CBWL 070

CBWL – Saturday Afternoon

Cowboy Watts’ Office – Atlanta, Georgia Saturday, June 21, 2026 – 1:07 p.m.

The agents were slowly filtering into the office.

Bill Parcells and Arnold Palmer stood near the back wall, talking quietly. Joan Rivers was already seated on the couch, smoking and flipping through her phone, while Sarah Palin stood beside her, half-listening and half-scrolling through her own. Tony Soprano had just walked in and was fixing himself a drink at the side table. A couple of the lower agents lingered near the door, making small talk among themselves.

The conversation was light — mostly surface-level and benign.

Bill Parcells: (to Arnold) “Man, I’m telling you… these new developmental kids can’t even bump right. I had one kid take a flat back bump yesterday and he landed on his damn head. I thought I was gonna have to call an ambulance.”

Arnold Palmer: (chuckling) “Yeah, well… at least they’re showing up. Half these veterans act like they’re doing us a favor just by getting on a plane.”

Joan Rivers let out a short laugh from the couch without looking up from her phone.

Joan Rivers: “Welcome to the business, boys. Everybody’s a star until it’s time to do the work.”

Tony took a sip of his drink and smirked but didn’t jump into the conversation.

Cowboy sat behind his desk, slowly finishing what was left of his lunch. He had barely touched the steak. After a few more seconds, he finally stubbed his cigarette out right on the half-eaten piece of meat, twisting it with clear disgust. He pushed the plate away from him.

Cowboy Watts: (to Jim Ross, low) “That was a terrible fucking steak.”

Jim Ross glanced over at the plate and gave a small nod.

Jim Ross: “Looked dry as hell.”

Cowboy looked over at the young secretary who was moving around the room collecting plates and refilling drinks.

Cowboy Watts: “Hey. Don’t ever order from that place again. I don’t care who recommended it. That shit was nasty.”

The secretary nodded quickly without saying a word and took the plate away.

Cowboy leaned back in his chair, lit a fresh cigarette, and looked around the room as the low chatter started to die down.

Cowboy Watts: “Alright. Let’s get started.”

The room quieted as everyone either took a seat or found a spot to stand.

Cowboy took a slow drag, then exhaled through his nose.

Cowboy Watts: “We’ve got a PPV tomorrow night after everything that happened in Charlotte. So before we start throwing ideas around, I want to hear where everybody’s head is at.”

He looked around at the group.

Jim Ross leaned forward and looked at Arnold Palmer.

Jim Ross: “Arnold. Give us the numbers from last night. Straight up.”

Arnold Palmer opened his notebook and read off the figures without any fluff.

Arnold Palmer: “Attendance came in at 6,412 paid. We were hoping for a bit more, but it was still better than the Gas South show. Gate landed around $312,000. Merch did about $87,000, which honestly wasn’t bad considering how the night ended.”

He flipped the page.

Arnold Palmer: “We’ve got two confirmed dead in the crowd. One guy got trampled during the rush near the lower concourse. One woman went into medical distress during the chaos. We’re sitting at 31 reported injuries so far, with eight of those being serious enough to require hospitalization. The building is already preparing for lawsuits.”

He continued.

Arnold Palmer: “Media coverage is rough. Local news ran with it hard this morning. A lot of headlines are focusing on the riot and the two deaths. Online it’s even worse — people are calling it a disaster and questioning whether we should even be allowed to run tomorrow night. The dirt sheets are having a field day. Most of them are saying we completely lost control of the building and that Emma went way off-script. Some are already floating that we might get hit with fines or restrictions.”

Arnold closed his notebook.

Arnold Palmer: “Other notes… A lot of the talent was shaken up after the show. Security is saying they were completely overwhelmed and are demanding way more manpower if we run in Atlanta tomorrow. A few sponsors have already reached out asking questions.”

He looked up.

Arnold Palmer: “That’s where we’re at.”

The room stayed quiet for a moment as everyone processed the numbers.

Cowboy took a slow drag from his cigarette, then exhaled and looked around at the group.

Cowboy leaned back in his chair and looked over at Arnold Palmer.

Cowboy Watts: “How’s the talent feeling?”

Arnold Palmer took a second before answering.

Arnold Palmer: “They’re shaken up. A lot of them. Especially the ones who were near the barricades when everything started going sideways. Some of the girls said it got scary fast once people started climbing. A few of them were genuinely worried the crowd was going to make it backstage.”

He continued.

