Q REPORT: THE FINAL MERGER

I was briefed on the mission in a windowless room that smelled like cheap coffee and quality weed, the kind of place where bad ideas are refined into operational doctrine. The Guild called it preventative cultural maintenance, which is a polite way of saying “stop this thing or make it too embarrassing to continue.” The target was a corporate convergence so vast it bent market gravity around it, a multi-day retreat designed to synchronize lawyers, regulators, financiers, and brand priests into a single organism. They didn’t call it The Final Merger yet. They never do at the start. They called it a “strategic realignment summit,” which is how you know you’re already cooked.

Outfitting was standard guild-issue, which is to say absurdly over-engineered and yet still somehow missing the one thing you need. I wore an Armani suit laced with passive recording fibers, shoes with hollowed heels for terabyte storage, and AR glasses that could live-stream my own humiliation to six redundant servers. The team carried badges that opened doors, doors that opened wallets, and wallets that opened mouths. We packed antitoxins, aerosol feces, disruptors, quality drugs, and a small library of plausible deniability. I also brought a notebook. Old habits die hard.

The venue was a climate-controlled fortress masquerading as a resort, all glass, steel, palm trees, and inspirational typography about innovation and courage. The attendees arrived in convoys, smiling with the confidence of people who have never been told no by anyone that mattered. Their platinum lanyards cost more than most houses. Their wardrobe budgets could feed the developing world. They spoke in acronyms that sounded like spells. I blended in by nodding, smiling, and saying “interesting” at exactly the wrong times.

Phase One was the buffet attack. Every corporate crime scene has a buffet, and every buffet is an opportunity. We seeded it with enough E. coli to make a municipal water authority weep, then waited for panic, evacuation, or at least a postponement. None came. People simply accepted it as an occupational hazard, like bad Wi-Fi or the collapse of a nation-state. Meetings continued with buckets and bags placed strategically along the walls. Vomiting and explosive pooping became ambient noise. Emergency diarrhea was treated as a scheduling conflict, not a moral one. I took notes while trying my best to ignore the smell. This was not the reaction we had predicted. The time came to escalate.

Phase Two targeted the HVAC, the lungs of the beast. We pushed the temperature to a stifling 120 degrees Fahrenheit across the entire complex and locked it there, expecting fainting, revolt, or a call to the fire marshal. Instead, a memo went out thanking everyone for their flexibility. Permission was granted to strip down to underwear. Those without underwear would not be penalized. Panels resumed. Workshops thrived. It was a mass of sweating, gagging, vomiting, nearly naked rich people determined to complete the process. I watched a man sign a non-disclosure agreement while actively dry-heaving. I admired the commitment. I hated myself for it. At this point I considered extraction. I did not extract. The Guild does not reward prudence. It rewards documentation. 

So we escalated to Phase Three, code-named The Russian Cocktail, because no one survives the naming committee with their dignity intact. We flooded the already compromised ventilation system with aerosolized hallucinogens that made a ten-strip of acid feel like a strong cup of coffee. Time bent. Colors acquired opinions. The carpet began whispering actionable insights. I personally watched a keynote speaker negotiate with a fern about fiduciary duty. Still, organization rose to meet the challenge. Schedules were shortened. Hallways were color-coded. 

“If you see Mickey Mouse,” a calm voice announced, “please proceed to Room C and continue your breakout.” 

Somehow they reined it in. Somehow they finished. Contracts were signed. Permits were submitted. The merger was complete. There were signatures in blood, I think, but I can’t be sure whose. Disney acquired Amazon, Netflix, Comcast, and every remnant media corporation worth the cost of paper. Every fragment of sound and video heretofore created was now owned. Everything moving forward was already optioned. I felt a pressure behind my eyes that had nothing to do with chemicals. The mission had failed.

The tertiary mission, however, succeeded beyond expectations. We harvested hours of depraved footage that could only exist in a universe that had lost its last adult supervisor. An entire dark web domain was spun up and crypto-monetized before the closing bell. Losses were mitigated. Morale was adjusted.

I am aware of the irony. I am complicit. I am filing this report anyway.

Now we wait. Omnicorporatism does not arrive with a fanfare of trumpets; it rolls out with strict brand guidelines. There will be smiling announcements about synergy and access and storytelling. There will be fewer stories. Eventually there will be only one story, told in many voices that somehow sound the same.

If this report survives, let it be known we tried. Let it also be known that trying was not enough. Our resistance failed not through defeat, but through accommodation. What follows will not require belief or enthusiasm. Merely participation.

Q