It was a quiet bus ride late at night, the city lights flickering through the windows as the vehicle rolled steadily down nearly deserted streets. The occasional glow of neon signs reflected off the glass, illuminating the few passengers seated inside. At the very back sat a man dressed in a gray hoodie, a baseball cap pulled low over his face, and dark sunglasses obscuring his eyes. He aimed to avoid attracting attention, not in the mood for interactions. John Cena had chosen the bus out of convenience; his driver had gotten stuck in traffic, and he didn’t want to waste time waiting for a cab. Public transportation was the fastest option, and at this late hour, the bus was mostly empty.
A few glances were thrown his way by other passengers, but no one seemed to recognize him. A drowsy elderly man sat near the window, his head bobbing slightly with the motion of the vehicle. A pair of young women in the front row were lost in their own worlds, listening to music through their headphones. A dignified-looking elderly black woman sat a few seats away from the middle doors, draped in a dark wool coat with a plaid scarf wrapped around her shoulders. She was speaking softly into her phone in French, her voice gentle yet firm, clearly engaged in an intimate conversation.
The peaceful atmosphere shattered when the bus slowed at a stop. The hydraulic hiss of the doors opening broke the quiet, and three men stepped inside. They were tall, broad-shouldered, clad in worn leather jackets, and carried the unmistakable air of troublemakers. Their laughter was loud and boisterous, cutting through the silence like knives. One of them, the tallest, carried a half-empty bottle of beer, despite the clear no-drinking sign posted near the driver’s cabin.
“Looks like we got the whole damn bus to ourselves!” one of them sneered, scanning the few passengers inside. The driver, a tired-looking man with graying hair, eyed them warily through the rearview mirror but said nothing. He had likely dealt with their type before and knew better than to engage.
The bikers didn’t take seats; instead, they stationed themselves near the front doors, leaning against the poles, making sure their presence was felt. Their crude jokes disrupted the previously quiet atmosphere like an unwanted storm. John Cena remained still, watching from the back, his posture relaxed but attentive. His instincts, honed from years of experience both in the ring and in real life confrontations, immediately recognized the shift in energy. It wasn’t just drunken rowdiness; there was an undercurrent of aggression, a need to exert dominance over the space.
The woman in the plaid scarf continued her phone call, unbothered at first. But the moment one of the bikers caught the sound of her voice, his expression twisted into irritation. “What the hell is that?” he muttered to his friend, narrowing his eyes as he turned his attention toward her.
“Hey, hold up!” he shouted, waving a hand. “What the hell you mumbling over there, lady?”
The woman turned her head slightly, still holding the phone to her ear. “Excuse me?”
The biker scoffed, glancing at his friend with exaggerated disbelief. “You speak English, old lady? Or is that some kind of jungle talk?” The words hung in the air, thick and venomous. The energy in the bus shifted again, heavier and colder. The elderly man near the window stiffened, the young women in the front stopped their music, and the driver’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, but he remained silent.
John Cena didn’t move. The elderly woman, however, slowly lowered her phone and turned her full attention to the man now standing too close to her. “I was speaking to my granddaughter,” she said evenly, her voice calm but firm in French.
The biker tilted his head, a cruel smirk forming on his lips. “French? You ain’t in France, Grandma. You’re in America. You want to mumble that foreign crap, take your ass back to Africa.” His two friends burst into laughter.
The woman didn’t blink. “I was born in New Orleans,” she said simply.
The biker feigned shock. “Oh, so you’re one of those American Africans,” he said sarcastically. “Still don’t change the fact you should be speaking American.” His friend snorted, “Damn, she’s probably so old she remembers picking cotton.” More laughter erupted.
John Cena’s hands clenched into fists. The elderly woman exhaled a slow, measured breath. “You reek of cheap beer and failure,” she said, looking the biker directly in the eye. “You mock me, yet you are the one who fears me.”
The laughter stopped. The lead biker’s expression twitched, amusement quickly turning into something darker. “The hell did you just say?”
