I don't know what to say to that, but I have to agree with Johnny

Host:
The night was a cathedral of shadows and streetlight, the kind that made the city look older than it was—like it remembered things you’d rather forget. Rain had passed an hour ago, leaving behind puddles that caught the amber glow of passing cars, turning them into moving ghosts.

Inside a dim bar that never closed, music drifted low from a dusty jukebox—a slow, aching guitar riff that hung in the air like smoke. The walls were lined with posters of old bands, their colors faded but their stares eternal.

Jack sat in the corner booth, his hands wrapped around a glass of dark rum, the light from the neon beer sign cutting across his face in fractured reds. Jeeny sat across from him, tracing circles on the tabletop with her fingertip. Between them lay a napkin, her handwriting looping in ink dark as the drink beside it:

“I don’t know what to say to that, but I have to agree with Johnny that, yeah, we do touch upon things that most men would rather not admit: that we feel pain, we cry, get sad, and sometimes don’t deal well with disappointment.” – Peter Steele

Jeeny:
(reading the quote again, softly)
Peter Steele said that. The man who looked like he could wrestle darkness itself. Funny how the ones who seem strongest are always the first to talk about breaking.

Jack:
(smirking, voice low)
That’s the irony of it. You wear armor so long people forget you built it to hide the bruises.

Host:
The light above them flickered, just once, like it was listening. The bartender moved in slow silence, polishing glasses as if they were old memories that could shine again.

Jeeny:
It’s rare, though, isn’t it? Men admitting that kind of truth. Saying, “We cry. We get sad.” The world doesn’t know what to do with that kind of honesty.

Jack:
(shrugs, looks down at his glass)
Yeah. We’re taught early—don’t bleed in public, don’t break where people can see. Pain’s fine as long as it’s quiet.

Jeeny:
(watching him closely)
And disappointment?

Jack:
That’s the real killer. Pain you can feel, fight, name. But disappointment… it just sits with you. Like bad weather that won’t move on.

Jeeny:
(softly)
Maybe that’s why he said “we don’t deal well with it.” Because no one ever teaches men how.

Jack:
(half-laughs, bitterly)
Yeah. They hand you pride instead of therapy.

Host:
A pause—the kind that isn’t silence, but thought. The rain outside had started again, tapping against the windows, each drop like a heartbeat trying to find rhythm.

Jeeny:
You ever think the toughest thing isn’t feeling pain, but showing it?

Jack:
(sighs, stares at the puddles outside)
You show pain, people call you weak. You hide it, they call you cold. Either way, they miss the point.

Jeeny:
(leans in slightly)
And what’s the point?

Jack:
That feeling pain doesn’t make you broken. It makes you real.

Host:
The neon sign above their booth buzzed faintly, flickering between red and white, painting their faces in alternating warmth and pallor—light and truth, shadow and denial.

Jeeny:
That’s what I loved about Steele. He was proof that strength and vulnerability can share the same skin.

Jack:
(nods slowly)
Yeah. A giant who sang about death, love, and loneliness like he’d swallowed them whole. He didn’t hide the cracks; he built music around them.

Jeeny:
And maybe that’s why people loved him—because he made it okay to feel ugly emotions out loud.

Jack:
(quietly)
He made pain sound beautiful. That’s rare.

Host:
The music from the jukebox changed—Nick Cave now, deep and low, his voice spilling like ink across the room. Jeeny closed her eyes briefly, as if to let the words wash over her.

Jeeny:
You think honesty like that scares people?

Jack:
It terrifies them. Because if you admit you hurt, it forces everyone else to look at their own bruises.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
And they’d rather pretend they’re fine.

Jack:
Always. The world loves polished grief. Give it a soundtrack, a metaphor, a filter. Just don’t make it raw.

Host:
The bartender dimmed the lights further, the last glow of the neon reflecting on their glasses like dying embers.

Jeeny:
Do you ever talk about it, Jack? When you’re disappointed?

Jack:
(looks at her, eyes tired but clear)
No one wants to hear a man talk about that.

Jeeny:
I do.

Jack:
(smiles sadly)
That’s what makes you rare, Jeeny. You listen to the silence in between.

Jeeny:
(softly)
Maybe I just know what it’s like to carry disappointment quietly. It’s heavy, isn’t it?

Jack:
Heavier than guilt. Because guilt fades. Disappointment just keeps asking questions.

Host:
A long pause. The rain eased. The world outside shimmered in faint silver, reflections moving gently with every gust of wind. The two of them sat in that small pocket of time—two souls suspended between confession and comfort.

Jeeny:
You know what I think Steele was really saying? That pain doesn’t make us less masculine or less strong. It just makes us human.

Jack:
(nodding slowly)
And that hiding it kills us faster than feeling it.

Jeeny:
(half-smile)
So maybe the bravest thing a man can do isn’t to fight—but to cry.

Jack:
(quietly)
Or to admit he wants to.

Host:
The sound of their voices faded into the hum of the jukebox, blending with the melody—melancholy, human, true. Jack took a slow sip from his glass, the liquid amber glinting in the dim light like memory.

Jeeny:
You think men will ever be allowed to be that honest?

Jack:
Maybe one day. When the world realizes stoicism isn’t strength—it’s silence.

Jeeny:
(gently)
And silence isn’t healing. It’s hiding.

Jack:
Exactly.

Host:
He looked up, eyes meeting hers. The rain had stopped now, and the world beyond the glass was still. There was no music anymore, just the faint hum of lights, and the quiet that follows when something true has been said aloud.

Jeeny:
Maybe we all need a little more Peter Steele in us. The courage to say, I hurt, and that’s okay.

Jack:
(smiling softly)
Yeah. The courage to be a little less immortal.

Host:
The neon sign outside flickered one last time, then steadied—its red light glowing steady through the glass, warm as a heartbeat.

They sat there, two souls lit by the faint glow of honesty, the night stretching long around them.
No words left, no masks needed—just a quiet understanding that strength, real strength,
doesn’t come from hiding the pain,
but from admitting it,
and surviving it anyway.

And in that quiet booth, beneath the hum of a dying song,
it felt like—for once—
the world had finally learned how to listen.