CBWL 069

 Scene: Hotel – Saturday, June 21, 2026

Tony and Butterbean stood in front of the vending machines down the hall from the room. The hallway was quiet. Tony had a cigarette behind his ear and was staring at the options like he couldn’t decide what he wanted. Butterbean was just standing there, big arms crossed over his chest, not really looking at anything.

Tony finally glanced over at him.

Tony Soprano: “Alright. What’s up with you?”

Butterbean didn’t answer right away. He just kept staring at the floor.

Tony Soprano: “You been quiet since we left the room. You barely said two words the whole ride over here. So what’s the problem?”

Butterbean shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His voice came out low and heavy.

Butterbean: “…I don’t know, Tone. This shit’s getting kinda crazy.”

Tony turned his head slowly to look at him.

Butterbean: “I mean… the nurse. What they did to her. Cutting her up like that. Putting pieces of her in Sterling and then using the rest on Wendy. I thought we was just supposed to get the guy out the hospital. I didn’t know we was gonna be doing all this other shit.”

Tony’s jaw tightened.

Tony Soprano: (sharp) “What the fuck are you talking about? You were there. You helped. You stood in that room the whole time. Now you’re gonna act like you didn’t know what was going on?”

Butterbean didn’t back down, but he also didn’t raise his voice.

Butterbean: “I know what I did. I’m just sayin’… this is getting heavy, man. Real heavy. I ain’t scared of a lot of shit, but this… this feels different.”

Tony’s face started to harden. He took a step closer, voice dropping.

Tony Soprano: “You better not be saying what I think you’re saying right now.”

Butterbean looked at him but stayed quiet.

Tony caught himself. He took a breath, rubbed his face with one hand, and exhaled. When he spoke again, his tone was lower, but still firm.

Tony Soprano: “Look… I get it. This shit got ugly. But we’re almost done. The circuit is almost over. We got through the go-home show last night, even with all that bullshit that happened. The PPV is tomorrow. After that, we’re clear. You hear me?”

Butterbean didn’t say anything.

Tony Soprano: “You better not quit on me now, Bean. Not after everything we already did. We’re this close. Just get through tomorrow night with me and then you can take a vacation or whatever the fuck you wanna do. Disappear for a little while. But not right now. Not when we’re this close to the finish line.”

He looked Butterbean dead in the eye.

Tony Soprano: “You understand what I’m saying to you?”

Butterbean was quiet for a few seconds before finally giving a slow nod.

Butterbean: “…Yeah. I hear you.”

Tony studied him for another moment, then nodded and turned back toward the vending machine.

Tony Soprano: (quieter) “Good. Now pick something to eat. I’m fucking starving.”

Butterbean was quiet for a few seconds after Tony told him to pick something to eat. He kept staring at the vending machine like he wasn’t really seeing it.

Then he spoke.

Butterbean: “…I wanna meet the guys from The Bing.”

Tony didn’t even look at him at first. He just kept studying the snacks behind the glass.

Tony Soprano: “What?”

Butterbean: “The guys from The Bing. I wanna meet ‘em.”

Tony finally turned his head, playing it off like he didn’t know what Butterbean was talking about.

Tony Soprano: “What guys?”

Butterbean looked at him.

Butterbean: “Silvio. Christopher. Paulie. Big Pussy. Furio. Them guys.”

Tony let out a short laugh and shook his head, trying to brush it off.

Tony Soprano: “Come on, Bean. What are you, twelve years old? You sound like a fuckin’ fan. Those guys ain’t coming out here.”

Butterbean didn’t laugh. He just kept looking at Tony, his face serious.

Butterbean: “I’m not playin’, Tone. I been doin’ a lot for you. For Cowboy. For Elena. I been keepin’ my mouth shut, doin’ what I’m told… even when the shit got real ugly. I just wanna meet ‘em. That’s it.”

Tony studied him for a second. He could tell Butterbean wasn’t buying the brush-off this time. His tone shifted — still casual, but a little more careful now.

Tony Soprano: “Look… those guys don’t really travel for this kind of thing. You know how it is. They stay close to home.”

Butterbean didn’t say anything. He just kept staring at Tony, waiting.

Tony sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

Tony Soprano: “…But maybe. Maybe a couple of ‘em will come out for the PPV tomorrow night. I can make a couple calls. See who’s around.”

Butterbean’s face lit up a little. It wasn’t much, but it was the most animated he’d looked all morning.

Butterbean: “Yeah?”

Tony Soprano: “Yeah. I’m not promising nothing, but… I’ll see what I can do. Maybe Silvio. Maybe Paulie. We’ll see.”

Butterbean nodded, a small, almost childlike smile forming on his face.

Butterbean: “Alright… alright, cool. That’d be good, Tone. Real good.”

Tony watched him for a second, then turned back to the vending machine and put in some money.

Tony Soprano: (under his breath) “…Jesus Christ.”

He hit the button and waited for his snack to drop, while Butterbean stood there looking noticeably lighter than he did a few minutes ago.

