He paced across the shined floor, his new leather shoes squeaking as he came to a stop in front of the window overlooking the interior of the warehouse. Below him, the throbbing of the bass resonated through the framework, strobelights every so often piercing his office. A heavy hand settled on the edge of his ficus planter, rings glittering on every finger. The portund man watched, calculating, as girls in dance cages and couples on the floor gyrated to the sick beat of an expensive dj, heavily dosed on hallucinogens being pumped in through the air vents.
Every man could dream. To become the emperor of a people, or at the very least, the owner of the highest grossing pop-up club this side of the east coast. That wasn’t what he wanted, his fingers cracking the pot of the ficus plant. What was he doing, confining himself to such a trivial avenue. He wanted worshippers, followers…he’d have it. Money had never been an issue, but this would take more than money. It’d take finding the perfect candidate.
He’d looked over the files. They were spread across his desk in disarray, coffee stains and ash butts precariously smudging many of them. Four people, three guys and a girl were going to be his gamble. He’d have his men find them within the week.