Hotel – Charlotte, North Carolina
Tuesday, June 16, 2026 The drive had been mostly quiet after Tony’s outburst. Wendy sat in the back, pressed against the door, trying to stay as small as possible. Butterbean had eventually dozed off, snoring loudly. Tony hadn’t said another word the rest of the way.
When they finally pulled up to the hotel, Tony parked and killed the engine. He turned around in his seat and looked at Wendy.
Tony Soprano: “Get out.”
Wendy slowly climbed out of the car. Tony walked around to the trunk, grabbed her bag, and tossed it at her feet. He then led her inside without another word, checked her into a room under a fake name, and walked her up to the third floor.
He unlocked the door and pushed it open, motioning for her to go inside.
Tony Soprano: “Get in.”
Wendy stepped into the room without arguing. Tony followed her in and closed the door behind them. He looked around the room for a second, then turned back to her.
Tony Soprano: (cold and direct) “Listen to me. You’re gonna stay in this room. You’re not gonna leave. You’re not gonna call anybody. You’re not gonna open your fucking mouth to anyone about what happened in that car. You understand me?”
Wendy nodded quietly.
Tony Soprano: “Good. Because if I find out you went running your mouth to Cowboy or anyone else, we’re gonna have a serious fucking problem. And trust me, you don’t want that.”
He took a step closer to her.
Tony Soprano: “So shut the fuck up, stay in this room, and don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back when I’m back. Got it?”
Wendy nodded again.
Tony Soprano: “Say it.”
Wendy: (quietly) “…I got it.”
Tony Soprano: “Good.”
He turned and walked out without another word, pulling the door shut behind him. Wendy stood there alone in the middle of the hotel room, still holding her bag.
Tony made his way back down to the car where Butterbean was still passed out in the backseat. He got behind the wheel, lit a cigarette, and pulled out his phone.
He had another call to make.
Tony sat in the driver’s seat with the window down, cigarette between his fingers. He scrolled through his phone until he found Hunter S. Thompson’s number and hit call. It rang a few times before Hunter picked up.
Hunter S. Thompson: (raspy, tired) “…Yeah?”
Tony Soprano: “It’s Tony. I need the medical brief on Sterling. What the fuck is actually going on with him?”
Hunter let out a long exhale, like he’d been expecting this call.
Hunter S. Thompson: “The hospital’s saying he’s in bad shape. Spinal compression, internal bleeding, broken ribs, the whole nine. They’ve got him sedated and on a ventilator. Their official line is that even in the best-case scenario, he’s looking at months before he could even think about driving again. And there’s a decent chance he never fully recovers.”
Tony took a drag from his cigarette.
Tony Soprano: “And what do you say?”
Hunter S. Thompson: “I say they’re covering their asses with big, safe numbers. I’ve seen this kind of thing before. When they keep a man under that long and that deep, they’re usually more worried about liability than actually helping him. Elena was there earlier. She had them turn everything off — ventilator, sedation, the works. He woke up fighting. Ripped the breathing tube out himself. Started screaming and flailing around like he was still in a race car. They had to sedate him again just to get him back in the bed.”
Tony raised an eyebrow.
Tony Soprano: “She did what?”
Hunter S. Thompson: “Yeah. She strong-armed the doctor into shutting everything down. Said the machines were killing him. I told her the same thing — sometimes you gotta let a man wake up and fight instead of keeping him in a chemical coma. He’s tough. He might’ve pulled through if they let him.”
Tony was quiet for a second, processing.
Tony Soprano: “So what the fuck are we supposed to do now? Cowboy wants me to go down there and pull him out.”
Hunter S. Thompson: “If you’re asking me medically? He’s in rough shape. Real rough. But if you’re asking me whether leaving him in that hospital is gonna help him… I don’t think it is. They’re playing it safe and covering their own asses. If you want him back on his feet anytime soon, you’re probably better off getting him out of there.”
Tony flicked ash out the window.
Tony Soprano: “Jesus Christ… This whole thing’s turning into a fucking mess.”
Hunter S. Thompson: “Yeah, well… welcome to the circus. You want my advice? Go see him yourself. Talk to the doctors. Make your own call. Don’t trust what they’re feeding you over the phone.”
Tony Soprano: “Yeah. I’ll handle it.”
The black SUV pulled into the hospital parking lot and came to a stop. Tony killed the engine and sat there for a second, staring out the windshield with a tired, irritated look on his face. Butterbean was in the passenger seat next to him, still half-asleep from the flight.
Tony rubbed his face with both hands and let out a long breath.
Tony Soprano: (muttering) “Fucking ridiculous… We fly all the way to L.A. to grab Wendy, turn around and fly straight back across the country for this shit. And now we gotta get back in time to get her to JR’s office tomorrow so she’s there when Arnold shows up with Emma. This is gonna be tight as hell.”
Butterbean let out a low grunt and shifted in his seat.
Butterbean: “We gonna make it?”
Tony Soprano: “Yeah, we’ll make it. But it’s gonna be ugly. We grab Sterling, get him out of here, and get back on a plane as fast as possible. No fucking around.”
He checked his watch, then looked over at Butterbean.
Tony Soprano: “Come on. Let’s go see what kind of mess we’re walking into.”
Tony stepped out of the SUV and slammed the door behind him. Butterbean followed, both of them walking across the parking lot toward the hospital entrance. Tony’s face was tight, clearly running through everything in his head — the timeline, the extraction, and how the hell they were supposed to make it all work before Wednesday.
He stopped just outside the main doors and looked up at the building for a second.
Tony Soprano: (low) “Let’s get this over with.”
Tony and Butterbean walked through the hospital entrance. Tony kept his head on a swivel, already scanning the layout like he was casing the place. As soon as they stepped into the main lobby, he pulled Butterbean off to the side near a quiet hallway.
Tony Soprano: (low, direct) “Listen. Go find the men’s bathroom on this floor. Get in there, put your boxing gear on, and get those big red gloves ready. I’m gonna go find the head doctor and figure out what the fuck is going on. When I give you the signal, you come out swinging. Got it?”
Butterbean nodded without hesitation.
Butterbean: “Yeah, I got it.”
Tony Soprano: “Good. Stay out of sight until I call you. And don’t take too long getting that gear on.”
Butterbean gave another short nod and headed off down the hallway toward the bathrooms. Tony watched him go for a second, then turned and made his way toward the main nurses’ station.
He walked up to the desk like he belonged there, leaning one arm on the counter.
Tony Soprano: “I’m looking for the head doctor. The one in charge of Sterling Marlin. Where is he?”
The nurse behind the desk looked up, clearly caught off guard by his directness.
Nurse: “Dr. Hale is the attending on that case. He should be on this floor. Let me see if I can—”
Tony Soprano: (cutting her off) “Don’t see if you can. Go find him. Now. Tell him Tony’s here and I need to talk to him about Sterling. And make it fast.”
The nurse hesitated for a second, then quickly picked up the phone and made a call. Tony stood there waiting, arms crossed, already looking impatient.
Butterbean stood inside one of the larger bathroom stalls, the door locked behind him. He had already stripped off his shirt and was in the middle of wrapping his hands with athletic tape. His big red boxing gloves sat on top of the toilet tank, waiting.
He was breathing heavy, talking to himself under his breath as he worked.
Butterbean: (muttering) “Alright… alright, you got this. Tony’s counting on you. You gotta do this right. No fucking it up this time.”
He flexed his fingers, making sure the tape was tight. His face was flushed, and there was a nervous energy in the way he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot.
Butterbean: “This is your shot, man. You do good here, Tony’s gonna see. He’s gonna see you ain’t just some fat fuck who follows him around. You’re useful. You can handle shit. You can be a real earner.”
He picked up one of the heavy red gloves and started working it onto his hand, grunting as he forced it over his taped knuckles.
Butterbean: “You wanna get made, right? That’s what you want. You wanna be somebody in this thing. Not just the guy who drives the car or stands in the corner. You gotta show ‘em you got heart. You gotta show Tony you ain’t scared to do what needs to be done.”
