CBWL 056

 Restaurant / Nearby Hotel – Atlanta, Georgia

June 18, 2026

Butterbean walked into the small hotel lobby, still in his street clothes, looking around until he spotted Tony’s room number on the text he got earlier. He made his way down the hall and knocked on the door.

It took a minute before the door opened.

Tony stood there in just a pair of sweatpants, no shirt, looking tired and irritated. His hair was messy and there was a clear “just got done” look about him. Behind him, in the bed, Wendy was passed out naked on top of the sheets, her body still slightly glistening with sweat. It was obvious what had just happened.

Tony rubbed his face and stared at Butterbean.

Tony Soprano: (annoyed) “The fuck do you want? It’s late.”

Butterbean stepped inside without being invited, closing the door behind him. He was clearly eager, almost excited, like he’d been waiting to tell Tony what he did.

Butterbean: “I took care of it, Tone. Just like you told me. I didn’t just clean the room… I burned the whole fuckin’ thing down. The hotel’s gone. Nothin’ left. No evidence, no loose ends. I made sure of it.”

Tony stared at him for a second, then let out a short, angry laugh and shook his head.

Tony Soprano: “Yeah, I know what you did. I saw it on the fuckin’ news while I was tryin’ to eat. You didn’t clean the room, you torched the whole goddamn building. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Butterbean’s face fell a little, but he still tried to explain himself.

Butterbean: “I was just tryin’ to make sure nothin’ could come back on us. I figured if I was gonna do it, I should do it right. No half-assin’ it. I thought you’d be proud, boss.”

Tony stepped closer to him, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low tone.

Tony Soprano: “Proud? You think I’m proud? I told you to bleach the fuckin’ room and get rid of any trace. Not set the whole hotel on fire like some fuckin’ maniac. Do you have any idea how much attention that shit brings? Now we got cops, news crews, the whole fuckin’ city lookin’ at that building. That’s the opposite of what I told you to do.”

Butterbean looked down for a second, then back up at Tony, his voice quieter but still hopeful.

Butterbean: “…Sorry, boss. I was just tryin’ to impress you.”

Tony stared at him like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Tony Soprano: “What the fuck are you talkin’ about? Cowboy’s your boss, not me. He’s the one runnin’ this shit. I’m just the guy who has to clean up the messes.”

Butterbean shook his head.

Butterbean: “No, Tony. You’re the real boss. Not Cowboy. Not JR. You’re the one who actually gets shit done. You’re the one people respect. You’re the one from the DiMeo family. That means something. Cowboy’s just… the face. But you? You’re the real deal.”

Tony looked at him for a long moment, somewhere between pissed off and exhausted.

Tony Soprano: (low) “…You got no fuckin’ idea what you’re talkin’ about. And now, because of you, we got a whole burned-down hotel and a bunch of heat we didn’t need. So congratulations. You impressed me. You impressed me by being a fuckin’ idiot.”

He rubbed his face again and sighed.

Tony Soprano: “Go get a room somewhere else for the night. I don’t wanna look at you right now. We’ll deal with this shit tomorrow.”

Butterbean stood near the door, clearly not wanting to leave yet. He shifted his weight and spoke up again, his voice a little lower.

Butterbean: “…I was just tryin’ to do the right thing, Tone. I figured if I handled it without you havin’ to tell me every little step, maybe it would mean somethin’. Like maybe I’d finally get made.”

Tony stared at him for a second, his face flat.

Tony Soprano: “…Huh?”

Butterbean looked down, then back up at him.

Butterbean: “I wanna be made, Tony. I wanna be part of the family. The real one. I thought if I showed you I could take care of shit on my own, maybe you’d put in a word for me.”

Tony let out a short, tired breath and shook his head.

Tony Soprano: “There’s no such thing as the mafia, Butterbean. Quit talkin’ like you seen too many movies.”

Butterbean didn’t argue. He just nodded, looking a little embarrassed.

Tony Soprano: “Go get some sleep. Cowboy wants me at the booking meeting in the morning. After that, we don’t need you until the show on Friday. Until then, your only job is to watch Wendy. That’s it.”

He stepped a little closer, his voice dropping.

Tony Soprano: “And don’t fuckin’ touch her. She’s my moulinyan. You understand me?”

Butterbean: (quickly) “Yeah, Tone. I got it. I won’t touch her. I’ll just keep an eye on her like you said.”

Tony stared at him for another second, clearly still irritated.