Tony looked around to make sure nobody was nearby, then stepped in closer to Butterbean. His voice dropped low.

Tony Soprano: “Alright… I’m gonna level with you. The reason I can’t bring the guys from The Bing out here right now… it’s ‘cause of this Wendy situation.”

Butterbean stayed quiet, listening.

Tony Soprano: “I’ve been fucking her. And I don’t need them knowing that shit. You know how it is with those guys. They find out I’ve been sticking my dick in some old, washed-up Black bitch? They’ll never let me hear the end of it. I’m talking about real fucking stigma. Not just ‘Tony’s fucking around.’ I’m talking about Tony’s out here fucking niggers now. That’s how they’ll see it. And I don’t need that smoke. Not from them.”

Butterbean shifted uncomfortably but didn’t interrupt.

Tony Soprano: “Look, I ain’t no saint. I’ve done a lot of shit. But this? This is different. I got a wife at home. I got a reputation. And now this bitch is about to get even faker — big fake tits, fat ass, the whole bimbo package. And I’ll be honest with you… I might actually leave Carmella for this Black bitch once she’s all done up. That’s how far gone I am right now.”

He shook his head, almost like he was disgusted with himself.

Tony Soprano: “So yeah. I’m not trying to mix those worlds. I don’t need Silvio, Paulie, or any of them seeing me like this — running around with some old Black whore I’m turning into a full-blown bimbo. That shit stays between us. You understand?”

Butterbean nodded slowly.

Butterbean: “…Yeah. I get it, Tone.”

Tony studied him for a second, then continued, his tone a little more measured.

Tony Soprano: “But I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I can get one or two of them out here for the PPV. I’ll make some calls. Just… don’t say nothing about this Wendy shit to anybody. Not even them. Especially not them.”

Butterbean nodded again.

Butterbean: “I won’t say nothing.”

Tony’s phone started ringing. He pulled it out, saw Cowboy’s name, and answered.

Tony Soprano: (into the phone) “Yeah… I’m on my way.”

He hung up and looked back at Butterbean.

Tony Soprano: “That was Cowboy. He needs me in the booking meeting. I gotta go. Keep your head up. Go back to the room and make sure those doctors are doing what they’re supposed to be doing. When they’re finished with her, you call me. Got it?”

Butterbean: “Yeah… I got it.”

Tony gave him a quick pat on the shoulder.

Tony Soprano: “Good. I’ll see what I can do about the guys.”

He turned and started walking down the hallway, already lighting a cigarette as he went.

Butterbean stood there for a moment, then slowly started heading back toward the room.

Butterbean walked slowly back down the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets, still replaying everything Tony had just told him. He didn’t like any of this shit — the nurse, the organs, Wendy getting cut up — but he kept telling himself it would be over soon. Just get through the PPV tomorrow and maybe he could actually take a break like Tony said.

He reached the hotel room door, pulled out the key card Tony had given him earlier, and swiped it.

The door clicked open.

Butterbean stepped inside and immediately stopped.

The room was dimly lit, with the two beds pushed together to make one big work area. Wendy was completely naked and laid out on her back across both beds. She was under anesthesia, her eyes taped shut, a breathing tube in her mouth. Her chest was already cut open — both breasts had been removed and were sitting on a metal tray beside the bed, bloody and discarded. Dr. Ted Eisenberg was currently working on inserting large, round implants into her chest while Conrad Murray was marking up and cutting into her ass and hips, prepping the area to graft in the harvested fat and tissue from the nurse.

Blood and medical waste were on the sheets. The cooler that had been sitting on the floor earlier was now open, with pieces of the nurse’s tissue laid out on sterile cloths.

Butterbean stood in the doorway for a second, frozen.

Conrad glanced up briefly from what he was doing, barely reacting to Butterbean walking in.

Conrad Murray: (calmly, focused on his work) “Close the door.”

Butterbean slowly stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, staring at Wendy’s body — her chest wide open, her ass cut into and being reshaped, the two doctors working on her like she was a piece of meat on a table.

Dr. Ted Eisenberg didn’t even look up.

Dr. Ted Eisenberg: “She’s under. We started about twenty minutes ago. Should be another couple hours at least.”

Butterbean didn’t answer. He just kept staring.

Wendy’s body twitched slightly from the work being done on her, but she stayed unconscious.

Butterbean slowly walked over to the same chair he’d been sitting in earlier and sat down without a word, his eyes still locked on what was happening in front of him.

Butterbean sat in the corner, silent, watching.

Conrad Murray and Dr. Ted Eisenberg worked with an almost giddy energy, talking over each other like two kids showing off a new toy.

Dr. Ted Eisenberg: (grinning as he adjusted the massive implants in Wendy’s chest) “Look at the size of these things. 1400cc each. She’s gonna look ridiculous. These tits are gonna sit high and round like two fucking balloons. No sag, no movement, just straight-up porn star fake. She’s gonna look like a goddamn cartoon character.”