“I said you fear me,” she repeated, “because you know that no matter how much you try to degrade me, you will never have the strength of my people.”
The tension snapped. The biker lashed out, ripping the phone from her grasp and tossing it to the floor, where it clattered under the seats. “Shut the hell up!” he growled. The woman didn’t flinch. Real anger flashed in the biker’s eyes. “Stupid old hag,” he spat. “You should be thanking us for letting you ride in the same goddamn bus as us.” Then he shoved her.
The woman stumbled back, arms flailing slightly before she lost balance and hit the floor hard, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. Silence fell. Before the biker could step forward again, John Cena stood up, and the atmosphere in the bus shifted one final time.
The silence that followed the woman’s fall was thick and suffocating. The biker sneered down at her, his lips curling into a smirk as he lifted his boot, making it clear he was considering kicking her while she was down. “You don’t belong here, old hag,” he muttered. “You should have stayed where you came from.”
Before his foot could descend, he was suddenly airborne. One moment, he was towering over his victim; the next, he was flying backward, hurled across the bus by John Cena’s massive arm. The impact was brutal. The biker crashed into the metal pole near the door, his head snapping back with a sickening thud before he collapsed onto the floor, dazed and gasping for air.
The bus erupted into chaos. His two friends, previously amused and arrogant, now looked like deer caught in headlights. One of them instinctively reached for his belt, where a switchblade was clipped, but he hesitated just a second too long. Cena had already taken a step forward.
“What the hell, man?” the tallest of the remaining bikers found his voice first.
“You put your hands on an elderly woman,” Cena’s voice cut through the bus like a blade. It wasn’t a question; it was a judgment, cold and final.
The biker Cena had thrown groaned, blood dripping from his split lip. He tried to push himself up, but before he could fully regain his footing, Cena had already turned toward the second man. This one was slightly shorter but broader, his shaved head covered in faded tattoos. Unlike his fallen friend, he wasn’t as drunk, and his hands were already balled into fists.
“We were just having fun, man,” he said, raising his hands as if that excuse would erase what had just happened. “She was mouthing off. You can’t just—”
Cena moved so fast the biker didn’t even have time to react. A massive forearm slammed into his chest, sending him backward into one of the bus seats. He gasped as the air was knocked from his lungs, his head whipping back against the headrest. Cena didn’t let him breathe. His right hand grabbed the front of the biker’s jacket, yanking him up before launching him into the opposite side of the bus. The man’s body crashed against the window, rattling the entire vehicle.
The last biker, who had been clutching the switchblade, finally reacted. With a loud curse, he flicked open the knife and lunged forward. Cena’s eyes darkened. The move was sloppy; he had seen men try to stab him before. This wasn’t even close to a real attempt. The biker was too drunk, too panicked. Cena sidestepped, catching the man’s wrist in a crushing grip. The biker yelped in pain as Cena twisted his arm, forcing him to drop the weapon with a loud clatter. Cena followed it up with a brutal knee to the ribs. The biker collapsed, clutching his side, his face contorted in agony.
The bus fell into a stunned silence. The driver, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, slowly turned in his seat. His mouth opened slightly as if to say something, but no words came out. One of the young women in the front looked at Cena, then at the unconscious bikers, then back at Cena. Her lips parted, but she too said nothing.
Cena took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the brief exertion. He turned and knelt beside the elderly woman, his expression shifting from fury to concern. “Are you all right, ma’am?” His voice was softer now, the anger still lingering but not directed at her.
The woman, still sitting on the floor, looked up at him. Despite everything, her gaze was steady. “I’m fine, son,” she said, brushing off her coat as she started to push herself up. “I’ve been through worse.”
Cena extended his massive hand toward her. After a brief hesitation, she took it. He pulled her up effortlessly, making sure she had her balance before stepping back. One of the battered bikers groaned in pain from the floor. The elderly woman glanced toward them, wiped her hands on her coat, and then, with a slight arch of her brow, said, “I suppose they thought they were stronger than me.”
