Fame is like a shaved pig with a greased tail, and it is only

Host: The theater was almost empty now. Rows of velvet seats caught the last breath of dusty light filtering through the half-open curtains. On the old stage, a single spotlight still burned — pale, flickering, like a ghost refusing to leave. Jack stood near the edge, his hands in his pockets, staring into the shadows where the audience once sat. Jeeny stood behind him, barefoot, her heels clicking softly on the worn wood.

The air smelled of old smoke, perfume, and the faint echo of applause that once filled this room.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder what makes people chase it? That thing we call fame?”

Jack: (half-smiling, voice low) “Davy Crockett said it best — it’s like a shaved pig with a greased tail. Everyone tries to grab it, and it keeps slipping through their hands.”

Host: The spotlight hummed. The dust swirled in its beam like a slow, silent dance.

Jeeny: “But someone always catches it… someone always holds on.”

Jack: “By chance, Jeeny. Not by virtue. Not by talent, not by grace — just by the stupid luck of being the one who didn’t let go fast enough.”

Host: His voice was edged with cynicism, but beneath it, something softer — a tired kind of longing, the kind that only comes from knowing what it feels like to almost touch the thing you despise.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who tried to hold on.”

Jack: “I did. Once. Thought I had it by the tail — turns out it was just grease.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes it beautiful? The chase, not the capture. The dream, not the crowd.”

Host: She stepped closer, her shadow melting into his. The stage light brushed the edge of her hair, turning it into black silk lit by fire.

Jack: “No, Jeeny. It’s the lie that makes it beautiful. Fame’s built on illusion — a stage for the ego, where applause drowns out the silence you don’t want to hear.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sometimes illusion saves us. It gives us something to believe in — a purpose, a story.”

Jack: “A story sold to the highest bidder. Do you know how many artists burn out chasing it? Look at Van Gogh — the man died penniless, laughed at by his peers, only to become immortal after death. Fame didn’t save him. It killed him slower than poverty did.”

Host: His hands clenched, the tendons in his wrists showing through pale skin. The light wavered, as if responding to his anger.

Jeeny: “And yet, you speak his name now. You remember him. Isn’t that the strange justice of it all? He lost everything — and still, he won eternity.”

Jack: “Eternity’s overrated. He’s not around to enjoy it. You think fame means something when you’re six feet under?”

Jeeny: “No, but it means something to the ones who come after. To the kid painting under a streetlight because he saw Van Gogh’s colors once. Fame may not feed the artist — but it feeds the world.”

Host: The wind outside sighed through a cracked window, carrying the faint sound of the city beyond — restless, alive, and indifferent.

Jack: “You romanticize it, Jeeny. Fame isn’t legacy; it’s accident. It’s whoever’s hand happens to be sticky when the pig runs by.”

Jeeny: “And yet you keep talking about it like it wronged you personally.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, soft but cutting. Jack turned to her, his eyes — sharp, gray, tired — catching the faint glimmer of the spotlight.

Jack: “Maybe it did. I’ve seen people do anything to touch it. Lie, cheat, trade their souls for a headline. You can spend your life trying to be remembered, and forget how to live.”

Jeeny: “But what’s the alternative? To fade quietly? To die unseen?”

Jack: “To be real. To matter to one person — really matter — instead of ten thousand who don’t know your name tomorrow.”

Host: A low creak echoed through the theater as Jeeny walked to the center of the stage. She looked out into the dark seats, her arms outstretched as if she were addressing an invisible crowd.

Jeeny: “But Jack, the need to be seen is human. We are creatures of mirrors. We only know we exist when someone looks back.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s the tragedy — that we need witnesses to believe in ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Is that so different from love?”

Host: Jack hesitated. The light trembled again, softer now, as if the bulb itself was tired of their debate.

Jack: “Love doesn’t demand applause.”

Jeeny: “No. But it still wants to be seen.”

Host: The words settled between them like falling dust, invisible yet heavy.

Jack: “You know what fame does? It makes you believe you’re more than human — until you fall. Then everyone watches the fall too. Remember Judy Garland? They loved her when she sang, then fed on her when she broke. That’s what fame is — a feast that never ends, even when the body’s gone cold.”

Jeeny: “And yet, they still play her songs. Maybe the body broke, but the song lived. Isn’t that something, Jack? Isn’t that worth the price?”

Jack: “Not if the song kills the singer.”

Host: Silence. A long, trembling silence that wrapped around them like a curtain drawing closed.

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who fears what he wants.”

Jack: (softly) “Maybe I do.”

Host: He moved toward her, the floorboards creaking under his boots. The spotlight dimmed to amber, catching his profile — all edges and exhaustion.

Jack: “I’ve seen fame devour better souls than mine. It never stops at applause; it demands surrender.”

Jeeny: “Maybe surrender is part of greatness. Maybe no one ever holds the pig unless they risk the grease.”

Jack: (laughs, bitterly) “You make it sound noble — wallowing in the mud for a glimpse of the sky.”

Jeeny: “Maybe mud is where we all start. Maybe fame, for all its filth, is still proof that someone saw us — even for a moment.”

Host: The spotlight flickered once, twice — then steadied. The stage seemed smaller now, as though the walls had crept closer, wrapping their debate in a hushed intimacy.

Jack: “So you’d chase it?”

Jeeny: “No. But I wouldn’t run from it either. I’d hold it lightly — like something borrowed, not owned.”

Jack: “You really think anyone can hold it lightly? Look around. The world’s obsessed with being seen — every screen, every post, another cry for attention.”

Jeeny: “And yet, maybe that’s just proof we all want to matter. Fame’s not the disease, Jack. It’s the symptom. We fear being forgotten.”

Host: He looked at her — really looked — and for a moment, the cynic vanished. His eyes softened.

Jack: “Maybe that’s all we are — fragile animals chasing echoes.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s chase meaning instead of mirrors.”

Host: The spotlight hummed louder now, bathing them both in pale gold. The theater seemed to breathe again, as if awakening.

Jack: (after a long pause) “Maybe fame’s not the pig after all. Maybe it’s the chase that’s greased — and we’re the fools running after it, slipping in our own footprints.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Then let’s stop running.”

Host: The light dimmed to a soft glow. Jeeny stepped off the stage, her shadow retreating slowly, her last words hanging in the still air like the echo of an unsung line.

Jack stood alone in the spotlight, the empty seats before him stretching like an ocean of forgotten faces.

Jack: “Maybe obscurity’s not a curse… maybe it’s freedom.”

Host: The spotlight finally died, leaving only the moonlight streaming through the high windows — clean, unpretentious, eternal.

In the dark, their voices lingered like smoke — not of fame, but of something quieter, truer. The world, outside and unseen, carried on.

End.