He got the first glove on and started working on the second one, breathing harder now.
Butterbean: “This doctor… he’s in the way. Tony wants him out of the picture. So you do it. You go in there and you fuck him up. Make it clean. Make it mean. Show Tony you can handle business like a real guy.”
Butterbean finished strapping the second glove on and flexed both hands, staring down at them. His expression shifted — a mix of nerves and determination.
Butterbean: (quietly, to himself) “…You can do this. You’re tough. You’re a tough son of a bitch. Tony’s gonna see it. He’s gonna see you ain’t just some joke. You’re gonna make him proud.”
He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, trying to psych himself up even more.
Butterbean: “Just wait for the signal. That’s all you gotta do. Wait for Tony to give you the word… then you go in there and you end it. Simple. You can do that. You’re not scared. You’re not soft. You’re a fucking killer.”
He stood there in the stall for a few more seconds, breathing heavily, gloves on, mentally preparing himself for what was coming.
Butterbean: (nodding to himself) “…Yeah. This is it. This is your shot. Don’t fuck it up.”
Tony stood near the nurses’ station with his arms crossed, waiting. After a couple of minutes, Dr. Hale approached, looking tired and slightly on edge.
Dr. Hale: “You’re the one asking about Sterling Marlin?”
Tony Soprano: “Yeah. Tony. I need to see him. Right now.”
Dr. Hale hesitated for a second, then nodded.
Dr. Hale: “Follow me.”
He led Tony down the hallway toward the ICU. Neither of them spoke until they reached Sterling’s room. Dr. Hale pushed the door open and stepped aside.
Tony walked in.
The second he laid eyes on Sterling, his expression changed.
Sterling was lying in the bed, heavily bandaged, hooked up to machines again after the earlier chaos. His face was swollen and bruised, the breathing tube back in his mouth. His skin had a grayish, waxy tone. There were fresh marks around his mouth and throat from where he had ripped the tube out earlier. His body looked smaller than Tony remembered, buried under blankets and medical equipment.
Tony stopped at the foot of the bed and just stared for a few seconds.
Tony Soprano: (quietly) “…Jesus Christ.”
He stepped closer, his eyes moving over the tubes, the monitors, the restraints still on Sterling’s wrists.
Tony Soprano: “Holy shit… he’s fucked up.”
Dr. Hale stood near the door, watching Tony carefully.
Dr. Hale: “He’s been through significant trauma. We had to re-intubate him after he removed his own breathing tube earlier. His condition is still very unstable.”
Tony didn’t take his eyes off Sterling.
Tony Soprano: “Yeah, no shit. Look at him. He looks like he got hit by a fucking truck.”
He finally turned to look at Dr. Hale.
Tony Soprano: “Be straight with me, Doc. How bad is it, really? And don’t give me that hospital bullshit. I want the truth.”
Dr. Hale was quiet for a moment before answering.
Dr. Hale: “…It’s bad. Very bad. Even if he pulls through, there’s a strong chance he won’t regain full mobility. And right now, keeping him alive is the priority. Anything beyond that is uncertain.”
Tony looked back at Sterling, his jaw tight.
Tony Soprano: (under his breath) “Fuck…”
He stood there for a few more seconds, then turned back to Dr. Hale.
Tony Soprano: “I need to talk to you. Outside.”
Tony stepped out of Sterling’s room and walked a little ways down the hallway until he found a quiet corner. He pulled out his phone and FaceTimed Elena.
She answered after a few rings. Her face appeared on the screen, calm and unreadable as always.
Elena Ceaușescu: “Yes?”
Tony turned the camera around so she could see into Sterling’s room. The shot was shaky for a second before it steadied on Sterling’s unconscious body — tubes everywhere, machines beeping, his face swollen and bruised, barely looking alive.
Tony Soprano: (low, pissed off) “What the fuck is this, Elena? Look at him. He’s barely alive. You said they were killing him — he already looks half dead. What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”
Elena stared at the screen for a moment, completely unfazed.
Elena Ceaușescu: “You do the job.”
Tony turned the camera back around so she could see his face. He looked frustrated.
Tony Soprano: “The job? Elena, this guy can’t even breathe on his own right now. You want me to drag him out of here like this? He’s fucked up. Real fucked up.”
Elena Ceaușescu: (cold and direct) “I don’t care how he looks. He is still our responsibility. The hospital is not helping him — they are managing him like a problem. You were sent there to remove him. So remove him.”
Tony rubbed his face with his free hand, clearly stressed.
Tony Soprano: “This ain’t gonna be clean. You understand that, right? If I pull him out of here in this condition, there’s a good chance he dies on the way.”
Elena Ceaușescu: “Then he dies on the way. At least he won’t die in that hospital, hooked up to machines that are keeping him from recovering. Do what you were sent there to do, Tony. Get him out.”
Tony stared at the screen for a second, jaw tight.
Tony Soprano: “…You’re really something else, you know that?”
Elena Ceaușescu: “Just do the job.”
She hung up.
Tony lowered the phone and stood there for a moment, staring at the blank screen. He let out a heavy sigh and muttered under his breath.
Tony Soprano: “Fuckin’ unbelievable…”
He slipped his phone back into his pocket and started walking back toward Sterling’s room, his expression dark.
He replayed Elena’s words in his head.
“Do the job.”
Tony let out a slow breath through his nose and shook his head.
Tony Soprano: (muttering to himself) “…Fuck that.”
He looked back toward Sterling’s room, jaw tight.
In his mind, he could already see how this would play out if he went through with it. Dragging a half-dead guy out of a hospital in the middle of the morning. Loading him into a car. Trying to get him on a plane while he’s barely breathing. And if Sterling dies on the way — which was looking more and more likely — then what? Elena disappears into the shadows and Tony’s the one left holding the bag. Just like always.
He thought about all the times he’d seen shit like this go sideways. People getting told to “handle it,” only to end up taking the fall when everything blew up. He wasn’t about to be the guy standing there with his dick in his hand when the bodies started dropping.
Tony rubbed his face with one hand.
Tony Soprano: (quietly) “This ain’t my fucking problem.”
He glanced down the hallway again. Butterbean was still in the bathroom, probably sitting there in his boxing gear like a fucking idiot, waiting for a signal that wasn’t coming. Tony already knew he wasn’t going to give it.
He wasn’t dragging Sterling out of here. Not like this. Not when the guy looked like he could die if someone breathed on him too hard. And definitely not when Elena was the one calling the shots from a safe distance.
Tony pushed off the wall and started walking again, slower this time. His mind was made up.
Tony Soprano: (under his breath) “Let her come down here and do it herself if she’s so fucking concerned.”
He pulled out his phone and stared at it for a second, then slipped it back into his pocket without calling anyone.
For now, he was just going to wait. Play it cool. See how things shook out. Because one thing Tony had learned a long time ago — you don’t go rushing into a burning building just because somebody tells you to.
Especially when that somebody isn’t the one who’s gonna get burned.
Tony was still leaning against the wall, lost in his own thoughts, when the bathroom door suddenly flew open with a loud bang.
Butterbean came charging out like a bull, red boxing gloves already on, shirtless, breathing heavy. His eyes were wide and wild. Without any warning or signal, he immediately started swinging.
Butterbean: (roaring) “LET’S FUCKING GO!”
The first person he connected with was a middle-aged nurse walking down the hallway. The heavy red glove smashed into the side of her head and sent her crashing into the wall. She dropped like a sack of bricks.
A doctor coming out of a nearby room turned just in time to catch a wild left hook to the jaw. He went down hard, glasses flying off his face.
Butterbean didn’t stop. He kept moving forward, swinging at anyone in his path — nurses, visitors, security guards, even a patient in a wheelchair who got clipped as Butterbean barreled past. People started screaming and scrambling out of the way. An elderly man trying to use his walker got shoved aside and nearly fell.
Butterbean: (screaming) “TONY SAID DO IT! I’M DOIN’ IT!”
