I work behind the scenes at concert venues to use food, beverages, and scents to enhance the concert-goers’ experience. Because some of our methods are controversial, I’m what the industry calls a ‘black bag’ consultant.

At this particular Adele concert, I used some of my best tricks — many of which hadn’t been showcased since Prince’s Purple Rain tour in 1988. I worked with the HVAC company to pump a custom Jasmine and Lemongrass-infused odorizer into the air ducts. Snack bars were well-stocked with plenty of soy-based products to give these ladies a little estrogen ‘kick.’ But these weren’t your normal soy products. We used specially formulated, genetically engineered soybeans imported from Caracas to boost phytoestrogen intake nearly 400%. More estrogen means more tears — and at an Adele concert, tears are fucking gold.  These soybeans are so potent they’re regulated by the DEA.

At around 9:30, things were going as I expected. Adele had finished her first set, and as I looked around, I saw the tears starting to flow. Thousands of women were seated in the dark, holding hands. Soft, muffled sobs could be heard throughout the venue. A few men could be seen sitting here and there. They smiled meekly at their wives, but it was the look in their eyes that gave them away. They were afraid. I grabbed an Appletini and moved through the crowd to survey my handiwork. Within 20 minutes, I knew things weren’t right.

I heard a loud scream and saw a thin, middle-aged woman with red hair trembling in the aisle, knees buckled, a single rose held weakly in her left hand. Her face was stained with dark, thick ribbons of mascara. With the flashing pulses of purple light from the Jumbotron, her makeup looked like warpaint. She shrieked and sprinted towards the stage, rose now crushed in her claw-like hand. Three security guards saw her coming and braced for impact. She bounced off of the men like a tennis ball and collapsed on the floor. Several women jumped out of their seats and came to her aid, tears flowing from their eyes. Adele’s voice could be heard rising to a crescendo. My eardrums were pounding. The women lifted the wiry, red-haired figure and carried her to the stage, like some kind of offering or sacrifice. Adele reached her hands toward the crowd and appeared to be singing directly to the woman’s limp body. The stadium erupted in a collective scream. Shouts of ‘Adele – we love you!’ came in rapid succession. I grabbed my radio to tell Carl to dial back the infuser, but he didn’t answer.

Before I had a chance to call Carl for a second time, I heard a high-pitched yelping sound coming from behind me. I turned around to see a large woman in all black. She released two more high-pitched yelping sounds, then bolted for the stage. Moving with lightening speed, she sprinted while making incoherent gurgling noises. Her sweat-soaked hair covered most of her face — except her glassy, puffy green eyes, which stared directly at the stage in front of her. She hit the four security guards like a wave heating the beach and crushed the men against a Coors Light banner. Her leg was smashed and pinned underneath the stage, but she was riding an estrogen wave and didn’t feel any pain. Two dozen more women then rushed the stage, pushing closer to Adele. Badly injured, the men shrieked in pain, but these sounds were drowned out by Adele, who was now singing even louder. I could only read the men’s lips. One looked at me and mouthed,’Help me!’ but there was nothing I could do.

Another shriek came from my left. I turned and saw an African-American woman in an Adele concert t-shirt, clutching a young Oriental girl against her bosom. The young girl was shaking with deep, heaving sobs. She lifted her head, revealing that her tears had also made tear marks on Adele’s face on the t-shirt. A camera that had been panning the audience saw the activity and zoomed in to catch the excitement. I was screaming into the radio to kill the cameras, but it was too late. The t-shirt was now on the Jumbotron. There was a brief moment of collective silence, and then a gasp as the women saw the t-shirt image of Adele with tears on her face. The place exploded. Four suburban housewives surrounded the woman and began ripping and clawing at the shirt. Soon, it was torn from the woman’s body, and the women began ripping it almost to shreds.

I could barely breathe. The sound was absolutely deafening. My legs turned to Jell-O, and I collapsed. The last thing I remember was feeling a stampede of high heels on my back and legs before everything went dark.