Conrad Murray: (working on her ass, injecting fat) “And this ass is gonna be even worse. I’m packing as much of that nurse’s fat into her as I can. She’s gonna have a huge, shelf ass. Like two basketballs glued to her back. When she walks, it’s gonna jiggle like crazy. And these hips — I’m widening them out too. She’s gonna have that exaggerated bimbo shape. Tiny waist, huge tits, huge ass. A real-life fuck doll.”

Dr. Ted Eisenberg laughed under his breath as he sutured Wendy’s chest.

Dr. Ted Eisenberg: “Her face is next. We’re gonna give her those big, puffy, cock-sucking lips. I’m talking duck lips. The kind that make her look like she’s permanently ready to slobber on a dick. And we’re filling her cheeks too — she’s gonna have that permanent ‘just got fucked’ face. And I’m gonna do her nose small and upturned. Classic bimbo nose. She’s gonna look so fucking stupid.”

Conrad Murray: (excited) “And the skin. We’re lightening her up a few shades. Not fully white, but that light-skin, high-yellow bimbo look. She’s gonna look like one of those Instagram thots that got way too much work done. And once we’re finished with her lips and face, she’s not even gonna be able to make normal expressions anymore. She’s gonna have that permanent ‘dumb and horny’ look.”

Dr. Ted Eisenberg glanced over at Wendy’s unconscious face and smirked.

Dr. Ted Eisenberg: “By the time we’re done, she’s not gonna look like Wendy Williams anymore. She’s gonna look like some cheap, over-the-top black barbie bimbo. Huge fake tits, fat fake ass, dick-sucking lips, and a brain that’s clearly not working right. She’s gonna look like a living sex toy. A black fuck doll.”

Conrad Murray: (laughing softly) “Exactly. She wanted to be a star again? This is how. She’s gonna look so fake and stupid that people won’t even be able to take her seriously. That’s the only lane left for her now.”

They kept working, both of them clearly enjoying themselves as they described every grotesque detail of what they were turning her into.

Butterbean stayed quiet in the corner, just watching.

The two doctors worked for another two hours straight, focused and methodical despite the grotesque nature of what they were doing. By the time they finally stepped back, Wendy was completely transformed.

Her chest was now absurdly large — two massive, round, perfectly symmetrical implants that sat high and unnaturally on her frame, giving her an exaggerated, cartoonish silhouette. Her ass had been completely rebuilt with the harvested fat, now huge, round, and protruding in a way that looked almost fake even before the swelling. Her hips were wider, her waist cinched in dramatically, and her lips had been inflated to a ridiculous, permanent pout.

Her face had been altered significantly — cheeks fuller, nose smaller and upturned, and her overall expression now carried a vacant, overdone bimbo quality even while unconscious.

Conrad Murray and Dr. Ted Eisenberg stood back, looking at their work with something close to pride.

Dr. Ted Eisenberg: (smirking) “She looks fucking ridiculous.”

Conrad Murray: “Yeah… but it worked. It’s exactly what we were going for. She’s gonna look like a total black bimbo sex doll once the swelling goes down.”

Dr. Ted Eisenberg nodded, wiping his hands.

Dr. Ted Eisenberg: “Give it a few hours. The swelling’s gonna make her look even more botched right now, but once it settles… she’s gonna be exactly what they wanted. A living, breathing blow-up doll.”

Conrad glanced over at the monitors, then at Wendy’s unconscious body.

Conrad Murray: “We’ll keep her under for a little while longer. Let the swelling start to go down before we wake her up. No point in her seeing herself like this right now anyway.”

The two doctors began cleaning up their tools in relative silence, occasionally glancing back at Wendy’s heavily altered body with quiet satisfaction.

Butterbean stayed in the corner, arms crossed, watching everything without saying a word.

The room settled into a strange, uneasy quiet as they waited for the swelling to go down.

Fade out.

CBWL 068

Atlanta, Georgia

The Hotel – Saturday, June 21, 2026 – 10:12 a.m.

Butterbean sat in the corner of the dimly lit hotel room, shirtless, his massive frame crammed into a cheap chair. His red boxing gloves rested on the floor beside him. He hadn’t slept. He’d been in this same spot since they got back from Charlotte early that morning, guarding Sterling like Tony told him to.

Sterling Marlin was laid out on one of the beds, hooked up to portable monitors and an IV. He was still unconscious, but breathing on his own. His skin looked worse than it did before last night’s show.

Conrad Murray was at the small desk near the window, calmly cleaning his surgical tools. The cooler sitting on the floor next to him was still half-full.

Butterbean stared at it for a long time before finally speaking.

Butterbean: “…She’s really dead, huh?”

Conrad didn’t even look up from what he was doing.

Conrad Murray: “She was never going to leave this room alive. You knew that.”

Butterbean shifted in the chair, the cheap wood creaking under his weight. He glanced over at Sterling on the bed, then back at Conrad.

Butterbean: “Tony said we were just supposed to get Sterling out. He didn’t say nothing about… all that other shit you did to her.”