A security guard tried to step in and grab him from behind, but Butterbean spun around and landed a heavy overhand right that dropped the man instantly. Another guard pulled out his taser, but Butterbean tackled him before he could use it, both of them crashing into a supply cart and sending medical supplies flying everywhere.
Tony’s eyes went wide as he watched the chaos unfold.
Tony Soprano: (shocked) “What the fuck—?! BUTTERBEAN!”
Butterbean didn’t hear him. He was completely lost in it now, swinging wildly at anyone who got too close, his face red and twisted with rage and adrenaline. A doctor tried to run past him and caught a glove to the back of the head, dropping face-first onto the floor.
The hallway had turned into a war zone in seconds. People were screaming, alarms were starting to go off, and staff were scrambling to get away from the raging, half-naked man in boxing gloves.
Tony stood there frozen for a second, watching Butterbean lay waste to everyone in sight.
Butterbean had completely lost it.
He moved down the hallway like a wrecking ball in red gloves, throwing heavy, looping punches with zero technique and maximum power. Every time his fist connected, someone went down like they’d been hit by a truck.
A security guard tried to tackle him from the side — Butterbean turned and dropped him with a single uppercut that lifted the man clean off his feet and sent him crashing into a vending machine. The glass shattered and snacks went flying everywhere.
A doctor came running out of a room with a clipboard — Butterbean swung wildly and caught him square in the chest. The man flew backward through an open doorway and slammed into a rolling cart full of bedpans, sending them clattering across the floor.
Two nurses tried to hide behind a medicine cart. Butterbean grabbed the cart with one hand and shoved it into them like a battering ram, then followed up with two heavy hooks that dropped both of them instantly. One of them went face-first into a trash can.
An elderly visitor in a wheelchair tried to roll away — Butterbean accidentally clotheslined him while swinging at someone else. The man and the wheelchair both flipped over.
A big, muscular male nurse stepped up and tried to wrestle Butterbean. Butterbean headbutted him, then hit him with a straight right that sent the man crashing through a supply closet door. He didn’t get back up.
Another security guard pulled out his baton. Butterbean swung so hard that when the guard blocked with the baton, the impact bent the metal and sent the guard flying into a wall-mounted hand sanitizer dispenser, which exploded and covered him in foam as he slumped to the floor.
A young intern tried to run past him. Butterbean spun and hit him with a wild haymaker that sent the kid sliding across the freshly mopped floor like a hockey puck. He crashed into a gurney and took it down with him.
An older doctor tried to talk him down, hands raised. Butterbean didn’t even slow down — he just walked up and dropped him with a single overhand right. The man’s glasses flew off and landed perfectly on a nearby patient’s lap.
A group of three nurses huddled together near the station. Butterbean charged and swung in a wide arc, catching all three of them in one messy haymaker. They went down in a pile like bowling pins.
By now the hallway looked like a war zone. Bodies were scattered everywhere — some slumped against walls, some laid out on the floor, some half-buried under overturned equipment. At least thirty people were down, most of them out cold. The ones still conscious were either crawling away or hiding behind whatever they could find.
Butterbean stood in the middle of the chaos, breathing hard, red gloves raised, eyes wide and wild.
Butterbean: (yelling) “WHERE’S THE DOCTOR?! WHERE IS HE?! TONY SAID DO IT!”
He kept moving forward, swinging at anyone who moved, completely lost in his own head. A janitor tried to slip past him with a mop bucket — Butterbean turned and hit him so hard the man flipped over the bucket and landed in a puddle of dirty water, out cold.
Tony stood a little ways back, watching the destruction with a mix of shock and disbelief.
Tony Soprano: (muttering) “…This fucking guy.”
Butterbean kept going, knocking out anyone unlucky enough to still be in the hallway. A younger doctor tried to crawl away — Butterbean casually walked over and dropped him with a heavy downward punch like he was hammering a nail.
The hallway was still pure chaos. Butterbean was still swinging, dropping anyone who got too close. People were screaming and running in every direction. Tony watched it for a few more seconds, then made his move.
He spotted a young nurse crouched behind a medicine cart, trying to stay out of Butterbean’s path. Tony walked over quickly, grabbed her by the arm, and yanked her up. Before she could scream, he pulled out his gun and pressed it against the side of her head.
Tony Soprano: (cold and loud) “EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
The hallway didn’t go completely quiet, but several people froze. Butterbean kept swinging in the background, but Tony didn’t care. He started walking forward, dragging the terrified nurse with him as a shield, gun still to her head.
He locked eyes with Dr. Hale, who was still standing near Sterling’s room.
Tony Soprano: “You. Doctor. Get your ass over here.”
Dr. Hale hesitated, clearly shaken by the sight of the gun.
Tony Soprano: “Now. Or I put one in her fucking head.”
The nurse whimpered but didn’t move. Dr. Hale slowly stepped forward, hands slightly raised.
Dr. Hale: (trying to stay calm) “…What do you want?”
Tony Soprano: “I want you to go in that room and start unplugging him. All of it. The ventilator, the monitors, everything. Right fucking now.”
Dr. Hale’s eyes widened.
Dr. Hale: “You can’t be serious. He’ll die if I do that. He can’t breathe on his own—”
Tony Soprano: (cutting him off) “I don’t give a fuck. Unplug him. Or she dies. Your choice.”
He pressed the gun harder against the nurse’s head. She started crying quietly.
Tony Soprano: “I’m not asking again. Move.”
Dr. Hale looked between Tony, the nurse, and Sterling’s room. Butterbean was still rampaging behind them, knocking out another security guard with a wild hook. The entire floor was in shambles.
Dr. Hale swallowed hard, then slowly nodded.
Dr. Hale: (quietly) “…Okay. Just… don’t hurt her.”
He turned and walked toward Sterling’s room. Tony followed behind him, still holding the nurse hostage, gun pressed to her head.
Tony Soprano: (low, to Dr. Hale) “And if you try anything stupid, she’s done. Understand?”
Dr. Hale didn’t answer. He just stepped into the room and moved toward the machines, hands shaking.
Tony kept the gun pressed against the nurse’s head as he stared at Dr. Hale.
Tony Soprano: “I’m taking him. And I’m taking her. So here’s what you’re gonna do — you’re gonna unplug all that life support shit. But you do it right. Don’t just rip everything out like an animal. Unhook him properly. And keep the pain meds running. I don’t need him waking up screaming on the way out.”
Dr. Hale looked like he wanted to argue, but one look at the gun and the terrified nurse made him stay quiet. He moved over to Sterling’s bed and started carefully disconnecting the machines one by one, his hands shaking the entire time.
Tony watched him closely.
Tony Soprano: “Take your time. Do it right. If he dies because you fucked this up, I’m coming back for you.”
Once everything was unhooked except for the portable pain medication drip, Tony nodded toward the hallway.
Tony Soprano: “Alright. Let’s go.”
He started walking backward out of the room, keeping the nurse in front of him like a shield, gun still pressed to her head. She was crying quietly but didn’t resist.
A few seconds later, Butterbean came pushing out of the room behind them. He had found a wheelchair and somehow managed to get Sterling’s unconscious body into it. Sterling was still out cold, head slumped to the side, with a couple of portable machines and an IV pole attached to the chair. Butterbean gripped the handles tightly, red boxing gloves still on, breathing heavy.
Butterbean: (grunting) “Got him.”
Tony glanced back for a second, then looked forward again as he kept moving down the hallway with the nurse.
Tony Soprano: (low, to the nurse) “Walk. And don’t do anything stupid.”
The three of them started making their way down the destroyed hallway — Tony leading with the nurse hostage, Butterbean pushing Sterling’s wheelchair behind them like some kind of fucked up parade. Bodies were still scattered across the floor from Butterbean’s rampage. A few conscious staff members and patients watched in horror from doorways and corners but didn’t dare move.
Tony kept his eyes forward, gun steady against the nurse’s head.
Tony Soprano: (quietly, to himself) “…Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Tony kept the gun pressed against the back of the nurse’s head as they moved through the hospital. Butterbean pushed Sterling’s wheelchair in front of them, the portable machines and IV drip still attached and beeping softly. Sterling was completely unconscious, head slumped to the side, barely looking alive.
