shamefully wear our championships around your neck like domesticating collars serving as a reminder that you're not good enough to wear them around your own waist. You'd smell the leather, feel the burden of the weight that drug you down to rock bottom, and forever remember that this is the only way you'd ever get so much as close to holding the straps again. You'd forever be reminded that you put yourself into the position of servitude when you could've offered your hair or your residency at Wrestleworld instead of a self-appointed life sentence in bondage. After awhile you'll cease to have an identity outside of being our furniture and trophies, like game stuffed and mounted over a fireplace. Strangely, World's Finest's undoubted attempts to free you from our sovereignty will only further belie the new nature of your existence as objects unworthy of having individual identity. You'll be flags to capture in a war that treats your POW status as more of a symbolic goal than a mission of rescue. And we'll just stand on our side of the battlefield, chuffed at the sight of further damnation at your own hands."
Manuel knocks back his drink indiscriminately. His body shudders as the alcohol pours through his body until he clears the vessel and slams the empty glass down on the table.
"Soon enough you'll realize that it was all inevitable and out of your hands. If anything, World's Finest has only expedited it's own downfall and put us ahead of schedule. It's as if our message has finally seeped into your psyche and you've accepted the predestination of your fates. You may not understand fully, but deep down you've already came to terms with four simple facts:
We write the laws
We control the narrative.
We enslave with imposed ignorance
We are the golds of a new dawning civilization
FEAR, EMBRACE, OBEY.
They're not just hollow words in a doctrine of conquest. They're not just drops of water in a rising tide. They're the fate of this company and the first three words on Wrestleworld's new constitution, and they'll be written with the blood shed by those we correct in their way of thinking. This isn't vengeance. Vengeance is blinding and binding to the soul. This is boilerplate conquest, and soon you will understand that you're mere mortals walking on the fertile grounds cultivated by the gods of war."
Manuel turns his head up, straightening his tie as he irons the wrinkles out of the sleeves of his ivory white suit with his hands and then tugs on the lapels of his suit jacket proudly.
"You see our incursion as an attempt to bury Wrestleworld and all that inhabit it, but you couldn't be further from the truth. We want you to live to see our tomorrow, World's Finest. We need you as the worker drones of our future buzzing hive of commerce. We need strong backs to build the effigies that make us immortal. We need rough hands to carry the laborious light work of our new civilization. You see our vision for the Wrestleworld of tomorrow and you pray for our downfall, but we pray for you to get back up. We are not the same. That's why we are burdened with the task of forcefully taking the reigns from the blind bourgeoisie and course correct the hierarchy of this water locked economy. You see us as greedy, and you are correct. But what you fail to see is that we're greedy for the good of all. This island nation needs a ruling class, and it is not World's Finest. Until you finally have those three words flying on our encroaching nation's proud flag of war screaming in your heads to block out any whispers of defiance, we shall continue to..."
Manuel's eyes widen and his nostrils flare as he fights back the lust to utter his next statement with tortured savoring of every syllable.
"...correct you."
Manuel's eyes remain giddy as the rest of his body loosens from the tense rigor mortis of euphoria.
"The time for playing hero is over. It is time to step aside and make way for the new regime of the world's finest athletes. Fear not though, lowly cogs of the former system. There will always be room on the Ghost Organization assembly line starting at minimum wage, with the expectation of working overtime without pay. This is our merciful gift to our soon fallen opposition. That is to say, the offer stands for those who'll survive as more than trophies of our insurrection. I imagine there will be few that we'll beat the will out of without killing, but the ones who do survive will become fully aware of the blood of their comrades stained into their own palms. You could've given us what we wanted freely, but I'd be lying if I said the outcome wouldn't have been similar. As for this next paltry battle in our ongoing war of ages, I see no other alternative than flawless victory. We do not accept failure in Ghost Organization. It's something that both new and old guard is beginning to understand. There is no absolution from failure. There is no 'we'll get them next time' mentality. We live by every battle, because dying by the sword is not an option. Our backs do not break, our knees do not bend, and our heads do not bow. We are rigid with resolve. We don't give under pressure. We are unflappable, inevitable, and our terms are non-negotiable. You cannot reason, you cannot beg, you cannot ask of us any favors. We are the war machine that will steam over your civilization and pave the way for the next frontier. Everything about us, from the way we dress, the way we walk, the way we talk, all the way to how we carry business wears the giant warning flag of do not step in our path. And yet despite all of these red flags that scream do not fuck with us, we find ourselves in front of a daisy chain of strong wills and soft flesh standing in the way of the machine trying to shove a lily down the barrel of our guns in hopes that it'll stop a tank round."
Manuel chuckles to himself and shakes his head in disbelief.
"Imagine the agony and surprise on their faces when we keep rolling forward."
Manuel shakes off the silly notion and pours himself another drink.
Sat Dec 03, 2022 4:36 pm by 
Subject: Interlude 
