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.”
No comments:
Post a Comment