They made it outside without any more major incidents. A black van was already waiting in the parking lot with the side door open. Butterbean carefully wheeled Sterling up to it and, with some effort, managed to get him inside and secured as best as he could.
Tony kept his eyes on the nurse the entire time.
Tony Soprano: (low, to the nurse) “Don’t even think about it.”
The second Tony’s attention shifted toward helping Butterbean get Sterling into the van, the nurse made a break for it. She took off running across the parking lot as fast as she could.
Tony reacted instantly.
He took off after her, closing the distance quickly. Just as she reached the edge of the lot, he grabbed her by the back of her scrubs and spun her around. Before she could scream, he cracked her across the face with the butt of his gun.
The pistol whip dropped her to her knees. Blood immediately started pouring from a gash above her eyebrow.
Tony Soprano: (cold and furious) “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back so she was looking up at him.
Tony Soprano: “You’re coming with us. Back to Atlanta. You’re gonna keep him alive. You understand me? If Sterling dies… you die. Simple as that.”
The nurse was crying and shaking, blood running down the side of her face.
Tony Soprano: “And when we get to the airport, you’re gonna play nice with security. You’re gonna act normal. You’re gonna smile and nod and keep your fucking mouth shut. If you try anything, I’ll put a bullet in your head before they even get close. Got it?”
She nodded weakly, too terrified to speak.
Tony Soprano: “Good. Get in the fucking van.”
He shoved her toward the open door. Butterbean helped her inside while Tony kept the gun on her. Once everyone was in, Tony slammed the door shut and got into the driver’s seat.
The flight was rough from the start.
Sterling was laid out across two seats in the back of the small plane, still unconscious, hooked up to whatever portable equipment they could bring. His breathing was shallow and ragged. Every few minutes his body would twitch or jerk, and the nurse (now under Tony’s constant watch) would have to check on him.
Tony sat a few rows up, gun resting on his thigh, watching everything.
Tony Soprano: (to the nurse) “If he stops breathing, you better bring him back. I’m not fucking around.”
The nurse nodded quickly, clearly terrified. She spent most of the flight checking Sterling’s pulse, adjusting the portable oxygen, and trying to keep him stable. At one point his breathing became so weak she had to manually help him for several minutes.
Butterbean sat across from Tony, still wearing his red gloves, staring out the window like nothing was wrong.
By the time they started descending into Atlanta, Sterling was barely hanging on. His skin was pale, his breathing was weak, and he hadn’t moved on his own once during the entire flight.
Tony looked back at him, jaw tight.
Tony Soprano: (quietly) “…This motherfucker better not die on us.”
The plane touched down hard.
They had made it — barely.
The black van moved through Atlanta traffic on the way back to the hotel. Tony was behind the wheel, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on his thigh near his gun. In the back, Sterling was laid out across the seats, barely clinging to life, with the nurse sitting beside him, nervously monitoring the portable machines. Butterbean sat in the passenger seat, still wearing his red boxing gloves, staring out the window like he hadn’t just gone on a rampage through a hospital.
Tony pulled out his phone and hit Conrad Murray’s number, putting it on speaker.
It rang twice before Conrad answered in his usual calm, clinical tone.
Conrad Murray: “Tony.”
Tony Soprano: “Conrad. I need you to meet me at the hotel. Right now. Bring everything you’ve got — IVs, meds, monitors, whatever the fuck you can carry. I got Sterling with me and he’s in bad shape.”
There was a short pause on the other end.
Conrad Murray: “…How bad?”
Tony Soprano: “Bad. Real bad. We had to pull him out of the hospital. He’s barely breathing on his own. I need you to keep him alive until we figure out what the fuck we’re doing with him.”
Conrad Murray: (sounding slightly concerned) “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Give me the room number when you get there.”
Tony Soprano: “Yeah. Just hurry the fuck up.”
He hung up and tossed the phone into the cupholder.
Butterbean glanced over at him.
Butterbean: “You think he’s gonna make it?”
Tony Soprano: “I don’t know. But if he dies, Elena’s gonna lose her fucking mind. And I don’t need that right now.”
They pulled into the hotel parking lot a little while later. Tony parked and killed the engine, then turned around to look at the nurse in the back.
Tony Soprano: “You stay with him. Don’t do anything stupid.”
He looked over at Butterbean.
Tony Soprano: “Come on. Let’s get him upstairs.”
The two of them carefully got Sterling out of the van and into a wheelchair. Tony made sure the nurse stayed close as they wheeled him through the back entrance of the hotel and up to the room where Wendy was being kept.
When they opened the door, Wendy was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking tired and uneasy. She stood up quickly when she saw them bringing Sterling in.
Tony Soprano: (to Wendy) “Don’t ask questions. Just stay out of the way.”
He looked over at the nurse.
Tony Soprano: “You — keep him alive until Conrad gets here. That’s your only job right now.”
Sterling was laid out on one of the two cheap double beds in the room, looking worse than he did at the hospital. His skin was pale and waxy, his breathing shallow and ragged even with the portable oxygen mask the nurse had put on him. The machines they’d brought were crammed onto the nightstand and the small desk, beeping softly. His body was covered in bandages, and he hadn’t moved on his own since they got him inside.
The nurse sat on the edge of the bed beside him, quietly checking his vitals and adjusting the IV drip with shaky hands.
Wendy stood near the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching the nurse work. After a minute, she spoke up.
Wendy Williams: “You know he’s been keeping me locked in here, right? Tony. He’s not letting me leave. You need to be careful with these people.”
Tony, who was sitting in the cheap chair by the window, slowly turned his head toward her.
Tony Soprano: “Shut the fuck up.”
Wendy went quiet, but Tony wasn’t done.
Tony Soprano: “You should be grateful you’re even in this room right now. Most people in your situation would be out on their ass. But here you are, getting a free hotel stay, and you’re still running your mouth. Typical.”
He looked over at the nurse, his tone dropping into something colder.
Tony Soprano: “And you — don’t get any ideas. You’re here to keep him alive. That’s it. If he dies, you die. Simple as that. So do your fucking job and keep your mouth shut.”
Butterbean, who was still standing near the door in his full boxing gear — shirtless, red gloves on, tape wrapped around his wrists — suddenly spoke up.
Butterbean: “Yeah. And if you try anything, I’ll knock your teeth down your throat. Both of you. I don’t give a fuck.”
Tony looked over at him and shook his head.
Tony Soprano: “Take that shit off. You look fucking stupid standing there in boxing gloves like you’re about to go twelve rounds. We’re in a hotel room, not a ring. Get that gear off. Now.”
Butterbean looked down at himself for a second, then started pulling the gloves off without arguing. Wendy visibly relaxed a little when she saw him taking the gear off.
Tony caught it and smirked.
Tony Soprano: (to Wendy) “Don’t get too comfortable. I can still beat the shit out of you without the gloves on. Gear don’t change a damn thing.”
Wendy opened her mouth to say something, but then her expression shifted. She blinked a few times, looking around the room like she was seeing it for the first time.
Wendy Williams: “…Wait. What the hell is going on? Where am I? Who are all these people?”
She looked at Sterling on the bed and her eyes widened.
Wendy Williams: “Oh my God… what happened to him?! Is he dead?! What the fuck is going on?!”
Tony let out a tired sigh and rubbed his face.
Tony Soprano: “You got a meeting with JR tomorrow. Before the show on Friday. That’s what’s going on.”
Wendy’s face twisted in confusion and panic as another wave hit her. She looked back at Sterling, then at Tony, then at the nurse.
Wendy Williams: (voice rising) “JR? The show? What show?! And why is he here like this?! What did you people do to him?! Somebody better start talking right now because I don’t know what the fuck is happening!”
She was starting to spiral, pacing a little as she looked between everyone in the room.
Tony just stared at her, clearly annoyed.
Wendy was still spiraling, pacing and raising her voice as she looked around the room in confusion.
