Post by amsterDAN on Sept 15, 2019 4:10:04 GMT
La Guerra de Sangre: A Lucha Libre Telenovela
Season 2, Episode 1
"Family Dinner: A Prelude to Season Two"
Orig. Air Date: April 17, 2019
All the luchadors on the La Guerra de Sangre roster thought it was awful nice of David Harley to treat them to dinner at a fancy restaurant in an affluent pocket of Juarez. They’d all received expensive-looking invitation cards in the mail. It was the weekend before training camp was set to begin; in a few days they’d all report to Rancho Imperio to prepare for season two.
Needless to say, everyone was rather surprised when the one person conspicuously absent from the dinner turned out to be David Harley himself. They also found it odd that a gang of black-suited security guards posted at the door to the private dining room demanded they hand in their cell phones before entering, but everyone just went along with it.
About two dozen luchadors sat at a long banquet table, eating from enormous taco platters and drinking margaritas, trying to enjoy themselves even though they were beginning to feel deeply uneasy. Why would David arrange a dinner like this and not attend it himself? The chair at the head of the table stood empty for nearly an hour as everyone did their best to eat and drink and be merry and pretend it wasn't.
Suddenly a short, stocky man wearing a pair of ridiculous-looking Trival boots, the toes of which ended in two-foot-long pointed tips, shuffled into the room and sat himself down in that empty seat at the head of the table. He wore his hair in an unflattering bowl-cut and his paintbrush mustache hung well over his upper lip. He was wearing an ornately rhinestoned cowboy shirt tucked into skintight black jeans, and one of the largest belt buckles anyone at the table had ever seen.
All conversation in the room slowly tapered off into silence, and every eye made its way over to the goofy-looking guy with the funny boots. He cleared his throat and offered up a gap-toothed smile, then grabbed the nearest wine glass and rapped on it with a fork, which was completely and utterly unnecessary since he already had everyone’s rapt attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I arrive with very important news for you. First and foremost, I must regretfully inform you that David Harley will not be joining us for dinner. He shan't be joining us tonight, nor ever again, for he is no longer the owner of La Guerra de Sangre. He told me to thank you all for your hard work, and wish you the best of luck in your wrestling careers.”
The room exploded in a cacophony of uncertain murmurs and worried grumbling. The chubby guy clanked his wine glass again.
“Don’t fret, my friends. You all still have jobs, because David Harley has handed over ownership of La Guerra de Sangre to someone with a very keen interest in keeping this promotion alive,” the stranger said. “And I know this for a fact, because the man he sold his stake to… is me.”
“And who the hell are you, then?” a luchador at the far end of the table shouted, and soon half the room was shouting the same thing.
The stocky guy stood up from his seat, which hardly made him seem any taller. “My friends, my name is Adalberto Bonilla. You may have heard of me.”
All at once, the room fell completely and utterly silent. One could’ve heard a pin drop, had one been dropped, but one wasn’t. Everyone around the table was familiar with that name. They’d all heard it before. In the papers. On the news. In the streets. In scary stories told in hushed voices around campfires, about bad men who terrorized whole towns and killed just about anyone who crossed them or even looked at them side-eyed. Adalberto Bonilla. None of the guys around the banquet table ever had a face to attach to that name; it had always been the unspeakable name of an unseen evil you’d been told from a young age you never wanted to encounter. Indeed, there were a lot of law enforcement agencies in both Mexico and the United States to whom Adalberto Bonilla was little more than a faceless apparition. Detectives all across the continent wished they could one day be so lucky as to finally see the face who belonged to that name. But nobody at the table that night, seeing that face for themselves, felt lucky in the least.
“El Herrero de Guerrero,” one of the luchadors mumbled, sounding awestruck.
“Just as I suspected,” Adalberto Bonilla said while his squinty little eyes scanned the room and a wry smile touched his lips. “You have heard of me.”
Suddenly every luchador in the room was staring down at the tabletop. They all inspected their silverware intently, or gazed forlornly out over the taco platters and nacho bowls. Nobody dared look directly at the notorious drug lord as he continued to speak.
“David Harley ended up owing me a little more than he was able to come up with in cash, so I had no choice but to seize some other valuable assets of his,” Mr. Bonilla told the room. “And while I find it distasteful to discuss fellow human beings as though they are livestock, I do want to make one thing abundantly clear from the very beginning: Everyone at this table belongs to me now.”
The room remained silent for a long while. Just about everyone in attendance was too scared to even breathe, but one young luchador foolishly felt a sudden surge of courage and stood from his seat.
“Nobody owns me,” cried Alhambra, the youngest wrestler on the roster. He pounded a fist on the table. “I don’t give a damn what your name is.”
In the split-second it took for the security guards to draw their guns on him, Alhambra realized he’d made a grave mistake. Every which way he looked, he was staring down the barrel of a pistol. The other guys ducked their heads under the table. Alhambra sheepishly sat back down, and twenty frightened faces reluctantly resurfaced from beneath the tablecloth.
“Make no mistake,” Adalberto Bonilla continued, now with a distinct hint of menace to his voice. “Whether you like it or not, I own all of you now. And from this moment forward, we do things my way.”
