CBWL 063

 Bojangles Coliseum – Charlotte, North Carolina

Friday Night – Go-Home Show (Immediately After Going Off Air)

The show had just cut out. Fire alarms were still screaming throughout the building, and the sound of the crowd had turned from boos into something much uglier — screaming, chanting, and the dull thud of bodies hitting barricades. Backstage, the energy had shifted from controlled chaos to something that felt like it was about to snap.

In a small production office just off the main hallway, Cowboy Watts stood with his arms crossed, staring at one of the monitors that was still flickering with static. Jim Ross stood beside him, one hand resting on the back of a chair, his face tight.

Cowboy let out a low grunt, almost a chuckle, but there was no humor in it.

Cowboy Watts: “Goddamn. That was some show.”

Jim Ross glanced at him, one eyebrow raised.

Jim Ross: “You sound like you enjoyed that.”

Cowboy Watts: “I ain’t gonna lie, JR. That heat on Emma? That’s nuclear. She beat up an old man who was already half-dead and then tried to kill another girl on live TV. These people are losing their minds out there. That’s the kind of heat you can’t buy.”

He shook his head, but his expression stayed hard.

Cowboy Watts: “But this is getting out of hand fast. We wanted them pissed. We didn’t want them trying to burn the building down.”

Jim Ross nodded slowly, his voice calm but serious.

Jim Ross: “Yeah. I felt it the second she pulled Sterling off that bed. The air changed. This ain’t just heat anymore, Cowboy. This is dangerous. We got families in that crowd. People trying to get their kids out while others are trying to fight their way backstage. That’s a recipe for somebody getting hurt bad.”

Before Cowboy could respond, the door swung open. Arnold Palmer stepped in, looking more rattled than either of them had ever seen him. His usually calm, polished demeanor was gone.

Arnold Palmer: “We got a problem. A big one. Fans have breached the interior. They’re coming through the lower tunnels and the main concourse. Security’s getting pushed back hard. People are fleeing in every direction. We need to get the hell out of here. Now.”

Cowboy’s face darkened.

Cowboy Watts: “How many?”

Arnold Palmer: “Too many. And it’s getting worse by the second. There are reports of a crush near the lower sections. Some of them are trying to get backstage. Others are just trying to get out. Either way, this building is about to turn into a war zone.”

Just then, Tony Soprano came storming in from the other hallway, his face red and sweating. He looked around frantically.

Tony Soprano: “Where the fuck is Butterbean?! I told that fat fuck to stay close! Where the hell is he when we actually need him?!”

Cowboy Watts: (snapping) “Tony, shut the fuck up about Butterbean for five seconds. We got bigger problems right now.”

Before anyone could say anything else, a loud pop-pop-pop echoed from somewhere outside the building. Gunshots. Distant, but unmistakable.

Everyone froze for half a second.

Then the sound of tear gas canisters hissing open could be heard echoing through the hallways, followed by more screaming from the crowd.

Arnold Palmer: (urgent) “Police are moving in with riot gear. They’re gassing the lower levels. We have to move. Now.”

Cowboy looked at JR. JR gave him a short nod.

Jim Ross: “Let’s go.”

The group split almost immediately.

Elena Ceaușescu was already moving toward the roof access with two of her personal security detail. She didn’t say a word to anyone. As she reached the stairwell, she glanced back once at Bill Parcells, who was still standing in the hallway looking confused.

Elena Ceaușescu: (cold, flat) “Try not to die.”

She disappeared up the stairs without another word. A minute later, the sound of helicopter blades cutting through the air could be heard as Elena’s private chopper lifted off the roof and disappeared into the night, leaving Parcells behind.

Tony Soprano was already moving in the opposite direction, heading toward the lower parking garage where his car was parked. He was cursing under his breath the entire way, still looking around for Butterbean. When he finally reached his car, he jumped in and tried to start it.

Nothing.

He tried again. Still nothing.

Tony Soprano: (panicked, slamming the wheel) “Come on, you piece of shit! Start! Start, goddammit!”

Outside, the crowd had reached the parking garage. People were swarming the cars, some of them climbing on hoods and smashing windows. Tony looked out the windshield and saw a group of fans heading straight for his car.

He didn’t wait.

Tony Soprano: “Fuck it.”

He kicked the door open and took off on foot, running through the chaos as his car was quickly surrounded and rocked back and forth by the mob. He disappeared into the night, just another body trying to get out of the storm.

Meanwhile, Cowboy and JR had made it to the executive parking area. Cowboy’s black Lincoln was parked near the back. They moved fast, not running, but moving with purpose. As they reached the car, a group of fans spotted them and started charging.

Jim Ross: “Cowboy—”

Cowboy Watts: “Get in.”

They both jumped into the Lincoln. Cowboy fired it up and slammed it into reverse just as the first fans reached the car. One of them jumped onto the hood. Another slammed his hands against the driver’s side window.

Cowboy didn’t hesitate.

He floored it, the Lincoln’s tires squealing as he peeled out of the parking spot. The fan on the hood went flying off as the car shot forward. Another one tried to grab the door handle and got dragged a few feet before letting go. Cowboy didn’t slow down. He blasted through the exit gate, the Lincoln’s headlights cutting through the smoke and tear gas as they hit the street.

Behind them, the arena was still in complete chaos. Sirens were wailing in the distance. People were still pouring out of the building. Some were fighting. Some were just running. The fire alarms continued to scream into the night.

Cowboy kept driving, his hands tight on the wheel, eyes forward.

Jim Ross looked over at him after a long minute of silence.

Jim Ross: “You still think it was worth it?”

Cowboy didn’t answer right away. He just kept driving, the Lincoln cutting through the dark Charlotte streets as the sounds of sirens and chaos faded behind them.

Finally, he spoke.

Cowboy Watts: “Ask me again on Sunday.”