I don't think it's good to run on anger, but it's really great

Host: The warehouse stood at the edge of the city, a skeleton of metal and echo. Half the lights flickered, and the smell of oil, dust, and old dreams filled the air like a ghost that refused to leave. It was past midnight. Rain hammered the corrugated roof, and the world outside was a wash of neon and darkness.

In the corner, a motorcycle engine sat half-disassembled, its chrome guts reflecting the pale light. Jack crouched beside it, hands blackened with grease, jaw tense, eyes grey and burning. Jeeny stood a few feet away, her coat damp, hair clinging to her cheeks. She held a cup of cheap coffee, steam rising like a fragile heartbeat between them.

Pinned to the wall behind them, written in chalk and grease, were the words of Josh Homme:
“I don't think it's good to run on anger, but it's really great when that's the first couple of gallons in your tank — when you've had enough, and you're just pissed off enough to go for it. In a lot of ways, that sort of environment can be a catapult for a great situation.”

Host: The quote glowed faintly in the weak light, as though even the wall was tired but still listening.

Jack: (without looking up)
“Finally, someone who gets it. Anger gets things done. People love to pretend it’s poison, but sometimes it’s the only thing that wakes you up. You ever seen anyone change the world calmly, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: (quietly, wrapping her coat tighter)
“I’ve seen people destroy it angrily, though. Anger’s a spark, Jack — not a map. It lights the way, but it doesn’t tell you where you’re going.”

Host: Jack’s wrench slipped, the sound of metal striking metal echoing sharp and cold. He exhaled, the sound caught between a laugh and a growl.

Jack:
“Yeah, but you need the spark before you can build anything. Homme’s right — that first jolt, that moment you say, ‘Enough,’ that’s power. It’s not rage that ruins people; it’s stagnation.”

Jeeny: (stepping closer, her voice soft but fierce)
“Power without peace burns out, Jack. You can’t build a future on adrenaline. Anger’s meant to start motion, not sustain it. It’s like rocket fuel — explosive, sure, but if you don’t switch to something stable, you crash.”

Host: The rain intensified, a rhythmic pounding against the roof, as though the world was keeping tempo with their debate. Jack stood, wiping his hands, his face streaked with sweat and oil, his expression alive with that restless kind of truth that only frustration brings.

Jack:
“Crash? Maybe. But tell me, Jeeny — what do you think makes people finally move? Love? Hope? No. It’s when they’re pissed off enough to stop accepting mediocrity. Look at revolutions. Look at Rosa Parks. Look at every artist who ever made something worth remembering. They started because they were angry.”

Jeeny:
“Anger might start revolutions, but compassion keeps them from becoming tyranny. The French Revolution burned bright — and then it burned people. The same energy that frees can also consume. It depends on who’s holding the match.”

Host: A single drop of water slipped through the ceiling, hitting the floor near Jack’s boot — a small, rhythmic drip that seemed to mark every unspoken word.

Jack: (sighing, rubbing his neck)
“You’re missing the point. Homme’s not glorifying fury; he’s talking about ignition — that primal push when life’s kicked you too many times. You can meditate all you want, but when the system’s grinding you down, calm doesn’t cut through steel.”

Jeeny:
“No, but direction does. You can’t steer through fire with your eyes closed. Anger without control is just flailing. You might move — but not forward.”

Host: The wind howled through the cracked window, sending a few papers fluttering across the floor — repair notes, song lyrics, fragments of thought. One landed near Jeeny’s feet, smudged but readable: “Speed is easy. Direction is everything.”

She picked it up, turned it toward him.

Jeeny:
“Didn’t you write this?”

Jack: (half-smiling)
“Yeah. Back when I thought I was smarter than my own advice.”

Jeeny:
“Then listen to yourself. Speed without reflection is just escape. Homme’s right — anger can fuel you, but it can’t define you. It’s the first few gallons, not the whole tank.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the muscles in his arms relaxing, but his eyes still alive, flickering with the strange light of understanding half-accepted.

Jack:
“You ever get tired of being right, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: (smiling gently)
“All the time. But I’d rather be exhausted by truth than comforted by chaos.”

Host: The sound of rain softened, settling into a steady rhythm, almost like breathing. The motorcycle gleamed in the lamplight, half-built, half-promise — much like the two people standing beside it.

Jack: (after a long pause)
“You know, I used to build bikes for a living because I thought speed would fix everything. I’d hit the throttle and leave the noise behind. But anger doesn’t disappear with distance — it just rides pillion.”

Jeeny: (nodding)
“Until you let it drive.”

Jack:
“Yeah. And then it crashes you.”

Host: For the first time that night, Jack laughed — not with mockery, but with the hollow sound of someone admitting they’ve finally caught up with their own truth.

Jeeny:
“So maybe Homme meant this — use anger to break inertia, but let purpose take the wheel after. Like a launch — not a lifestyle.”

Jack: (grinning now)
“That’s the difference between explosion and evolution.”

Host: The light flickered, casting shadows that danced across the walls like ghosts of old mistakes. Jeeny stepped forward, reached out, and handed him a rag. Their hands brushed, a brief contact, electric with shared exhaustion and something gentler — the kind of connection that grows not from calm, but from mutual chaos.

Jeeny:
“Anger can be honest, Jack. But it’s not the whole truth.”

Jack: (quietly)
“No. It’s just the door you kick open when life forgets you exist.”

Host: They stood in silence for a moment. The rain stopped, leaving behind the sound of dripping and the low hum of distant traffic. Jack turned back to the motorcycle, tightening the last bolt with careful precision — his movements slower now, deliberate, almost reverent.

Jeeny watched him, her eyes softening, as if she could see the quiet rebuilding of something invisible inside him.

Jack:
“You know, maybe anger’s like this bike. You can build power, polish metal, chase speed — but if you don’t control it, it kills you. Still… without that engine, you’re not going anywhere.”

Jeeny:
“Exactly. It’s the paradox. You need the storm to feel the road — but you need calm hands to steer.”

Host: Jack wiped his hands again, looked up at her, and smiled — small, tired, real.

Jack:
“Guess Homme had it figured out. Anger’s not the enemy — just the starting line.”

Jeeny:
“And if you’re lucky, it launches you toward something worth the noise.”

Host: The camera of the world would pull back now — revealing the warehouse, the faint glow of dawn breaking through a crack in the clouds. The motorcycle, newly assembled, stood ready. The air smelled of oil, rain, and rebirth.

Jack turned the key. The engine roared, deep and alive, echoing through the empty space — not as fury, but as motion, as release.

Jeeny smiled, stepping back, her silhouette caught in the thin gold light.

And as the sound swelled, the message of Josh Homme’s words unfolded — not in theory, but in rhythm:

That anger can be a beginning, a firestarter, a necessary push against inertia —
but what carries us forward, what keeps us human,
is what we choose to build after the flames settle.