Wendy Williams: “I don’t know what the fuck is going on! Why is he here like this?! Who are you people?! Somebody better start talking—!”
Tony stood up from the chair and moved fast. He grabbed Wendy by the arm and yanked her toward him, then shoved her hard against the wall. Before she could react, he grabbed her by the throat with one hand and slapped her across the face with the other — not hard enough to knock her out, but enough to stun her.
Tony Soprano: (low and vicious) “Shut the fuck up and listen, you dementia-ridden bitch.”
He kept his hand on her throat, pinning her against the wall while she struggled.
Tony Soprano: “You’re in Atlanta. You’re not on your little show anymore. That life is over. You used to be somebody — big house, big career, all that loudmouth bullshit on TV. Now look at you. You can barely remember what day it is half the time. Your career’s in the fucking toilet. Nobody wants you. You’re washed up, and the only reason you’re not completely on the street is because Cowboy thinks he can still squeeze something out of you.”
He slapped her again, harder this time, then grabbed her jaw and forced her to look at him.
Tony Soprano: “Cowboy wants to clean you up. He thinks if we fix your face and shut your mouth when you need to, you can still be useful. He wants you to be the face of this shit. The big interview girl. The one who makes it all look legit.”
Tony leaned in closer, his voice dropping into something colder.
Tony Soprano: “But me? I don’t give a fuck about any of that. I think you’re a loud, fat, useless bitch who should’ve been thrown in the trash years ago. The only reason you’re still breathing is because I haven’t decided to get rid of you yet. So when I tell you to shut the fuck up and do what you’re told, you do it. Or I’ll beat the dementia out of you myself.”
He slammed her back against the wall one more time for emphasis, then let go of her throat. Wendy slid down slightly, coughing and holding her neck, tears in her eyes.
Tony stepped back and looked down at her with disgust.
Tony Soprano: “Now sit the fuck down, shut your mouth, and stay there until I tell you otherwise. We got a meeting with JR tomorrow, and you’re gonna be there. Whether you remember any of this or not.”
Wendy stayed on the floor, breathing hard and clearly disoriented again, but she didn’t say another word.
Tony sat back down in the chair like nothing had happened, lighting a cigarette.
Tony Soprano: (muttering) “Fucking headache…”
The nurse had been quiet for a while, but after watching Tony slam Wendy into the wall and threaten her, something in her finally snapped. Her eyes went wide with panic. She suddenly stood up from Sterling’s bedside and made a desperate run for the door.
Nurse: (frantic) “I can’t— I can’t do this! I’m not staying here!”
She reached the door and started frantically clawing at the handle, trying to unlock it with shaking hands. When that didn’t work fast enough, she turned and rushed toward the window instead, banging on the glass like she was trying to break it open.
Nurse: (panicked) “Help! Somebody help me! Please—!”
Before she could get another word out, Butterbean stepped forward and threw a heavy, looping haymaker. His big red glove connected clean with the side of her head. The impact was loud and ugly.
THUD.
The nurse dropped instantly, collapsing to the floor like her legs had been cut out from under her. She hit the cheap carpet hard and didn’t move.
For a split second, the room was quiet.
Then came a loud, heavy BANG on the hotel room door.
Tony and Butterbean both froze.
Tony Soprano: (low, tense) “…The fuck was that?”
Butterbean: (eyes wide) “Cops?”
Tony immediately pulled his gun and moved toward the door, staying off to the side. Butterbean raised his fists again, still wearing the gloves, breathing hard.
Tony Soprano: (quietly) “Shit… if that’s the cops, we’re fucked.”
Another loud knock hit the door.
Tony Soprano: (whispering) “Get ready to move. If they kick it in, we go out the window.”
Butterbean nodded, looking nervous but ready. Tony slowly reached for the doorknob, gun raised.
He yanked the door open fast—
Standing in the hallway was Dr. Conrad Murray, holding a large black medical bag in one hand and looking mildly annoyed.
Conrad Murray: (calm, clinical) “…You called for me?”
Tony and Butterbean both stared at him for a second, still on edge.
Tony Soprano: (exhaling) “Jesus fucking Christ, Conrad. You almost got shot.”
Butterbean: (lowering his fists) “…Thought you was the cops, man.”
Conrad Murray looked past them into the room, taking in the unconscious nurse on the floor, Wendy sitting against the wall looking dazed, and Sterling laid out on the bed.
Conrad Murray: “I see you’ve been busy.”
Tony stepped aside and let him in, rubbing his face.
Tony Soprano: “Yeah. Get in here and fix this shit before it gets any worse.”
Conrad Murray stepped into the room and took in the scene with a calm, clinical eye. He set his medical bag down on the desk and walked over to the unconscious nurse first. He crouched down beside her, checked her pulse, lifted one of her eyelids, and examined the large welt forming on the side of her head where Butterbean had hit her.
Conrad Murray: (calm, detached) “Concussion. Moderate to severe. She’s going to have a significant headache when she wakes up, possible nausea, and disorientation. No obvious skull fracture, but she’ll need monitoring. If she starts vomiting or becomes unresponsive, that’s a problem.”
He stood up and looked over at Wendy, who was still sitting against the wall, looking dazed and confused after Tony had roughed her up.
Conrad Murray: “As for her…” He glanced at Wendy, then back at Tony. “She’s already dealing with late-stage dementia. The physical trauma isn’t helping. She’s likely going to have increased confusion, emotional instability, and possible memory blackouts for the next several hours. The stress from being struck and threatened is going to make her condition worse in the short term. Long-term, repeated incidents like this will accelerate cognitive decline.”
Wendy looked up at him, still clearly out of it.
Wendy Williams: (mumbling) “…Who the hell are you?”
Conrad didn’t answer her. He simply turned and walked over to Sterling’s bed.
He pulled on a pair of gloves and began examining him methodically — checking his pupils, listening to his breathing, checking the portable monitors, and gently pressing along his bandaged torso and neck. After a few minutes, he straightened up and spoke without looking at anyone in particular.
Conrad Murray: “He’s in critical condition. The fact that he survived being taken off life support and flown here is… surprising. His breathing is weak, his oxygen levels are low, and there’s still significant swelling around his spine. The internal bleeding appears to be under control for now, but he’s not out of the woods. If he develops an infection or his breathing deteriorates further, he won’t last long without proper hospital equipment.”
Tony Soprano: “Elena’s expecting him to drive the trucks on Friday.”
Conrad paused, still checking Sterling’s pulse. He didn’t look up right away.
Conrad Murray: “Friday? As in… two days from now?”
Tony Soprano: “Yeah. She’s dead serious about it. Says he’s crucial to the operation and needs to be behind the wheel.”
Conrad finally straightened up. He looked at Sterling for a long moment, then turned to Tony with a disturbingly calm expression.
Conrad Murray: “Well… we can force it. A heavy combination of cortisol shots to reduce inflammation and shock, paired with ether to keep him from feeling the worst of the pain, and high-dose steroids to push his system into overdrive. It won’t be pretty, and it’s extremely dangerous, but it could theoretically get him conscious and mobile for a short window. The crash afterward would be severe, though. Possible organ failure. Possible coma. Possible death.”
He said it like he was discussing the weather.
Tony stared at him.
Tony Soprano: “…You’re talking about turning him into a fucking zombie just so he can drive a truck for a few hours.”
Conrad Murray: (shrugging slightly) “It’s not ideal. But if that’s what’s being demanded, then that’s the only realistic way to make it happen. Of course, this is all assuming he doesn’t just die the moment we stop sedating him again.”
Before Tony could respond, Conrad’s attention suddenly shifted. He looked over at Wendy, who was still sitting against the wall looking dazed, and his expression changed. The clinical detachment was still there, but now it was focused elsewhere.
Conrad Murray: “On another note, Sheri Dew has given me a direct mandate regarding Wendy’s appearance. She wants her camera-ready as soon as possible. I’ve already started putting together a surgical plan — facial work, body contouring, breast augmentation, and some skin tightening. We’ll need to move quickly if we want her presentable by the PPV.”