Tony Soprano: “Good. Now get the fuck outta here. I’m tryin’ to get some sleep.”

Butterbean nodded again and turned to leave. He glanced back one last time like he was still hoping for some kind of approval, but Tony had already turned away from him.

He quietly stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

Butterbean didn’t get a room.

After Tony shut the door on him, he just stood in the hallway for a minute, staring at the floor. Then he turned and walked out of the hotel without saying a word to anyone. He got in his car, started it up, and just drove.

He didn’t have anywhere to go.

He drove around the city for hours, going down empty streets and highways with no real destination. The radio was off. The only sound was the low hum of the engine and the occasional rumble of his own breathing. Every now and then he’d mutter something under his breath, talking to himself like he always did when he was alone.

Butterbean: (muttering to himself) “…He didn’t mean it like that. He’s just pissed ‘cause I went too far. He’ll cool off. He always does.”

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, eyes on the road but not really seeing it.

His mind kept drifting.

He thought about the past — back when he was still fighting. The crowds, the money, the way people used to cheer when he knocked somebody out. He wasn’t the smartest guy in the room, but in the ring, he was somebody. People respected him. Feared him, even. But that was a long time ago now. These days, most people just saw him as the fat guy who hung around Tony Soprano.

He thought about the present.

How he’d been trying so hard to prove himself. How every time Tony gave him something to do, he tried to go above and beyond. Not because he was told to — but because he wanted Tony to see him differently. He wanted to be more than just the guy who drove the car or stood in the corner. He wanted to matter.

He thought about what Tony said tonight.

“Cowboy’s your boss, not me.”

Butterbean shook his head, talking out loud again.

Butterbean: “…Nah. That ain’t true. Tony’s the real boss. He’s the one who actually does shit. Cowboy’s just… the face. Tony’s the one connected. He’s the one who can make things happen.”

He drove in silence for a while longer, the city lights passing by in a blur.

Butterbean: (quietly) “If I just keep showin’ him I’m loyal… if I keep doin’ what he needs done without complainin’… he’ll come around. He’ll see I’m serious. And when he does… maybe he’ll introduce me to the guys. Chris. Paulie. Silvio. The real ones. The ones who actually run things.”

He let out a slow breath, almost smiling to himself.

Butterbean: “Yeah… that’s all I gotta do. Just stay loyal. Keep my head down. Do what I’m told. Eventually, he’ll see it. He’ll see I’m not just some fat fuck who follows him around. I’m somebody he can trust. Somebody who belongs.”

He kept driving through the night, the same streets over and over, lost in his own head.

He wasn’t going to give up.

Not yet.

Butterbean had been driving for hours when he spotted the glowing neon sign up ahead:

“GUNS & AMMO – OPEN 24 HOURS”

He slowed down, staring at it for a few seconds before pulling into the empty parking lot. He sat there for a minute with the engine running, thinking.

He wasn’t the kind of guy who usually carried a gun. He’d always been the one who settled things with his fists. But after everything that happened tonight — after Tony’s reaction — something in him felt like fists weren’t enough anymore. If he really wanted to impress Tony… if he really wanted to show he was serious about being part of the family… maybe he needed something more.

Something real.

He shut off the car and got out.

The bell above the door dinged as he walked in. The store was small and brightly lit, with guns lined up behind glass cases and on the walls. A middle-aged man with a shaved head and a goatee sat behind the counter, flipping through a magazine. He looked up when Butterbean walked in.

Clerk: “Help you find somethin’?”

Butterbean walked up to the counter, hands in his hoodie pocket.

Butterbean: “Yeah… I’m lookin’ for somethin’. Nothin’ too crazy. Just… somethin’ I can handle. I ain’t really done this before.”

The clerk looked him over for a second.

Clerk: “You got any experience at all?”

Butterbean: “Not really. I mean, I used to fight. Boxing and MMA and shit. But guns? Nah. I just… I been doin’ some work for some people. Serious people. And I wanna make sure I got what I need if shit goes down.”

The clerk raised an eyebrow, clearly picking up on the vibe.

Clerk: “What kind of work we talkin’ about?”

Butterbean hesitated for a second, then shrugged.

Butterbean: “Just… cleanin’ up messes. Makin’ sure things disappear. I had to handle somethin’ tonight and it got messy. I don’t wanna be caught slippin’ again.”

The clerk studied him for a moment, then slowly nodded like he understood.