“They’re not stronger than anyone,” Cena muttered. The bus lurched as the driver finally seemed to snap out of his trance. He reached for the emergency button, pressing it hard. “Cops are going to be at the next stop,” he announced, his voice still slightly shaky. “You, uh, want to stick around and explain what happened?”
Cena adjusted his cap. “Nah,” he said, stepping toward the exit doors. “I think they can figure it out.”
The bus slowed as it approached the next stop. Through the windshield, the flashing lights of a police car were already visible, waiting at the curb. As the bus came to a halt, Cena stepped aside, glancing at the woman one last time. “You take care, ma’am,” he said. She met his gaze and nodded, offering him a small smile. “You as well, son.”
With that, as the cops climbed aboard, John Cena disappeared into the night. The bus was filled with the heavy silence that always follows chaos. The three bikers sprawled across the floor and seats, groaning in pain. One of them clutched his ribs, gasping for breath after Cena’s brutal knee strike. Another sat slumped against the window, blood dripping from his broken nose, staining his torn jacket. The third, the one who had first shoved the elderly woman, was barely conscious after being thrown across the bus.
The other passengers remained frozen, still processing what they had just witnessed. Some stared in awe at John Cena, who now stood tall and calm as if the fight had never happened. The driver, still gripping the steering wheel, swallowed hard before glancing toward the battered men on the floor. One of the younger passengers, a girl in a hoodie who had been sitting near the front, pulled out her phone and whispered, “Holy crap, did we just see John Cena beat the hell out of these guys?”
The whisper seemed to snap the bus back into motion. The elderly woman, now back on her feet thanks to Cena’s help, calmly dusted off her coat. There was a sharp dignity to her movements, as if she refused to let the events of the last few minutes shake her. Her plaid scarf was slightly askew, but she made no move to fix it. Instead, she turned to look at the bikers with a gaze so cold that even the conscious ones flinched.
One of the bikers, still holding his ribs, let out a strained groan. “You don’t know who you’re messing with, man,” he spat through gritted teeth, trying to push himself up. “You think you’re some kind of hero?”
Cena took a slow step toward him, and the man immediately shrank back. “I know exactly who I’m messing with,” Cena said, his voice steady and unwavering. “Three cowards who thought it was okay to assault an elderly woman because they thought no one would stop them.” The words hit harder than any punch. The biker’s face twisted in a mixture of shame and fury, but he had no comeback. He couldn’t deny it.
The driver exhaled sharply and finally found his voice. “Jesus, I, uh, already called the cops. They’re waiting at the next stop.” One of the other passengers, an older man near the window, scoffed and muttered, “About damn time.” The biker with the bloody nose let out a bitter chuckle and wiped at his face, smearing the red across his cheek. “Oh yeah? And what’s going to happen, huh?” he said, trying to sound defiant despite barely being able to keep himself upright. “You think the cops are going to arrest us? We’ll be out in a few hours.”
Cena tilted his head slightly, studying him. “Maybe,” he admitted. “But tonight, you learned something.”
The biker narrowed his eyes. “Yeah? And what’s that?”
Cena leaned in slightly, his massive presence casting a long shadow over the injured thug. “That being a bully doesn’t make you powerful,” he said. “It just makes you pathetic.”
The biker clenched his jaw but couldn’t hold Cena’s gaze. He looked away, staring down at the floor as if the answer to his problems could be found in the cracks of the old bus flooring. The elderly woman finally spoke, her voice calm and measured but carrying a weight that demanded respect. “You think you’re strong because you drink and laugh and call people names?” she asked, looking directly at the biker who had stolen her phone. “Because you push people who won’t push back? But look at you now.”
The biker didn’t respond. “You have no power,” she continued. “You never did. You just borrowed your strength from the fear of others, and tonight, you ran out of people to fear.”
The silence that followed was deafening. The driver cleared his throat. “We’re almost at the next stop,” he announced. “You, uh, going to stick around and give a statement?” he asked Cena.