He walked over to his medical bag and started pulling out a notepad, already jotting things down like Sterling wasn’t even in the room anymore.
Conrad Murray: “Ideally we’d want to do the major procedures within the next week or so. Recovery time will be tight, but with the right aftercare and some aggressive pharmaceutical support, we can minimize the visible bruising and swelling. Sheri was very clear that Wendy needs to look strong and put-together on camera. No half-measures.”
Tony watched him, visibly irritated.
Tony Soprano: “You’re talking about tit jobs and face lifts while this guy’s laying here half-dead? You don’t even wanna finish checking him first?”
Conrad Murray: (still writing) “I’ve already given my assessment on him. The rest is just waiting to see if he survives the next 48 hours. In the meantime, I have clear instructions on Wendy. Those take priority.”
He glanced up briefly, almost like an afterthought.
Conrad Murray: “Unless you’d like me to begin the process of forcing him awake for Friday. In which case, I’ll need to start prepping the injections immediately.”
Conrad had been writing notes about Wendy’s upcoming procedures when his eyes drifted over to the nurse, who was still lying on the floor where Butterbean had dropped her. She was starting to stir slightly, groaning as she held the side of her head.
Conrad looked over at Tony.
Conrad Murray: “Who is she?”
Tony glanced at the nurse, then back at Conrad like it was obvious.
Tony Soprano: “She’s from the hospital. One of the nurses taking care of Sterling. I grabbed her on the way out. Figured if we’re gonna keep him alive in a fucking hotel room, we might as well have somebody who actually knows what they’re doing.”
Conrad looked back down at the nurse, watching as she slowly tried to push herself up onto her elbows, still clearly dazed from the punch.
Conrad Murray: (calmly) “So she’s a hostage.”
Tony Soprano: “More like insurance. She keeps him breathing, she stays breathing. Simple.”
Conrad studied the nurse for another moment, then looked back at Tony.
Conrad studied the nurse for another moment as she groaned on the floor, still holding the side of her head. Then he looked back at Tony with that same calm, clinical expression.
Conrad Murray: “We could use her. For Wendy’s procedures.”
Tony raised an eyebrow.
Tony Soprano: “…What?”
Conrad Murray: “Instead of using implants or fillers for Wendy’s breasts and BBL, we could harvest tissue from the nurse. Real flesh. It would look and feel more natural. We could take fat from her thighs, abdomen, and possibly even some dermal grafts from her back or arms. It would reduce the risk of rejection and give Wendy a more authentic result.”
He said it so casually, like he was suggesting they order takeout.
Conrad Murray: “She’s already here. She’s already under our control. It would be efficient. We could do the harvesting here in the room if needed, though it would be cleaner in a proper facility. Either way, it’s doable.”
Tony stared at him for a second, genuinely thrown off.
Tony Soprano: “You’re talking about cutting this girl up so Wendy can have real tits and a fat ass? Jesus Christ, Conrad.”
Conrad Murray: (completely unfazed) “It’s just tissue. She’s not using it. And Wendy needs to look presentable on camera. Sheri was very clear about that. This would be a more… organic solution.”
He glanced back down at the nurse, who was still too out of it to fully understand what was being said about her.
Conrad Murray: “We wouldn’t even need to keep her alive long-term if we move quickly. We could harvest what we need and dispose of the rest. It would solve two problems at once.”
Tony rubbed his face, looking somewhere between disgusted and exhausted.
Tony Soprano: “…You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”
Conrad Murray: “I’m being practical. Sheri wants results. This is one way to get them.”
He looked back at Tony, completely serious.
Conrad Murray: “Should I start making preparations?”
Tony stared at Conrad for a long moment after he finished speaking. The room was quiet except for the low beeping of Sterling’s monitors and the nurse’s weak groaning on the floor.
Tony’s face slowly twisted into something between disgust and disbelief.
Tony Soprano: “…You’re outta your fuckin’ mind.”
He took a step back, shaking his head.
Tony Soprano: “This is some Ralphie shit right here. Remember when that sick fuck killed that stripper? Tracee? Broke her jaw, stomped her to death in the parking lot like she was nothing? I still think about that shit sometimes. And that was bad enough. But this?” He gestured at the nurse on the floor. “This is worse. You’re talking about butchering this girl so Wendy can have real fuckin’ tits and a fat ass for the PPV? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Conrad didn’t flinch. He just stood there, calm as ever.
Tony Soprano: (getting heated) “I’ve done a lot of shit in my life. I’ve killed people. I’ve had people killed. But this? This is some twisted, psycho, fucking… I don’t even know what this is. I want no part of it. None. You hear me? Don’t even bring that shit up around me again.”
He turned away for a second, rubbing his face like he was trying to wipe the idea out of his head.
Before anyone else could speak, Butterbean stepped forward. He was still shirtless, red gloves hanging from his waistband, looking eager.
Butterbean: “I’ll do it.”
Tony looked over at him.
Butterbean: “I’ll kill her. Right now. Quick. Then Conrad can do whatever he needs to do. I don’t mind. I can handle it.”
He looked between Tony and Conrad, clearly trying to prove himself.
Butterbean: “I’ll take her in the bathroom, do it clean. Then we can get started on Wendy. She can get the surgery Saturday and be ready for the PPV on Sunday. Fresh upgrades and everything. She’ll look good.”
Tony stared at Butterbean for a long second, somewhere between annoyed and exhausted.
Tony Soprano: “…You’re really offering to murder this girl so this psycho can turn her into spare parts?”
Butterbean: (nodding) “Yeah. I’ll do it. No problem.”
Tony shook his head and turned away from both of them.
Tony Soprano: “I don’t wanna hear another fuckin’ word about this. I’m serious. Figure it out without me. I’m not touching this shit.”
Tony didn’t say another word. He just grabbed his cigarettes off the table, shot one last disgusted look at Conrad and Butterbean, and walked out of the room without looking back. The door clicked shut behind him.
The room was quiet for a few seconds.
Butterbean stood there in the middle of the room, shirtless, red gloves still hanging from his waistband. He started shifting from foot to foot, breathing heavier, talking to himself under his breath again.
Butterbean: (muttering) “Alright… alright, this is it. You got this. Tony’s gonna see. You do this clean, he’s gonna respect you. You’re not just some fat fuck anymore. You’re gonna get made. You’re gonna be somebody…”
Conrad Murray looked down at the nurse, who was still on the floor, dazed and holding the side of her head. He crouched in front of her, calm and clinical as ever.
Conrad Murray: “Your death won’t be in vain. I want you to understand that. What we’re doing here… it’s actually a form of white privilege.”
The nurse blinked at him, clearly struggling to process what he was saying through the pain and confusion.
Nurse: (weak, disoriented) “…What? What are you talking about…?”
Conrad Murray: “You’re being given the opportunity to contribute something meaningful. Your tissue will be used to enhance someone else’s appearance. To make her more presentable. More valuable on camera. In a way, this elevates you beyond what you were. Most people don’t get that chance.”
The nurse stared at him, eyes glassy and unfocused, clearly not understanding.
Nurse: (barely above a whisper) “…I don’t… I don’t get it…”
Butterbean stepped forward without another word. He slipped off his right glove, letting it drop to the floor. Then, without any wind-up or warning, he threw a single, brutal bare-knuckle punch straight into the side of the nurse’s head.
The sound was sickening — a heavy, wet crack.
Her body went completely limp and dropped to the floor like a ragdoll. She didn’t move again.
Butterbean stood over her for a second, breathing hard, then looked at his fist like he was surprised by what he’d just done.
Butterbean: (quietly, to himself) “…Damn.”
He wiped his hand on his pants, then turned and walked out of the room without looking back.
Hotel hallway
Tony was leaning against the wall a little ways down the corridor, phone to his ear. Butterbean walked up to him, still breathing heavy.
Tony Soprano: (into the phone) “…Yeah, I know. We’ll be there tomorrow. Don’t worry about it.”
He glanced over as Butterbean approached, then did a quick double-take when he saw the blood on his knuckles.