Clerk: “Sounds like you need somethin’ with a little more bite than your average pistol.”

He walked out from behind the counter and led Butterbean over to one of the larger cases near the back wall. He unlocked it and pulled out a massive, matte-black shotgun with a drum magazine attached.

Clerk: “This right here? AA-12. Fully automatic shotgun. 20-round drum. Fires five hundred rounds a minute. You pull the trigger on this thing, whatever’s in front of you ain’t gonna be a problem anymore. It’s loud, it’s mean, and it’ll turn a room into Swiss cheese in about three seconds.”

Butterbean stared at the gun, eyes wide.

Butterbean: “…Damn.”

Clerk: “Not exactly beginner-friendly, but if you’re doin’ the kind of work you say you’re doin’… this’ll make sure nobody fucks with you. Or your people.”

Butterbean didn’t even hesitate.

Butterbean: “I’ll take it.”

The clerk raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. He just nodded and started pulling out the paperwork.

Clerk: “You sure? This thing ain’t cheap. And it ain’t subtle.”

Butterbean: “I got the money. And I don’t need subtle. I need somethin’ that makes a statement.”

Twenty minutes later, Butterbean walked out of the store carrying a large black case. He put it in the trunk of his car, got back behind the wheel, and just sat there for a minute, staring at nothing.

He didn’t know if Tony would actually be impressed by this.

But it felt like the right move.

If he was gonna be taken seriously… if he was ever gonna get close to the real family… he needed to start acting like he belonged.

And right now, that meant having something that could end a problem fast.

He started the car and pulled back onto the road, the heavy case sitting in the trunk like a secret he was carrying around.

Butterbean checked into a cheap motel a few miles away from where Tony was staying. He didn’t say much to the clerk at the front desk. He just paid in cash, took the key, and went straight to his room.

The second he stepped inside, he locked the door behind him, dropped his bag on the bed, and started stripping down. He didn’t even take a shower. He just kicked off his clothes and pulled on his old boxing trunks — the same black ones with the white trim he used to wear back in the day. They were tight around his waist and thighs now, but he didn’t care.

He left the gloves in the bag.

Instead, he picked up the heavy black case he’d bought earlier and set it on the dresser. He opened it and stared at the AA-12 for a few seconds before carefully lifting it out. It felt heavy in his hands. Serious. Like something that actually mattered.

He popped open a small pill bottle he kept in his pocket, shook out two pills, and swallowed them dry. He didn’t even bother with water. Within a few minutes, he could feel them kicking in — that sharp, focused edge cutting through the exhaustion.

Butterbean stood in front of the mirror, shirtless in just his boxing trunks, holding the automatic shotgun across his chest like he was posing for a picture. He turned slightly to the side, adjusting his stance, trying to look intimidating.

He stared at his own reflection for a long time.

Butterbean: (muttering to himself) “…This is who I am now. Not just some fat fuck who follows Tony around. This is the real me. The one who gets shit done.”

He shifted the gun in his hands, holding it one-handed for a second before bringing it back up with both arms.

Butterbean: “Tony’s gonna see it. He’s gonna see I ain’t just some joke. I burned that whole fuckin’ building down. No loose ends. That’s the kind of shit that gets you noticed. That’s the kind of shit that gets you made.”

He kept staring at himself, his eyes glassy from the pills.

Butterbean: “Cowboy and JR think I’m just some dumb fatass. They don’t know. They don’t see what I can do. But Tony does. He’s gonna see it. And when he does… he’s gonna bring me in. I’m gonna meet Chris. Paulie. Silvio. Big Pussy. I’m gonna be sittin’ on Tony’s boat with them like I belong there.”

He adjusted his stance again, puffing out his chest a little as he posed with the gun.

Butterbean: “And the bitches in that ring? They’re all gonna see it too. All them girls actin’ like they’re too good for me now… they’re gonna be beggin’ for it once they see what I really am. Once I’m made. Once I’m somebody.”

He kept going like that for hours.

Posing. Talking to himself. Repeating the same things over and over while the pills kept him wired and focused. Every now and then he’d glance at his phone on the dresser, waiting for Tony to text him about watching Wendy.

But the message never came.

Butterbean didn’t care.

He just kept staring at himself in the mirror, gun in hand, telling himself over and over that this was the version of him that was finally gonna matter.

Butterbean: (quietly, to his reflection) “…They’re all gonna see. I ain’t just some fat fuck anymore.”