Conrad finally glanced over at him, calm as ever.

Conrad Murray: “Tony doesn’t give the orders when it comes to this. Elena does. And Elena wanted Sterling stabilized by any means necessary. I did what needed to be done.”

Butterbean was quiet for a few seconds. He rubbed his knuckles, which were still bruised and swollen from the night before.

Butterbean: “…Cowboy know about any of this?”

Conrad went back to cleaning his tools without missing a beat.

Conrad Murray: “Who do you think authorized this? You know the rules — nobody can have bigger tits than Mariska. Cowboy made the exemption.”

Butterbean didn’t respond. He just leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at the floor. The low, steady beeping of Sterling’s monitors filled the silence.

After a moment, Conrad spoke again, still focused on his tools.

Conrad Murray: “Tony should be here soon with Wendy. Once she gets here, we’ll get started. She needs to be ready for tomorrow night.”

Butterbean kept staring at the floor, his leg bouncing slightly.

Butterbean: (low) “…Yeah.”

He didn’t say anything else. He just stayed in the chair, waiting.

Butterbean sat in the chair, staring at nothing. The only sounds in the room were the steady beeping of Sterling’s monitors and Conrad quietly moving his tools around on the desk.

Butterbean’s leg had stopped bouncing. His eyes were still open, but he wasn’t really looking at anything in front of him anymore.

His mind started drifting.

---

He was twelve years old again, sitting on the front steps of his mom’s shitty apartment in Queens. His hands were wrapped in old, dirty athletic tape. His lip was split from getting jumped by three older kids the day before. He remembered sitting there with a black eye, telling himself that one day nobody would ever fuck with him again.

He remembered his first real fight at fifteen — some dirty smoker in the back of a bar in Long Island. He knocked the guy out in the second round and felt something click in his head. People actually looked at him different after that. For the first time in his life, he felt like somebody.

By nineteen he was fighting in small shows up and down the East Coast. He wasn’t the most technical guy, but he was big, mean, and he didn’t go down easy. He started getting noticed by the wrong kind of people — guys who liked having a big, dumb, loyal heavyweight around who could break shit when they needed it broken.

He remembered the first time he met one of Tony’s guys. The guy told him if he kept his mouth shut and did what he was told, maybe one day he could get made. That word stuck with him for years.

Made.

He wanted that more than anything. He didn’t care about the money as much as he cared about the respect. He wanted to walk into a room and have people move out the way. He wanted to stop being the fat kid who got picked on and start being the guy nobody fucked with.

He remembered sitting in the back of a car one night after beating the shit out of some guy who owed money, blood still on his knuckles, thinking to himself:

This is it. This is how I get in. This is how I stop being nothing.

---

Butterbean blinked slowly, coming back to the hotel room.

He looked down at his bruised knuckles, then over at Sterling on the bed. Then at the cooler sitting on the floor.

He rubbed his face with one big hand and let out a low breath.

Butterbean: (quiet, to himself) “…Fuckin’ made, huh?”

Conrad glanced over at him but didn’t say anything.

Butterbean leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking under his weight. He stared at the wall, his mind still half in the past.

He thought about how far he’d come from those amateur fights… and how the fuck he ended up here — sitting in a hotel room while a doctor cleaned tools that were used to cut up a nurse and put pieces of her into other people.

He didn’t say anything else out loud.

He just kept waiting for Tony to show up with Wendy.

The room stayed quiet for another minute. Butterbean was still leaning back in the chair, staring at the wall, lost in his own head.

Conrad Murray finished wiping down one of his scalpels and placed it neatly on a clean towel. Without looking over, he spoke in that same calm, clinical tone he always used.

Conrad Murray: “You used to fight with a guy named Richie Santoro as your cutman, right? Back in the mid-90s?”

Butterbean slowly turned his head toward him.

Butterbean: “…Yeah. How the fuck you know that?”

Conrad gave a small shrug, still focused on his tools.

Conrad Murray: “I knew Richie. Worked on a few fighters back then. He used to talk about you. Said you were a mean son of a bitch but you had no quit in you. Said you’d fight through anything.”

Butterbean didn’t answer right away. He just kept staring at Conrad.

Butterbean: “Richie’s dead. Died in ’03.”

Conrad Murray: “I heard. Heart attack, wasn’t it?”

Butterbean nodded slowly.

Butterbean: “Yeah.”

Conrad finally looked over at him, calm as ever.

Conrad Murray: “He always said you were gonna make it somewhere. Said you had that dog in you. That you’d do whatever it took.” He paused for a second, then added, “Guess he was right.”

Butterbean shifted in the chair, the wood creaking again under his weight. He rubbed his bruised knuckles and looked down at them.

Butterbean: “Yeah… well. ‘Whatever it took’ looks a little different now than it did back then.”

Conrad went back to organizing his instruments like they were having a normal conversation.

Conrad Murray: “Most things do.”

He picked up another tool and started wiping it down.

