Not eating meat is a decision, eating meat is an instinct.

Host:
The diner sat on the edge of the highway, its neon sign flickering red and blue against the black belly of the night. A few trucks hissed in the parking lot, engines cooling, and the faint hum of a jukebox drifted from inside — an old song about love, loneliness, and late coffee.

Inside, the place was half-empty, the air thick with the smell of grease, onions, and rain-soaked asphalt. Jack sat at the counter, a fork in hand, hovering over a plate of steak and fries that steamed like something half-forbidden. Beside him, Jeeny stirred her black coffee, watching him with that quiet, philosophical mischief she reserved for nights when she planned to disagree.

Jeeny: softly “Denis Leary once said, ‘Not eating meat is a decision, eating meat is an instinct.’”

Jack: grinning faintly “Finally, a philosopher I can chew on.”

Jeeny: smiling “Of course you’d like that quote. It justifies the carnivore in you.”

Jack: cutting into the steak “No, it just reminds me that civilization’s been trying to outthink hunger for too long. The body remembers what the mind tries to moralize.”

Jeeny: softly “And yet morality’s the only thing that makes us human.”

Jack: smirking “Or hypocrites.”

Host: The neon light flickered across their faces, bathing the counter in pulses of crimson and cobalt. A waitress passed by, the smell of coffee and sugar following her like perfume. The rain outside tapped on the window like a slow heartbeat.

Jeeny: quietly “You know, Leary’s right — instinct is primal. But calling eating meat an instinct doesn’t make it sacred. It just makes it inherited.”

Jack: nodding “Inherited, yeah. Like rage, or love, or fear. You don’t moralize instinct — you manage it.”

Jeeny: softly “But isn’t that what evolution is? Managing instinct? Learning to choose compassion over appetite?”

Jack: grinning “Sure. Until you smell a grill at midnight.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “So civilization collapses at the scent of barbecue?”

Jack: smiling faintly “Exactly. You can take the man out of the hunt, but you can’t take the hunt out of the man.”

Host: The jukebox changed songs, something slow and smoky. The hum of neon synced with the rhythm of the rain, casting the diner in that in-between light — not holy, not sinful, just human.

Jeeny: after a pause “So you think instinct excuses everything?”

Jack: quietly “Not excuses — explains. You can’t shame instinct any more than you can teach mercy to a wolf.”

Jeeny: softly “But we’re not wolves anymore.”

Jack: after a pause “Aren’t we? Just cleaner ones. Dressed in ethics, carrying knives made of reason.”

Jeeny: quietly “That’s cynical.”

Jack: smiling faintly “No — it’s biology with better lighting.”

Jeeny: after a beat “And yet you feel guilty every time you order steak.”

Jack: smirking “That’s not guilt. That’s cholesterol.”

Host: The waitress refilled their cups, the dark liquid steaming between them like a small act of forgiveness. Outside, a truck engine rumbled to life, its lights flashing briefly across the rain-streaked window before disappearing into the night.

Jeeny: softly “You know what I think Leary was really saying? That instinct is easy — decision isn’t. To choose not to eat meat is to confront something in yourself. It’s rebellion against inheritance.”

Jack: after a pause “Yeah, maybe. But rebellion doesn’t make you evolved — just conflicted.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Maybe conflict is evolution.”

Jack: quietly “So you think self-denial is progress?”

Jeeny: softly “Sometimes. Every species that survives learns when to say no.”

Jack: after a pause “But no species that thrives forgets how to say yes.”

Jeeny: grinning “You always argue for pleasure like it’s a moral position.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Pleasure is moral — if it reminds you you’re alive.”

Host: The rain softened, now a gentle patter, like the world calming after an argument it couldn’t win. The neon light hummed steady now, red letters reflected in the sheen of their coffee cups: EAT HERE. OPEN ALL NIGHT.

Jeeny: after a pause “You know, when Leary says eating meat is instinct, he’s not glorifying it. He’s just reminding us — instinct isn’t evil, it’s amoral. The choice is what gives it meaning.”

Jack: quietly “So the moral weight doesn’t come from hunger — it comes from awareness.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. The moment you know you have a choice, the instinct becomes a question.”

Jack: after a beat “And every question creates guilt.”

Jeeny: smiling “No. Every question creates responsibility.”

Jack: quietly “And responsibility tastes worse than steak.”

Jeeny: grinning “Only because you haven’t learned to season it.”

Host: The light from a passing car flashed across their faces — two silhouettes framed by the quiet glow of moral ambiguity and late-night coffee. The world outside was still dripping, still cold, but inside, something warmer stirred — the friction of understanding.

Jeeny: softly “So tell me, Jack. You eat meat because you think it’s natural?”

Jack: after a pause “I eat meat because it reminds me I’m part of something ancient. Not just evolution — survival. It’s the closest I get to honesty.”

Jeeny: quietly “Honesty or appetite?”

Jack: smiling faintly “Same thing, sometimes.”

Jeeny: after a pause “And yet every animal you eat has its own instinct — to live.”

Jack: quietly “I know. And that’s the part that keeps me human.”

Jeeny: softly “Because guilt is proof of consciousness.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Exactly. The conscience of the predator.”

Host: The jukebox song faded, leaving a brief silence filled only by the sound of the rain’s last few taps. Somewhere in the kitchen, a cook laughed — the deep, easy laughter of someone who had long stopped worrying about philosophy and started living by appetite.

Jeeny: softly “So maybe that’s it. Instinct makes you eat. Decision makes you think about it.”

Jack: after a pause “And regret makes it art.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Art?”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. Every act of indulgence painted with a brush of awareness. That’s humanity’s watercolor — craving against conscience.”

Jeeny: after a beat “So, civilization is the tension between knife and thought.”

Jack: smiling “And dinner is the truce.”

Host: The neon sign flickered once more, humming louder now, the red light splashing over their faces. For a moment, they looked like ancient figures from some modern mythology — the eater and the witness, sharing a quiet table at the crossroads of instinct and choice.

And as the rain finally stopped, and the diner settled into its late-night stillness, Denis Leary’s words hung in the air like the scent of cooked meat and moral smoke — sharp, truthful, unapologetic:

That instinct is not evil,
only ancient —
a whisper from the body
that says, survive.

That decision is the evolution of that whisper,
the mind saying, but at what cost?

That to eat is to remember where we come from,
and to choose not to
is to imagine where we might go.

And that somewhere between hunger and ethics,
between the first fire and the last prayer,
humanity still sits —
fork in hand,
searching not just for food,
but for meaning.

Fade out.