Gridlocked Purgatory

Fifth Avenue had devolved into a gridlocked purgatory of metal and frustration. Horns blared in discordant protest, their angry chorus rising above the rain-slick pavement where red brake lights reflected like pools of blood. Pedestrians navigated the maze with New York's characteristic impatience, weaving between bumpers with practiced disregard for both traffic laws and self-preservation. The city was performing its daily ritual of collective agitation—a symphony of urban discontent conducted without a maestro.

Inside his town car, Victor Blackwell existed in another dimension entirely. The vehicle's air-tight sealed interior created a safe haven of ordered luxury. Premium leather radiated the subtle scent of wealth, while hand-finished woodgrain panels gleamed under tasteful ambient lighting. The chaos beyond the tinted windows registered as little more than distant theatre—a performance observed but not experienced. Victor sat with the unwavering posture of a man who had long ago determined that even his physical bearing would communicate control. One manicured hand rested on the armrest, fingers drumming a measured, almost mathematical rhythm.

The notification tone from his phone cut through the engineered silence. Victor's gaze shifted downward, hawkish and calculating. The screen illuminated with a new message—a forwarded article from one of his subordinates. His expression remained unchanged as he unlocked the device with a businesslike motion, thumb hovering momentarily over the subject line:

FWD: Contenders, more like Pretenders. The "show" starring Victor Blackwell.

Something cold and pragmatic unfurled behind his eyes. Not rage—Victor had transcended such primitive responses years ago. Instead, he engaged in a practiced ritual of self-regulation: three seconds of inhalation through the nose, hold for two, exhale for four. Emotional reactions were inefficiencies he had systematically eliminated from his operational framework.

Then he registered the byline.

Rico Vega.

The name lingered in Victor's consciousness like a single discordant note in an otherwise perfect composition. His lips pressed infinitesimally tighter—an expression so subtle it would have been imperceptible to anyone but his closest associates. He proceeded to read the article with the clinical detachment of a surgeon examining a malignancy.

One star.

The rating sat atop the review like a declaration of war. Victor absorbed its intended impact without visible reaction, processing the provocation as data rather than insult.

Victor Blackwell clearly has no clue how to talk to a wrestling crowd. His long-winded speech felt less like an opening to a fight night and more like some boring corporate meeting. Instead of hyping up the action, he droned on like a CEO trying to impress shareholders—completely missing the mark with the fans.

His grip on the phone adjusted fractionally—the only external manifestation of the precise calculation occurring behind his impassive features.

And then there's Logan Drake—PMG's big signing, looking completely out of depth. Between his lack of experience and the ridiculous decision to only have one fight on the card, it's obvious this isn't a real fight promotion—it's just a vanity project for Victor Blackwell.

This wasn't a credible critique worthy of genuine concern—it was a tactical challenge. A temporary obstruction. A variable to be eliminated from the equation.

"At least they're distributing blame beyond myself," he observed to the empty vehicle, his voice carrying the practiced neutrality of a chess player noting an opponent's predictable move.

Victor dismissed the email with a precise swipe, his mind already crafting a response. His finger hovered over the Social X icon—a momentary temptation. A well-placed post could shift the conversation, drown out dissent beneath a wave of engagement, dictate the narrative before it spiraled out of his control.

He tapped the app open, the screen illuminating with trending discussions, his name appearing in bold among them. His jaw tensed. The idea of responding lingered for half a breath, but then, just as swiftly, he exhaled through his nose and closed the app.

No. Control. Always control.

Social media was for spectacle. He was a man of action. Navigating instead to his email, he composed his response with the efficiency of a man who viewed technology as merely an extension of his will. His thumbs moved with algorithmic precision, each keystroke measured and final. The message took shape with the clarity of a corporate acquisition order:

"Acquisition inquiry—Tapout. All properties, digital and print. Ensure all journalists are included in the deal. No exceptions."

He sent the directive without hesitation or review. In Victor's world, reconsideration was a luxury afforded to those who lacked confidence in their initial judgment—a category to which he did not belong.

The message departed with a soft electronic chime. Victor allowed himself to ease back against the upholstery, his reflection in the window offering a mirror to his calculated composure. Outside, New York continued its chaotic dance, unaware that significant vectors of its media landscape were being irrevocably altered from within a stationary town car.

A smile formed on Victor's lips—not the performative expression he deployed in boardrooms or media appearances, but something more authentic and therefore more unsettling. It was the private satisfaction of a strategist who operated ten moves ahead of his opponents.

"Let's see how generous they are with their star ratings once they're writing under my banner," he murmured.

The town car edged forward incrementally, rejoining the agonizing crawl of Manhattan traffic. But within its confines, Victor Blackwell remained perfectly still—the immovable center of his expanding universe. His expression had already reset to neutral, the momentary display of satisfaction filed away as efficiently as the problem that had prompted it.

The pieces were in motion. Soon, the voice that had dared critique his vision would become just another instrument in his orchestration. Not through argument or persuasion. Not through complaint or correction. But through acquisition and control. The only language Victor Blackwell truly spoke.