Conrad Murray: “Tony should be here soon. Once Wendy gets here, we’ll get started on her. Shouldn’t take too long if everything goes smooth.”

Butterbean didn’t respond. He just kept staring at his hands, his mind somewhere between 1996 and right now.

The low beeping of Sterling’s monitors filled the silence again.

There was a knock at the door.

Butterbean stood up, grabbed one of his gloves off the floor, and walked over. He checked the peephole, then unlocked the door and opened it.

Tony Soprano stepped inside first, looking tired and annoyed like always. Behind him was Dr. Ted Eisenberg, carrying a black medical bag. Wendy trailed in last, still wearing the oversized hoodie and sweatpants, looking half-asleep and confused.

Tony shut the door behind them and locked it.

Tony Soprano: “Conrad. Ted.”

He gave them both a short nod, then looked over at Butterbean and Sterling on the bed.

Tony Soprano: “How’s he doing?”

Conrad Murray: (calmly) “Stable for now. The drugs we gave him last night got him through the show, but he’s gonna need more soon if we want to keep him upright.”

Tony nodded, then looked at Wendy, who was standing near the wall looking around the room like she wasn’t sure where she was.

Tony Soprano: (to Wendy) “Go sit on the bed. The empty one.”

Wendy didn’t argue. She walked over slowly and sat down on the edge of the second bed, staring at the floor.

Dr. Ted Eisenberg set his bag down on the desk and looked over at the cooler.

Dr. Ted Eisenberg: “Is that everything we took from her?”

Conrad Murray: “Yeah. Breasts and ass tissue are prepped and ready. Everything else we used on him.” He nodded toward Sterling.

Tony lit a cigarette and looked between the two doctors.

Tony Soprano: “How long is this gonna take?”

Dr. Ted Eisenberg: “Couple hours, tops. We’ll do the breasts first, then the ass. Should be clean if everything goes right.”

Tony took a drag and exhaled, then looked over at Butterbean, who was still standing near the door with his glove in his hand.

Tony Soprano: “You good?”

Butterbean: (quiet) “Yeah… I’m good.”

Tony studied him for a second like he could tell something was off, but he didn’t push it.

Tony Soprano: “Alright. Conrad, Ted — get set up. Sooner we get this done, the better.”

He looked over at Wendy again.

Tony Soprano: “And you… stay still and don’t ask no fuckin’ questions. Got it?”

Wendy nodded slowly without looking up.

Conrad and Dr. Ted Eisenberg started setting up their tools while Tony walked over to the window and pulled the curtains tighter.

Butterbean sat back down in his chair in the corner, strapping his glove back on even though there was nothing to fight. He kept his eyes on the floor, the low beeping of Sterling’s monitors mixing with the sound of metal tools being laid out on the desk.

Conrad Murray: “Alright. Get naked.”

Wendy blinked, confused.

Wendy Williams: “…What?”

Dr. Ted Eisenberg: (already pulling gloves on) “You heard him. Take your clothes off. We don’t have all day.”

Wendy stood up slowly, her hands shaking a little as she pulled the oversized hoodie over her head. She was 59 years old, 5'7", and 175 pounds — thick in the middle, with heavy breasts that sagged from age and weight, a soft stomach, wide hips, and thick thighs. Her skin had lost some of its elasticity, and there were visible signs of wear on her body.

She stood there awkwardly in just her underwear for a moment before Conrad gestured impatiently.

Conrad Murray: “All of it. Bra and panties too.”

Wendy hesitated, clearly humiliated, but slowly unhooked her bra and stepped out of her panties. She stood completely naked in front of the two doctors, arms trying to cover herself.

Dr. Ted Eisenberg looked her up and down with zero warmth.

Dr. Ted Eisenberg: “Jesus. Look at this. Tits are already sagging down to her stomach. Stomach’s soft as fuck. Ass is flat and wide. Thighs are thick and dimpled. And that pussy? Jesus Christ. We’re gonna have to completely rebuild this bitch.”

Conrad Murray: (circling her slowly) “We’re turning you into a living blow-up doll, Wendy. Black Barbie bimbo. Huge fake tits, tiny waist, fat ass, dick-sucking lips, the whole package. By the time we’re done, you’re not even gonna look like the same person.”

Wendy’s face twisted, her voice shaky.

Wendy Williams: “…I don’t want this. This is… this is too much. I’m not some fucking doll—”

Conrad Murray: (cutting her off, cold) “You’re the backstage interviewer for CBWL. Do you have any idea how many women would kill for that spot? You should be on your knees thanking us for even giving you this chance. Most girls your age are washed up and forgotten. You still have a shot… but only if you stop being this sad, confused, fat old bitch and let us turn you into something useful.”

Dr. Ted Eisenberg: “Exactly. The only way you’re ever gonna be a star again is if you’re a full-blown bimbo. Big fake tits, fat ass, cock-sucking lips, and a brain that’s only good for looking pretty and spreading your legs. That’s the lane now.”