Cena pulled his cap lower over his face and shook his head. “No need,” he said. “They’ll have enough witnesses.” He turned to the elderly woman. “You okay?”
She gave him a small smile. “More than okay, son,” she said. “I’ve lived through worse.”
Cena nodded, then took one last look at the bikers, his expression unreadable, as the bus slowed to a stop. The flashing lights of a police car became visible through the windshield. Cena adjusted his hoodie, turned toward the doors, and without another word, stepped off the bus and disappeared into the night.
The bus came to a halt, its brakes hissing as the door slid open. Outside, the flashing red and blue lights of a police cruiser cast long shadows across the pavement. Two uniformed officers stood waiting, their hands resting on their belts as they observed the scene inside. The driver exhaled in relief, stepping out first to greet them.
Inside the bus, the tension remained thick. The bikers, now groaning from their injuries, barely moved. The one with the bloody nose clutched his face, trying to stop the flow. The one Cena had slammed into the seat was still gasping for air, his ribs no doubt bruised. The third, the ringleader who had started the entire confrontation, was only just starting to regain full consciousness. He blinked blearily, his head lolling to the side as he saw the officers stepping onto the bus.
One of the cops, a tall serious-looking man with a shaved head, took a quick survey of the scene. His partner, a woman with sharp eyes, followed his gaze and let out a low whistle. “Well,” she muttered, “looks like someone had a rough night.”
The driver rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh, these three came in drunk, started harassing passengers, and then attacked an elderly lady.” He jerked his thumb toward the woman, who stood proudly, arms crossed, watching everything unfold. “That’s when he stepped in.”
The officer raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
The driver turned, but the seat at the back where Cena had been sitting was empty. The officers followed his gaze, but there was no sign of the man who had taken down three violent bikers in under a minute. He was gone.
The young woman near the front, still clutching her phone, whispered, “John Cena?” as if she still couldn’t believe it.
The officers exchanged a glance. “Wait,” the female cop said. “John Cena was on this bus?”
“Not anymore,” the elderly woman said, a small knowing smile on her lips. “He did what he came to do.”
The lead officer sighed and crouched down next to one of the groaning bikers. “You want to tell me what happened here?”
The biker glared up at him, his face swollen, his lip busted open. He knew there was no talking his way out of this. No bravado, no empty threats. He had been humiliated, defeated, but his pride still made him spit onto the floor and growl, “That bastard’s lucky he ran.”
The officer chuckled. “Oh yeah? Looks to me like you’re the lucky one, because if he’d stuck around, I doubt you’d still be conscious.” He nodded to his partner. “Cuff them. Let’s get them booked for public intoxication, assault, and harassment.”
The other passengers began to stir from their silence. The elderly man near the window murmured, “Finally,” while the younger girl still held on to her phone as if it were some kind of relic. The driver shook his head, muttering, “Damn hero,” under his breath as the officers dragged the bikers off the bus one by one.
The elderly woman bent down to pick up her phone from where it had fallen earlier. She dusted it off, turned it over in her hands, and then slowly lifted her gaze toward the dark city streets beyond the open doors. Somewhere out there, John Cena was already gone. She smiled to herself, tucked her phone into her coat pocket, and took her seat once more.
As the doors of the bus closed and the vehicle pulled away from the flashing lights of the police car, the passengers finally began to breathe again. Some whispered about what had happened, some remained in stunned silence, and some, like the elderly woman, simply sat in quiet reflection. But one thing was certain: this was a story that would be told for years to come, and for three cowardly bikers, it was a night they would never forget.
Justice was served, but the story doesn’t end here. Some lessons are learned the hard way, and some heroes walk away without waiting for applause.
John Cena – from poor wrestler to Hollywood star
John Cena, 47, had a bullied childhood, was unemployed, lived in his car, and ate free pizza before becoming famous.
The actress attracted attention when she presented the award for Best Costume Design while almost naked on the Oscar stage on March 11 (Hanoi time). The video recording the humorous moment attracted more than three million views on YouTube and thousands of interactions on the X platform .