Tony Soprano: (into the phone, keeping his voice even) “Yeah, we’ll be at the talent meeting. Me and Butterbean. We’ll handle it.”
He hung up and looked at Butterbean.
Tony Soprano: “…You do it?”
Butterbean: (nodding, trying to sound casual) “Yeah. It’s done. Clean. One shot.”
Tony stared at him for a second, then shook his head and lit a cigarette.
Tony Soprano: “…Jesus Christ.”
He didn’t ask for details. He just started walking down the hallway, expecting Butterbean to follow.
Tony Soprano: “Come on. We still got shit to do.”
Tony stepped back into the room and immediately looked away when he saw Conrad still working on the nurse’s body. His face twisted in open disgust.
Tony Soprano: (low, to himself) “Jesus fucking Christ…”
He didn’t even want to look at what Conrad was doing. The whole thing made his stomach turn. He’d seen plenty of ugly shit in his life, but this was different. This was sick.
Butterbean followed behind him, still shirtless, red gloves hanging from his waist. He kept glancing at Tony, clearly hoping for some kind of reaction or praise.
Butterbean: (eager) “I did good, right Tone? I handled it clean, just like you wanted. One shot.”
Tony didn’t even look at him.
Tony Soprano: “Yeah. You did what you had to do. Now shut up and help me get her out of here.”
He walked over to Wendy, who was still slumped against the wall, barely conscious and drifting in and out. Tony grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up roughly.
Tony Soprano: “You’re coming with us. Get up.”
Wendy mumbled something incoherent but didn’t resist as Tony dragged her toward the door. Butterbean followed behind them without question.
They got another room on a different floor. Two beds. As soon as they walked in, Tony pointed at one of them.
Tony Soprano: (to Butterbean) “That one’s yours. Whole bed to yourself, you fat fuck.”
Butterbean didn’t argue. He just nodded and sat down on the edge of the bed, still looking for approval.
Tony turned to Wendy and pointed at the other bed.
Tony Soprano: “You? You sleep at the edge of my bed tonight. Right there.” He pointed at the foot of the bed. “Curled up like a fucking dog. And I want you naked. Don’t even think about putting clothes on.”
Wendy stood there, still half out of it from everything that had happened. Tony stepped closer and grabbed her by the chin, forcing her to look at him.
Tony Soprano: “And make sure you wear your Depends tonight, you old bitch. I’m not waking up to piss and shit in my bed because your brain’s turned to mush.”
He let go of her face and gave her a light shove toward the bed.
Tony Soprano: “Go on. Get undressed and get in position. And don’t make me tell you twice.”
Wendy hesitated for a second, clearly confused and scared, but the look on Tony’s face made it clear he wasn’t playing. She slowly started taking off her clothes with shaky hands.
Tony sat down on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette, watching her with a cold expression.
Tony Soprano: “You should be grateful, you know that? Most people in your situation would be out on the street or worse. But here you are, still getting put up in hotels, still getting opportunities. You oughta be kissing my fucking feet instead of sitting there looking lost all the time.”
He took a drag and exhaled, staring at her.
Tony Soprano: “Now get in the fucking bed like I told you. And don’t move unless I say so.”
Wendy climbed onto the bed slowly, curling up at the foot of it like he ordered, completely naked. Tony didn’t even look at her again after that. He just leaned back against the headboard and smoked, staring at the wall like he was already done with the day.
Butterbean sat on his own bed, glancing between Tony and Wendy, still clearly hoping for some kind of praise that wasn’t coming.
Conrad Murray was still crouched over the nurse’s body on the floor, working methodically with his scalpel and forceps. He had already removed several large sections of fat from her thighs and abdomen, carefully placing them on a clean towel beside him. His movements were precise and unhurried, like he was performing a routine procedure in an operating room instead of butchering a woman on a hotel room floor.
He paused for a moment, wiping the blade on a piece of gauze. His eyes drifted over to Sterling, who was still unconscious on the bed, hooked up to the portable machines. Conrad stared at him for a few seconds, then glanced back down at the nurse’s body.
A thought seemed to hit him.
He reached over and checked the nurse’s medical chart that had been brought along with her from the hospital. His eyes scanned the information until he found what he was looking for.
Conrad Murray: (quietly, to himself) “…Same blood type.”
He looked back and forth between the two bodies again, the wheels clearly turning in his head. A small, unsettling smile crept across his face.
Conrad Murray: “Well… that changes things.”
He stood up and walked over to Sterling’s bedside, checking his current vitals and the state of his IV access. Then he looked back down at the nurse’s body on the floor like he was already making calculations.
Conrad Murray: (muttering) “Blood transfusion first. That’s easy enough. She’s still fresh. I can drain what I need and get it into him before it clots. And if her organs are compatible… why waste them?”
He crouched back down beside the nurse and began working again, this time with a renewed sense of purpose. He started carefully exposing her abdominal cavity, moving with the same cold precision as before, but now clearly focused on harvesting more than just fat and tissue.
Conrad Murray: (speaking to himself as he worked) “Liver might be too damaged from the trauma… but the kidneys could work. Maybe a lung if I’m careful. At the very least, the blood and some bone marrow could buy him some time. Better than letting it all go to waste.”
He glanced over at Sterling again, almost like he was talking to him.
Conrad Murray: “You’re lucky, in a way. Most people don’t get a second chance like this. Fresh, compatible material… right here in the room. I can stabilize you enough to at least get you through the next few days. After that… well, we’ll see how your body holds up.”
He kept working, completely absorbed in what he was doing. The only sounds in the room were the soft beeping of Sterling’s monitors and the occasional wet sound of Conrad’s tools as he continued harvesting from the nurse’s body.
He didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by what he was doing. If anything, he looked almost pleased with himself.
Conrad Murray: (quietly) “Sheri wanted Wendy to look good for the PPV. And Elena wanted Sterling on his feet by Friday. I can help with both… with the right materials.”
He kept cutting.
Hotel Room – Atlanta, Georgia
Conrad Murray sat back in the cheap chair, wiping his hands on a towel. The nurse’s body had been completely stripped of usable tissue and organs. On the bed, Sterling lay unconscious but stable. His color had improved slightly, and the monitors showed steadier vitals than before.
The transfusion had worked. So had the organ implants.
Conrad looked over his work with cold satisfaction. Sterling now had fresh blood, a new kidney, and part of a liver. It wasn’t perfect, and it was extremely risky, but for now, he was alive. More importantly, Conrad had plenty of usable tissue left over from the nurse — more than enough to give Wendy the upgrades Sheri wanted.
He glanced at the neatly packed containers of harvested fat and dermal tissue on the desk.
Conrad Murray: (quietly to himself) “Saturday. She can have it Saturday. Fresh. She’ll be back on camera Sunday looking brand new.”
He stood up, cleaned his tools, and began packing his bag like he had just finished a routine procedure.
Separate Hotel Room – Atlanta, Georgia
Tony was dead asleep on his back, one arm hanging off the side of the bed, mouth slightly open. He was snoring lightly.
At the foot of the bed, Wendy slowly stirred. She was still naked, curled up where Tony had told her to sleep. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and confused. She blinked a few times, looking around the dark room like she didn’t know where she was.
After a moment, she sat up slowly, wincing as she moved. She looked over at Tony’s sleeping form… and then down at the obvious bulge under the sheets.
Wendy tilted her head, still half-asleep and disoriented from her dementia. She licked her lips without thinking.
Wendy Williams: (soft, groggy) “…Mmm. I’m hungry…”
She started to crawl closer to Tony’s waist when Butterbean’s voice cut through the dark from the other bed.
Butterbean: (eager, trying to sound helpful) “That’s how you get your food. That’s your treat. You want something to eat, that’s what you gotta do.”
The room was dark and quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner. Tony was fast asleep on his back, one arm resting across his stomach, breathing slow and heavy. At the foot of the bed, Wendy stirred.
Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused and glassy. For a few seconds she just laid there, clearly disoriented, trying to remember where she was. Her mind felt foggy, like it always did during these moments. She blinked a few times, looking around the dark room until her eyes landed on Tony.