Wendy looked between the two of them, clearly humiliated and overwhelmed. Her eyes were glassy, her Alzheimer’s making it hard for her to fully process what was happening.

She opened her mouth to protest again… but then something shifted in her expression.

Wendy Williams: (voice low at first, then growing aggressive) “…Then do it.”

Both doctors looked at her.

Wendy Williams: (louder, almost angry) “Turn me into a fucking black sex doll. I don’t care anymore. If that’s what it takes, then fucking do it. Make my tits huge. Make my ass fat. Fix my face. Fix everything. I want to look like a goddamn blow-up doll. I want people to look at me and only think about fucking me. Do it.”

She stood there naked, breathing hard, eyes locked on them.

Wendy Williams: “Make me into a black bimbo sex doll. Right fucking now.”

The two doctors looked at each other for a brief second before turning their full attention back to Wendy, who was still standing there naked and vulnerable.

Conrad Murray: “Look at you. 59 years old, 175 pounds, and you still walk around like you’re something special. You’re not. You’re fat. Your stomach hangs, your thighs rub together, your ass is wide and flat, and those tits? They’re already sagging down like two old water balloons. You look like a washed-up, middle-aged Black woman who let herself go.”

Dr. Ted Eisenberg: (coldly) “And let’s not even talk about your face. The wrinkles, the sagging skin, the tired eyes. You look old. You look used up. And on top of all that, you’re not even sharp anymore. Everyone knows you’ve got Alzheimer’s. You’re fat and stupid now. That’s a bad combination, Wendy.”

Wendy’s face twisted. She tried to cover herself with her arms, but her hands were shaking.

Wendy Williams: (voice cracking) “…Stop it. Just… stop talking like that.”

Conrad Murray: “Why? You need to hear it. You came in here thinking you still had some dignity left. You don’t. You’re a confused, fat, fading old bitch who’s only still relevant because we’re willing to turn you into something fuckable. Without us, you’re nothing.”

Dr. Ted Eisenberg: “Exactly. Right now you’re just a sad, overweight, middle-aged woman with a broken brain. That’s it. That’s all you are.”

Wendy’s breathing started getting heavier. Her eyes darted around the room like she was trying to make sense of what was happening, but her mind was slipping. The humiliation, the clinical way they were picking her apart, and her Alzheimer’s mixing everything together finally broke her.

Tears started streaming down her face.

Wendy Williams: (voice rising, desperate) “Fix me… Fix me!”

She took a shaky step forward, completely naked, crying harder now.

Wendy Williams: (louder, almost childlike) “Fix me! Please! I don’t wanna be like this! I don’t wanna be fat and stupid and old! Fix me! Fix me!”

She was fully breaking down now, her voice cracking as she repeated it over and over.

Wendy Williams: (crying harder) “Fix me! I’ll do whatever you want! Just fix me! Please! I don’t wanna look like this anymore! Fix me! Fix me! Fix me!”

She stood there sobbing, arms wrapped around herself, repeating the same desperate plea while the two doctors watched her without a hint of sympathy.

Conrad Murray: (calmly) “…Alright. We’ll fix you.”

He picked up a marker and started drawing lines on her body.

Conrad Murray: “But you’re gonna have to be a good girl and stay still while we do it.”

Wendy kept crying, but she nodded quickly, like a broken child.

Wendy Williams: (through tears) “Okay… okay… just fix me…”

The two doctors didn’t waste any time.

Conrad picked up a black felt marker while Dr. Ted Eisenberg moved behind Wendy. Conrad started roughly marking up her body — big, crude circles around her sagging breasts, lines under her stomach, arrows pointing at her wide hips and flat ass.

Wendy flinched and let out a high-pitched yelp every time the marker touched her skin.

Wendy Williams: (squirming) “Ah! That tickles—! Stop— wait—!”

But she didn’t pull away. She just stood there, naked and twitching while they marked her up like livestock.

After a minute, something in her snapped. Her breathing got faster and her eyes went glassy. The combination of humiliation, confusion, and her Alzheimer’s sent her spiraling into a desperate, unfiltered rant.

Wendy Williams: (voice rising, frantic) “Okay— okay, listen— I need big fake tits. Like stupid big. Like porn star big. I want them sitting up high and round and fake-looking, not these old saggy things I got now. And I want a tiny waist. Like, cartoon tiny. I don’t care if you gotta cut my ribs out or whatever the fuck you gotta do. And I need a huge ass. Fat, round, fake-looking ass. I want it to look like I got two basketballs glued to my back. And my lips— make them huge. Like those stupid blow-up doll lips. I want them so big I can barely talk right. And my nose— make it smaller and upturned, like a bimbo nose. And my cheeks— fill them up so I always look like I’m sucking dick. And my eyes— make them look bigger and dumber. I want that vacant, stupid look.”

She was breathing hard now, talking faster and faster, completely unaware of how desperate and pathetic she sounded.