Cena was born in 1977 in Massachusetts (USA), the second of five children. Before becoming a Hollywood star, John Cena was a famous name in the American wrestling world. He won 25 championships including 16 WWE World Championships, five United States Championships, and four Tag Team Championships. He was the face of WWE from 2000-2010.
According to The Street , John Cena receives an annual salary of $8.5 million from his contract with WWE, pocketing $500,000 for each appearance at major events. He is still among the highest paid athletes in WWE despite his inactivity, and is among the individuals who sell the most merch (artist-related products) in the company. Artists receive 5% of the profits from sales. In 2016, Forbes announced that John Cena topped the list of highest-earning wrestlers, with a total income of $9.5 million.
In an interview with People in July 2021, the artist said he trained to protect himself because he was a victim of school violence. “Because I was so tired of being beaten, I asked my dad to buy me a set of dumbbells to work out by myself when I was 13. Since then, I have been training myself,” John Cena said.
In a conversation with comedian Kevin Hart on Hart to Heart in August 2023, John Cena said that he lived in his car and garage for months when he first moved to Los Angeles, and sometimes drove a limo to make ends meet. “A local restaurant where I lived had a challenge for customers. If you finished a giant pizza, you didn’t have to pay. I ate that every night,” Cena said. Cena kept winning until the owner agreed that if he stopped coming, they would give him free pizza.
According to John Cena, during difficult times, he could have returned to Massachusetts with the help of his family, but he refused to give up. A year after moving to the new city, he joined the professional wrestling company Ultimate Pro Wrestling (UPW), debuted under the name The Prototype and won the UPW Heavyweight Championship. The new wrestler’s achievements caught the attention of WWE. They decided to recruit John Cena in 2002, turning him into one of the American wrestling legends.
John Cena’s career took a turn when WWE executives wanted him to star in the 2006 action film The Marine , produced by the company. The plot revolves around the main character John Triton (played by John Cena) fighting a gang of diamond thieves to rescue his kidnapped wife. The project cost $15 million and earned $30 million. Money Nation reported that John Ceno received about $280,000 for the role.
After The Marine , he continued to participate in many large and small projects such as Bumblebee (2018), The Suicide Squad (2021), Fast & Furrious 9 (2021), Peacemaker (2022), Freelance (2023). There is currently no official information about the artist’s salary, but many sources say he received 500,000 USD for the main role of Peacemaker .
Currently, John Cena has 18 years of experience, becoming a familiar face in the action comedy genre. Mashable highly appreciates his ability to play roles in this genre, commenting that the actor reveals his inherent humor with roles that challenge the rules, proving that his ability is not just in muscles. Pierre Morel – director of Freelance (2023) told Bleacher Report, John Cena is a natural comedian.
John Cena’s latest work is the comedy Ricky Stanicky (2024) produced by Amazon, co-starring with actor Zac Efron . CNN commented that Ricky Stanicky is not as good as expected, but at least Cena’s role is suitable for a wrestler turned actor.
Along with his acting and wrestling career, the 47-year-old actor used to be a rapper. He released his first album, You Can’t See Me , in 2005, which reached number 15 on the US Billboard 200 chart. John Cena is the only wrestler to have performed on BBC Two’s Top of the Pops .
The actor is also an active philanthropist. In 2022, he set a Guinness World Record after granting 650 wishes to children with life-threatening illnesses through the Make-A-Wish Foundation since 2002. He joined the Love Has No Labels movement , which promotes diversity, equality, and inclusion for people of all races, religions, genders, sexual orientations, ages, and abilities, in 2016.
According to Celebrity Net Worth , John Cena is a millionaire with a fortune of $80 million, owning many supercars and valuable real estate. He married Shay Shariatzadeh, 35, an engineer of Iranian origin in 2020. Before that, he had a four-year marriage with his college girlfriend Elizabeth Huberdeau, from 2009 to 2012. After the divorce, he dated WWE beauty Nikki Bella for six years before marrying his current wife.