She stared at him for a long moment, then her gaze drifted lower.
Tony had shifted in his sleep, and the sheet had slipped down just enough to expose him. He was hard.
Wendy’s expression changed. The confusion didn’t fully leave her face, but something else took over — a submissive, almost instinctive headspace. Her breathing slowed. She slowly pushed herself up onto her hands and knees and crawled forward along the bed, moving quietly until she was positioned between his legs. She didn’t speak. She didn’t make a sound.
She just leaned down and took him into her mouth.
Wendy started slow, almost gentle at first, her full lips wrapping around him as her head moved in a steady rhythm. Her dark skin contrasted sharply against his as she worked, one hand resting lightly on his thigh while the other braced against the bed. There was something almost automatic about the way she moved — like she had slipped completely into a different state of mind. A pet. A thing meant to serve.
She kept going, taking him deeper, her tongue working along the underside of his cock as she sucked. Soft, wet sounds filled the quiet room. Every now and then she would let out a small, involuntary hum, like she was content in what she was doing.
Tony’s breathing changed.
His eyes cracked open slowly, still heavy with sleep. It took him a second to register what was happening. When he did, he let out a low groan and lifted his head slightly, looking down the bed.
Tony Soprano: (groggy, voice rough) “…The fuck…”
He saw Wendy there, completely naked, on her hands and knees at the foot of the bed with his cock in her mouth. She didn’t stop. She just kept going, eyes half-lidded, like she was in some kind of trance. Her lips slid up and down his shaft, spit starting to trail down as she worked him with slow, steady strokes.
Tony stared for a few seconds, still waking up, then let his head fall back against the pillow with a quiet exhale.
Tony Soprano: (muttering) “Jesus Christ…”
He didn’t stop her. He just laid there, one hand resting on the back of his head as he watched her through half-open eyes. Wendy kept sucking like she didn’t even realize he was awake — or maybe she didn’t care. She was completely locked into whatever headspace she was in, focused only on what she was doing.
Tony let out another low groan as her mouth moved faster.
Tony Soprano: (quiet, half-asleep) “…Fuckin’ dementia-ridden bitch…”
He didn’t push her off. He just let her keep going, his breathing getting heavier as she worked him over in the dark.
Wendy was completely gone in her head.
She was on her hands and knees at the foot of the bed, naked, slowly working Tony’s cock with her mouth. Every so often she would pull off with a wet sound, breathing hard, spit dripping from her lips as she mumbled to herself in a soft, confused voice before going back down.
Wendy Williams: (slurred, between strokes) “…This is… this is what I’m supposed to do… right? I think… I think I remember…”
She took him deep again, throat working as she gagged lightly. When she pulled back up, she kept her lips just barely touching the head of his cock, speaking against it like she was talking more to herself than to him.
Wendy Williams: (dazed) “Wendy’s being good… I’m being good, right? I don’t wanna get in trouble… please don’t be mad at me…”
She went back down, sucking slower this time, almost absentmindedly. Every few seconds she would pull off again, breathing through her mouth as she stared at his cock like she was trying to remember what she was doing.
Wendy Williams: (soft, confused) “…It’s okay if I keep going? I can keep going… I think I’m supposed to. You’re hard, so… that means I’m doing it right… right?”
She wrapped her lips around him again and started bobbing her head steadily, making soft, wet sounds. After a while she pulled off once more, licking her lips as she looked up at Tony with glassy, unfocused eyes.
Wendy Williams: (mumbling) “I’m your good girl… I think. Am I your good girl? I forgot… I don’t remember if I’m supposed to be your good girl or not…”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She just leaned back in and took him into her mouth again, sucking with that same slow, almost automatic rhythm. Every now and then she would let out a small, confused hum around his cock, like she was trying to comfort herself while she did it.
Wendy Williams: (between slurps, barely coherent) “…Don’t yell at me… okay? I’m trying… I’m really trying… I just wanna be good…”
She kept going, lost in whatever broken headspace she was in, completely unaware of how out of it she sounded.
Tony’s eyes were fully open now.
He stared down at Wendy as she continued sucking him off in that slow, dazed, half-present way. She was mumbling softly around his cock between strokes, completely lost in whatever broken headspace she was in. It was obvious she wasn’t really there.
Something in Tony shifted.
He sat up a little more, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and yanked her head back so she was looking up at him. His voice came out low, rough, and mean.
Tony Soprano: “Look at you… fuckin’ dementia-ridden bitch. You don’t even know what the fuck you’re doing right now, do you?”
Wendy blinked up at him, confused and glassy-eyed, spit running down her chin.
Tony Soprano: “You won’t even remember this shit tomorrow. You’re just a dumb, used-up, loudmouth n****r who can’t even keep her own head straight. And here you are, on your knees like a fuckin’ dog.”
He didn’t give her time to respond.
Tony grabbed her head with both hands and forced his cock deep into her throat in one rough thrust. Wendy gagged hard, her eyes watering instantly as he started fucking her face without any mercy. He held her down, using her throat like a toy, grunting as he drove himself in and out.
Tony Soprano: (grunting) “Yeah… that’s it. Take it, you dumb bitch. This is all you’re good for now.”
Wendy’s hands gripped the sheets as she choked and gagged around him, but she didn’t fight it. She just took it, tears running down her face while Tony used her. Every few thrusts he would pull her off just long enough for her to gasp for air before slamming back into her throat.
Tony Soprano: “Fuckin’ useless… can’t even remember your own name half the time, but you still know how to suck dick like a good little whore.”
He kept going, getting rougher, using her head like a handle as he fucked her throat. Wendy made wet, choking sounds every time he pushed in deep. Spit and tears ran down her face and onto her chest.
After a few more minutes, Tony’s breathing got heavier. He held her head down and came hard down her throat with a low groan, not letting her pull off until he was finished. When he finally let go, Wendy pulled back coughing and gasping, cum and spit dripping from her lips.
Tony didn’t say anything else.
He just laid back down, pulled the sheet over himself, and closed his eyes like nothing had happened. Within a minute or two, he was already drifting back to sleep.
Wendy stayed where she was for a moment, still catching her breath. Then, without being told, she leaned back in and started slowly licking and sucking the mess off his cock, making soft, wet sounds as she cleaned him up like it was the most natural thing in the world.
From the other bed, Butterbean was sitting up, watching everything. His hand was wrapped around his own cock as he stroked himself, breathing heavy while he stared at Wendy on her knees.
Wendy didn’t seem to notice him. She just kept softly sucking and licking Tony clean, completely lost in her own broken little world.
Butterbean kept stroking himself from the other bed, breathing heavier as he watched Wendy on her knees at the foot of Tony’s bed. It didn’t take him long. With a low grunt, he finished into his hand, thick ropes of cum spilling over his fingers.
He sat there for a second, catching his breath, then stood up and walked over to where Wendy was still kneeling. Without saying anything at first, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her face toward him. Wendy didn’t resist. She just looked up at him with that same dazed, empty expression.
Butterbean held his cum-covered hand in front of her mouth.
Butterbean: “Open up.”
Wendy hesitated for half a second, then slowly opened her mouth. Butterbean wiped his hand across her tongue and lips, making sure she took all of it. Some of it smeared across her cheek and chin as he did it.
Wendy Williams: (soft, dazed) “…Thank you for feeding me.”
She swallowed without being told, then licked her lips slowly, like she was trying to get every bit. Her face was a mess — spit, tears, and now cum streaked across her cheeks and mouth. She didn’t seem to care.
Butterbean let go of her hair and wiped his hand on the side of the bed.
Butterbean: (quietly) “Yeah… good girl.”
Wendy didn’t respond. She just slowly crawled back to the foot of Tony’s bed, curled up in the same spot she’d been told to sleep in, and closed her eyes. Cum was still drying on her face as she drifted off, completely out of it.
Butterbean stood there for a few more seconds, watching her, then quietly went back to his own bed and laid down.
Tony was already asleep again, completely unaware of what had just happened.
The room stayed quiet after that.