Wendy Williams: (droning on) “And I want my skin lighter. Like, light-skin bimbo light. And I want long, fake-looking hair. And I want my voice to sound higher and dumber after. And I want my pussy tighter. And my asshole bleached. And I want my thighs smaller but my ass still huge. And I want these old stretch marks gone. And I want my stomach flat and tight. And I want my arms skinny. And I want my neck longer. And I want my jaw softer. And I want to look cheap. I want to look cheap. I want people to look at me and think ‘that bitch paid to look like a whore.’ That’s what I want. I want to look like a stupid, fake, black bimbo sex doll. I don’t care how much it costs or how fake it looks. Just make me look stupid and fuckable. That’s all I want. Just make me—”

SMACK.

Dr. Ted Eisenberg suddenly slapped her ass hard — a loud, sharp crack that echoed in the room.

Wendy Williams: (screaming) “AH—!!”

She jumped and grabbed her ass, eyes wide with shock and pain. For a moment she just stood there, breathing heavily, the reality of the situation crashing into her confused mind.

Before she could say anything else, Conrad stepped forward and quickly stuck a syringe into her arm.

Conrad Murray: (calmly) “Enough talking.”

Wendy’s eyes immediately started to glaze over as the anesthesia hit her system. Her body began to sway.

Conrad Murray: “Time to put you under.”

Wendy’s knees buckled slightly as the drugs took hold. Her last mumbled words came out slurred and pathetic.

Wendy Williams: (barely conscious) “…fix me… make me… a doll…”

She went limp as Conrad and Dr. Ted caught her and laid her onto the bed.

Conrad looked down at her unconscious body and picked the marker back up.

Conrad Murray: “Let’s get to work.”

CBWL 067

CBWL – The Morning After Cowboy Watts’ Office – Atlanta, Georgia Saturday, June 21, 2026 – 9:47 a.m.

The office was thick with cigarette smoke. Cowboy Watts sat behind the desk in the same clothes from the night before, tie gone, top buttons open, looking like he hadn’t slept. Jim Ross sat across from him, cowboy hat on the desk, a half-empty cup of coffee in his hand.

Cowboy stared at the muted TV that was playing clips from last night’s riot on a loop. He finally killed it with the remote and tossed it onto a pile of papers.

Cowboy Watts: “Two people dead, JR. Two. One got trampled in the concourse during the rush. The other had some kind of medical thing in the middle of it all. Building’s already talking lawsuits. Atlanta PD’s been calling since six this morning. And we’re supposed to run a PPV in Atlanta tomorrow night.”

He lit a cigarette and took a long drag.

Cowboy Watts: “Tell me what the fuck happened out there last night. And don’t sugarcoat it.”

Jim Ross leaned back in his chair and let out a slow breath.

Jim Ross: “It started with Emma. She went way further than what was called. The original plan was for her to choke Nicki, rip the tubes out of Sterling, dump him, and then wheel Nicki out on the gurney. The stairs spot wasn’t supposed to happen on camera like that. She decided to keep going. And when she started ranting about Palestine and privilege while she had Nicki choked out… that wasn’t in the script. That was all her.”

Cowboy exhaled smoke through his nose.

Cowboy Watts: “I told them to sell it like murder. I didn’t tell them to make it look like an actual goddamn murder.”

Jim Ross: “Well they sold it. The building bought it. The second she dumped Sterling on the floor, people started moving. By the time she threw that gurney down the stairs, half the lower bowl was already trying to get over the barricades. Security got overrun fast. I heard glass breaking somewhere in the concourse. It turned into a full-on riot before Taylor even went after Emma in the parking garage.”

Cowboy rubbed his face with one hand.

Cowboy Watts: “What about Sterling? How bad is he really?”

Jim Ross: “Bad. The kid’s been in rough shape since the original incident. Whatever they did to him during that hospital extraction last week didn’t help. And last night on camera… that wasn’t all smoke and mirrors. He’s not faking how fucked up he is right now. If we keep pushing him like Elena wants, there’s a real chance he doesn’t make it.”

Cowboy was quiet for a few seconds, just smoking.

Cowboy Watts: “Emma?”

Jim Ross: “Gone before anybody could grab her. Nicki’s in the hospital. Banged up pretty bad from the stairs. And that nurse Tony grabbed during the extraction last week? Still missing. Word’s already starting to spread backstage about what happened during that hospital run. People are talking.”

Cowboy crushed his cigarette out and immediately lit another one.

Cowboy Watts: “So let me get this straight. We ran a go-home show in Charlotte last night that turned into a goddamn riot with two dead fans, our top heel looked like she actually tried to murder two people on live TV, and now we’ve got a missing nurse, a doctor who might be cutting people up in hotel rooms, and a PPV in Atlanta tomorrow that half the building might not even let us run.”

He looked across the desk at Jim Ross.

Cowboy Watts: “JR… what the fuck do we do now?”

CBWL – The Morning After Cowboy Watts’ Office – Atlanta, Georgia Saturday, June 21, 2026 – 9:58 a.m.

The door opened again. Arnold Palmer walked in first, followed by Bill Parcells. Both looked like they’d been up all night.

