The fifteen-year-old returned with a plastic bag filled to the brim with cash. James smiled, content that he had made his former employer pay the only way he knew how.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Have a nice day! And remember it’s Always Coca-Cola!” he announced, taking a sip of his Sprite, before turning to leave the concession stand.

“Hey, aren’t you the PA guy?” an inquisitive teen asked.

James didn’t know whether to be delighted that someone recognized his voice, or terrified that he could now so easily be connected to his crime of passion. He opted for the former. “Why, yes I am. Would you like an autograph?”

The inquisitive teen shook his head. “I can’t believe you’d show your face here after that brawl you caused last night.”

“That’s the guy!?” a group of New Orleans fans asked. “You have a beat down coming, bro.”

“It was an honest mistake!” James shouted, firing off several rounds into the air. “Now kindly clear a path. I need to get home.”

The only thing is, they didn’t clear a path.