I was a poor kid. I came from nothing. We didn't have any money;

Host: The night was alive with neon — the kind that buzzes like electricity beneath the skin of the city. The billboards flashed superheroes in mid-flight, their capes frozen in digital eternity. Beneath them, Jack and Jeeny walked, the glow of a thousand ads painting their faces — half hope, half reflection.

They stopped in front of a movie theater. The marquee read in giant letters: “MARVEL: RISE OF THE TITANS.” The crowd poured out, laughing, cheering, their voices full of the kind of belief that only fiction can offer.

Jeeny: “Dave Bautista once said, ‘I was a poor kid. I came from nothing. We didn’t have any money; a lot of times we didn’t have any food, and now, all of a sudden, I’m a superhero in a Marvel movie? Talk about the American dream, man — I’m living it.’”

Jack: “The American dream — an old myth wrapped in a movie ticket.”

Host: Jack’s voice carried the tone of a man who’d seen too many credits roll and too few happy endings in real life. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, the flame flickering against the cold.

Jeeny: “You really don’t believe in it, do you? The dream?”

Jack: “Believe in it? No. I’ve seen what it takes to survive when you come from nothing. The dream is a lottery. For every Bautista, there are a thousand who stay hungry.”

Jeeny: “But that’s what makes his story powerful. He’s proof that it’s possible, even if it’s not guaranteed. It’s not about statistics — it’s about spirit.”

Host: A car horn blared, the city’s pulse refusing to rest. Jeeny’s eyes caught the faint glow of a passing billboard — Bautista’s face, strong and defiant, framed by explosions and stars.

Jack: “Spirit doesn’t pay the rent. People romanticize struggle when it ends in success. But poverty isn’t poetic, Jeeny. It’s hunger, humiliation, and a thousand silent nights wondering if you’ll ever get out.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s why his triumph matters. Because he did get out. Because he didn’t let the hunger consume him — he used it.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe he was lucky. Right place, right muscle, right moment.”

Jeeny: “You always reduce miracles to math, Jack. But you forget — hope doesn’t calculate. It just believes.”

Host: The rain began to fall, soft and steady. The crowds thinned. Across the street, a child in a faded Spider-Man hoodie jumped into a puddle, his laughter rising like a song.

Jeeny: “Look at him. That kid doesn’t care about odds or privilege. He believes he can be a hero. That’s what Bautista’s story gives him — permission to dream.”

Jack: “Permission, yes. But what about reality? Hope is currency that runs out fast when the world doesn’t play fair.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s our job to refill it. Every time someone like Bautista breaks through, he cracks open the door for the next poor kid to see something beyond survival. That’s not fantasy — that’s evolution.”

Host: Jack exhaled, a stream of smoke blurring the glowing face of a cinematic god behind him. The rain caught the smoke, dissolving it into the air — like doubt undone by weather.

Jack: “You know, my father used to tell me the American dream was a scam — designed to make poor people work harder for someone else’s empire.”

Jeeny: “Maybe once. But sometimes the empire accidentally creates heroes. Sometimes the worker becomes the titan.”

Jack: “And then what? He sells the dream back to those still in the gutter?”

Jeeny: “No. The real ones don’t forget. Bautista hasn’t. He still talks about where he came from. He doesn’t hide it behind fame — he honors it. That’s what makes him different.”

Jack: “You think humility makes success noble?”

Jeeny: “Not humility — gratitude. Gratitude turns success into service. When he says he’s living the American dream, it’s not arrogance. It’s awe. He’s saying: I survived the impossible.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the scent of wet pavement and popcorn. A flicker of light from a passing train reflected on the puddles — fleeting, cinematic.

Jack: “You sound like a believer tonight.”

Jeeny: “I am. Because stories like his keep people from giving up. We need reminders that beginnings don’t define endings.”

Jack: “And yet, for every dream realized, there’s a crowd cheering while forgetting their own hunger.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But those cheers keep hope alive — and hope, Jack, is the most democratic thing left in this country.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, each drop striking the pavement with purpose. Jeeny pulled her scarf tighter; Jack flicked his cigarette into the gutter.

Jack: “You know what I think? The American dream isn’t about success. It’s about movement. About refusing to stay where you started — even if you never reach the end.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s not about castles; it’s about climbing. The dream isn’t a place — it’s the act of rising.”

Jack: “And sometimes rising just means standing again after you fall.”

Jeeny: “That’s right. And that’s what Bautista did — he turned bruises into armor. Every fight he survived became part of his story.”

Host: A bus passed, its headlights briefly illuminating them. For a moment, Jack’s reflection merged with the superhero poster behind him — a man of doubt standing beside a man of triumph, two sides of the same dream.

Jack: “So you think the American dream still exists?”

Jeeny: “I think it exists every time someone refuses to stay invisible.”

Jack: “And if it’s just a myth?”

Jeeny: “Then myths are what keep us human. The dream doesn’t have to be real — it just has to be possible.”

Host: The rain began to slow, the city’s glow softening like a heartbeat at rest. Jack looked at Jeeny, her eyes bright under the dim streetlight, her conviction like warmth against the cold.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe belief itself is the dream.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The poor kid who believes he can become a hero is already halfway there.”

Host: They stood in silence, watching the neon signs flicker, the crowds disperse, the rain wash the world clean again.

Jack: “Funny. A man who once had no food now feeds the world stories.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the truest version of the American dream — not to escape your past, but to transform it into light for someone else.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving the street glistening — every puddle a reflection of dreams, both broken and reborn.

Jeeny smiled, and Jack — for once — didn’t argue. They began to walk, their footsteps echoing softly against the wet stone, moving forward through the city’s pulse.

Above them, the billboard of Bautista glowed brighter for a moment, his face defiant, triumphant — a reminder that even the smallest flame, born in darkness, can rise to light the world.

And in that shimmer of neon and rain, the American dream didn’t seem like a myth anymore — it felt like a heartbeat.