Cowboy nodded toward the empty chairs.

Cowboy Watts: “Sit. I want to hear what the fuck else was going on in that building last night that I didn’t see.”

Arnold Palmer dropped into a chair and rubbed his face. Bill Parcells stayed standing for a second before sitting on the arm of the couch.

Arnold Palmer: (Talent Relations) “From my side… the Mila vs Pam match went exactly how it was supposed to. Mila went out there and beat the shit out of her, then hit that long-ass promo about Jim. That part worked. The boys were saying it felt real nasty. But after that, once the Emma stuff started happening later in the night, a lot of the talent got real quiet. A few of them were asking me if we were actually trying to get the building shut down.”

He glanced at Cowboy.

Arnold Palmer: “Also… the hospital extraction from last week is already blowing back. Some of the developmental guys saw what went down when they pulled Sterling out. They’re talking. Not loud yet, but it’s moving.”

Bill Parcells leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

Bill Parcells: (Agent) “From the agent side… Kristen vs Boxxy was a mess even before Anya walked out. Boxxy was nervous as hell and kept looking for Anya the whole match. When Anya finally left, Boxxy looked completely lost. We had to calm her down backstage after. She was crying in the hallway saying she didn’t know what she did wrong.”

He shook his head.

Bill Parcells: “Jennette vs Florence was ugly as fuck, just like it was supposed to be. But after Mariska came out and booked the Eat My Shit match… Florence looked like she wanted to throw up. She kept asking me if it was a real stipulation or if we were just fucking with her. I told her it was real. She didn’t say anything after that. Just sat there staring at the floor.”

Arnold Palmer spoke up again.

Arnold Palmer: “The Taylor segment was going fine until it wasn’t. She was dancing, the crowd was into it, everything was light for a minute. Then we cut to the Emma attack and the whole building changed. I had two agents near the barricades tell me they saw people starting to climb before Emma even threw the gurney. By the time Taylor went to the parking garage, half the lower bowl was already moving.”

Bill Parcells nodded.

Bill Parcells: “And backstage… once the riot started, we had to pull a lot of the boys away from the curtain area. Some of them wanted to go out there and see what was happening. We had to physically stop a couple of them. It got tense.”

Cowboy sat in silence for a moment, smoking.

Cowboy Watts: “So while Emma was out there turning the show into a goddamn crime scene, the rest of the card was just… happening in the background like normal.”

He looked at both men.

Cowboy Watts: “Anything else I need to know?”

Arnold Palmer and Bill Parcells exchanged a look.

Arnold Palmer: “Yeah… one more thing. After everything settled down, a few of the girls were asking about Wendy. Nobody’s seen her since she had that breakdown on camera during the Florence segment. And the nurse that got taken during the hospital extraction last week? Still no sign of her. People are starting to notice she’s missing.”

The room went quiet again.

Cowboy slowly crushed out his cigarette.

Cowboy Watts: “Jesus Christ…”

He looked over at Jim Ross, then back at the two men.

Jim Ross looked over at Bill Parcells.

Jim Ross: “Bill, get out there and squash that rumor right now. The one about the nurse’s organs and Wendy. I don’t care how you do it — lie, bullshit, whatever you gotta say. Just get it dead before it spreads any further.”

Bill Parcells nodded and stood up.

Bill Parcells: “On it.”

He gave a quick look to Cowboy and left the room without another word.

Jim Ross then turned to Arnold Palmer.

Jim Ross: “Arnold, round up all the agents. We’re having a full booking meeting after lunch. Tell them to be here by one.”

Arnold Palmer: “Got it.”

Arnold stood up, gave Cowboy a short nod, and followed Bill out, closing the door behind him.

The office went quiet for a moment. Cowboy leaned back in his chair and lit another cigarette. Jim Ross rubbed his eyes, then reached for his phone.

Jim Ross: “Jesus Christ… what a fucking mess.”

Cowboy exhaled smoke toward the ceiling.

Cowboy Watts: “Yeah.”

There was a short pause. Jim Ross scrolled on his phone for a second before speaking again, his tone shifting.

Jim Ross: “You see that Alabama game last night?”

Cowboy let out a tired chuckle and shook his head.

Cowboy Watts: “Yeah. They looked like shit in the first half. I don’t know what the fuck Saban’s doing with that offense right now.”

Jim Ross: “They still found a way to win though. Typical.”

Cowboy smirked a little.

Cowboy Watts: “Some things never change.”

Jim Ross kept scrolling on his phone.

Jim Ross: “You feel like eating? I’m about to put in an Uber Eats order. I’m starving.”

Cowboy Watts: “Yeah, go ahead. Get me whatever. I don’t care.”

Jim Ross nodded and started tapping on his phone while Cowboy took another slow drag off his cigarette, both of them letting the heavy shit sit in silence for a minute while they talked about something normal.

The scene fades out on the two of them sitting there, the weight of last night still hanging in the room, but the immediate storm paused for just a little while.