Season 2, Episode 1
"Family Dinner: A Prelude to Season Two"
Orig. Air Date: April 17, 2019
All the luchadors on the La Guerra de Sangre roster thought it was awful nice of David Harley to treat them to dinner at a fancy restaurant in an affluent pocket of Juarez. They’d all received expensive-looking invitation cards in the mail. It was the weekend before training camp was set to begin; in a few days they’d all report to Rancho Imperio to prepare for season two.
Needless to say, everyone was rather surprised when the one person conspicuously absent from the dinner turned out to be David Harley himself. They also found it odd that a gang of black-suited security guards posted at the door to the private dining room demanded they hand in their cell phones before entering, but everyone just went along with it.
About two dozen luchadors sat at a long banquet table, eating from enormous taco platters and drinking margaritas, trying to enjoy themselves even though they were beginning to feel deeply uneasy. Why would David arrange a dinner like this and not attend it himself? The chair at the head of the table stood empty for nearly an hour as everyone did their best to eat and drink and be merry and pretend it wasn't.
Suddenly a short, stocky man wearing a pair of ridiculous-looking Trival boots, the toes of which ended in two-foot-long pointed tips, shuffled into the room and sat himself down in that empty seat at the head of the table. He wore his hair in an unflattering bowl-cut and his paintbrush mustache hung well over his upper lip. He was wearing an ornately rhinestoned cowboy shirt tucked into skintight black jeans, and one of the largest belt buckles anyone at the table had ever seen.
All conversation in the room slowly tapered off into silence, and every eye made its way over to the goofy-looking guy with the funny boots. He cleared his throat and offered up a gap-toothed smile, then grabbed the nearest wine glass and rapped on it with a fork, which was completely and utterly unnecessary since he already had everyone’s rapt attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I arrive with very important news for you. First and foremost, I must regretfully inform you that David Harley will not be joining us for dinner. He shan't be joining us tonight, nor ever again, for he is no longer the owner of La Guerra de Sangre. He told me to thank you all for your hard work, and wish you the best of luck in your wrestling careers.”
The room exploded in a cacophony of uncertain murmurs and worried grumbling. The chubby guy clanked his wine glass again.
“Don’t fret, my friends. You all still have jobs, because David Harley has handed over ownership of La Guerra de Sangre to someone with a very keen interest in keeping this promotion alive,” the stranger said. “And I know this for a fact, because the man he sold his stake to… is me.”
“And who the hell are you, then?” a luchador at the far end of the table shouted, and soon half the room was shouting the same thing.
The stocky guy stood up from his seat, which hardly made him seem any taller. “My friends, my name is Adalberto Bonilla. You may have heard of me.”
All at once, the room fell completely and utterly silent. One could’ve heard a pin drop, had one been dropped, but one wasn’t. Everyone around the table was familiar with that name. They’d all heard it before. In the papers. On the news. In the streets. In scary stories told in hushed voices around campfires, about bad men who terrorized whole towns and killed just about anyone who crossed them or even looked at them side-eyed. Adalberto Bonilla. None of the guys around the banquet table ever had a face to attach to that name; it had always been the unspeakable name of an unseen evil you’d been told from a young age you never wanted to encounter. Indeed, there were a lot of law enforcement agencies in both Mexico and the United States to whom Adalberto Bonilla was little more than a faceless apparition. Detectives all across the continent wished they could one day be so lucky as to finally see the face who belonged to that name. But nobody at the table that night, seeing that face for themselves, felt lucky in the least.
“El Herrero de Guerrero,” one of the luchadors mumbled, sounding awestruck.
“Just as I suspected,” Adalberto Bonilla said while his squinty little eyes scanned the room and a wry smile touched his lips. “You have heard of me.”
Suddenly every luchador in the room was staring down at the tabletop. They all inspected their silverware intently, or gazed forlornly out over the taco platters and nacho bowls. Nobody dared look directly at the notorious drug lord as he continued to speak.
“David Harley ended up owing me a little more than he was able to come up with in cash, so I had no choice but to seize some other valuable assets of his,” Mr. Bonilla told the room. “And while I find it distasteful to discuss fellow human beings as though they are livestock, I do want to make one thing abundantly clear from the very beginning: Everyone at this table belongs to me now.”
The room remained silent for a long while. Just about everyone in attendance was too scared to even breathe, but one young luchador foolishly felt a sudden surge of courage and stood from his seat.
“Nobody owns me,” cried Alhambra, the youngest wrestler on the roster. He pounded a fist on the table. “I don’t give a damn what your name is.”
In the split-second it took for the security guards to draw their guns on him, Alhambra realized he’d made a grave mistake. Every which way he looked, he was staring down the barrel of a pistol. The other guys ducked their heads under the table. Alhambra sheepishly sat back down, and twenty frightened faces reluctantly resurfaced from beneath the tablecloth.
“Make no mistake,” Adalberto Bonilla continued, now with a distinct hint of menace to his voice. “Whether you like it or not, I own all of you now. And from this moment forward, we do things my way.”
Yes, ladies & gentlemen.
Allow me to confirm your suspicions.
In precisely one week from today...
LA GUERRA DE SANGRE: SEASON TWO
BEGINS!
Allow me to confirm your suspicions.
In precisely one week from today...
LA GUERRA DE SANGRE: SEASON TWO
BEGINS!