Arnold Palmer: “When the riot broke out, most of the talent was either in the back or heading toward Gorilla. A lot of them didn’t even realize how bad it had gotten until they heard the noise and saw security running. Some of the girls were trying to check on each other afterward. A few were crying. Others were just sitting there quiet, like they didn’t know what to say.”

He glanced around the room before going on.

Arnold Palmer: “Emma’s angle really fucked with some of them. A few of the women are saying she went way too far, especially with what she did to Nicki and Sterling. Others are saying that’s the kind of heat we needed, but even they’re admitting it crossed a line. There’s also a lot of talk about Sterling and what’s actually going on with him. Some of the girls are uncomfortable with how far things went last night… and how far they might go tomorrow.”

Bill Parcells added his take.

Bill Parcells: “A lot of them are walking on eggshells right now. They don’t know if we’re about to get shut down or if we’re just gonna keep going like nothing happened. Some of the veterans are keeping quiet and trying to stay professional, but a lot of the younger girls are visibly rattled. A few even asked if the PPV was still happening or if we were gonna cancel.”

Cowboy took a slow drag from his cigarette and exhaled.

Cowboy Watts: “So the girls are nervous. Some of them are scared. And we’ve got a PPV tomorrow night.”

He looked around the room.

Cowboy Watts: “Alright. We know where the numbers are and we know how the talent is feeling. Now let’s stop talking about what already happened and figure out what the fuck we’re doing tomorrow.”

Jim Ross sat forward, hat still on the desk, and waited until the room settled on him.

Jim Ross:
“Alright. Here’s how I see it.”

He looked at Cowboy first, then the rest of the room.

Jim Ross:
“What was supposed to happen last night was heat. Controlled heat. Mariska opens, addresses the no-ring mess, puts Sterling over as a man who’s still with the company, and teases a major announcement at the PPV. That’s the spine. After that, we get our matches. Mila buries Pam and makes it personal. Kristen gets a win, Anya walks out on Boxxy. Florence gets a sloppy win and Mariska books the Eat My Shit match so we’ve got a humiliation stipulation locked for Sunday. Taylor comes out, thanks the crowd, thanks Nicki for looking after Sterling, teases that she’ll take over for her later, dances, and we go to the next graphic.”

He paused.

Jim Ross:
“The Emma piece was supposed to be the closer. Choke Nicki. Rip the tubes. Dump Sterling. Strap Nicki to the gurney and wheel her out of frame. Ugly. Mean. The kind of thing that makes people hate Emma going into tomorrow night. The stairs were never supposed to play the way they played. She wasn’t supposed to keep going. She wasn’t supposed to give that rant. And we damn sure weren’t supposed to have people dying in the concourse.”

He looked around the table.

Jim Ross:
“What actually happened is the angle outran the building. Emma went further than the call. The gurney kept going. The crowd stopped treating it like a show and started treating it like a crime. Security got overrun. We finished on a parking-garage beatdown and a riot. Two dead. Thirty-plus hurt. Six thousand four hundred and twelve paid, and a lot of them went home thinking they watched somebody try to kill people on television.”

Cowboy didn’t interrupt. Joan and Sarah stayed quiet.

Jim Ross:
“Prior plan for Sunday was simple. Ride the Emma heat. Ride the Sterling sympathy. Deliver the announcement Mariska teased. Run the Eat My Shit match. Run the Escape the Stall rematch. Put Taylor in the middle of the Sterling situation so she’s the one the crowd trusts. That was the card we were building toward.”

He sat back a little.

Jim Ross:
“That plan is dead. You can’t walk into Atlanta tomorrow and pretend Charlotte was just another go-home. The building’s nervous. The police are asking questions. The girls are rattled. Sponsors are already calling. If we double down on the same energy — another unhinged Emma spot, another life-support visual, another ‘sell it like murder’ finish — we might not get out of that arena. And if we pull everything back and play it safe, we look like we lost control of our own show.”

He looked at Cowboy.

Jim Ross:
“What we should do now is keep the matches we already announced and change the frame. Eat My Shit stays. Escape the Stall stays. Taylor still has a reason to be in the middle of this. But Emma doesn’t get another free-form assault. She gets a match, or she gets a confrontation with a finish we can actually control. Sterling stays off camera unless medical clears him, and even then he doesn’t get manhandled. Mariska still makes the announcement, but it has to acknowledge what happened in Charlotte or the crowd will turn on her the second she opens her mouth.”

He tapped the desk once.

Jim Ross:
“We don’t cancel. We don’t pretend it didn’t happen. We book Sunday like a company that knows it went too far and still has to put on a show. Heat, not a body count.”