The fire in the belly is essential, otherwise you become Michael

Host: The night was brutal in its honesty. A thin rain fell, hissing against the neon signs outside, where the city reflected itself in a thousand wet mirrors. Inside the bar, the air was dense with smoke and the faint hum of an old jukebox that hadn’t played anything worth remembering in years.

Jack sat at the counter, his coat damp, his eyes like cold iron under the flicker of a dying bulb. Jeeny was already there — elbows on the table, a half-empty glass of whiskey catching the light like amber fire.

The bartender was cleaning the glasses without listening, and somewhere in the corner, someone laughed — the kind of laughter that comes from numbness, not joy.

Jeeny: “Morrissey once said, ‘The fire in the belly is essential, otherwise you become Michael Bublé — famous and meaningless.’”

Jack: (snorts) “Trust Morrissey to turn a pop singer into a moral warning. But he’s right — comfort kills creation. Once you’ve made it, once you’ve been loved by the masses, you stop bleeding for it.”

Jeeny: “I don’t think it’s about fame, Jack. It’s about fire — the kind that keeps you restless, hungry. Bublé’s not meaningless because he’s loved. He’s meaningless if he stopped feeling.”

Host: The lights from the street spilled through the window, painting the bar in streaks of gold and grey. Jack lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face, sharp and tired.

Jack: “Feeling? Everyone feels, Jeeny. But not everyone burns. The ones who matter — the real artists, the real thinkers — they hurt. They carry something that doesn’t let them sleep.”

Jeeny: “You think pain is the only proof of passion?”

Jack: “No. But complacency is the death of it. The moment you start making art to please, to stay safe — you’ve already sold your soul.”

Jeeny: “And yet, not everyone wants to live like a martyr, Jack. Some people just want to sing, to share, to live. Not every fire has to destroy.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the windows like a heartbeat trying to escape a chest. The sound filled the pauses between them, the kind of rhythm that mirrors an argument about to ignite.

Jack: “But without that destruction, nothing changes! Look at Morrissey himself — he didn’t just sing; he attacked. Every lyric was a knife. He made people uncomfortable, alive. Meanwhile, Bublé croons about love like he’s reading off a greeting card.”

Jeeny: (leans forward) “So you think cynicism makes you deep? That rage is a virtue?”

Jack: “Not cynicism — conviction. Fire is conviction. It’s refusing to become background music. The world’s already full of pleasant noises.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when that fire burns you out? When the anger turns inward? You think of Kurt Cobain, Sylvia Plath, Amy Winehouse — they burned too bright, and it killed them. Is that the price of meaning?”

Host: Jeeny’s voice shook slightly, not from fear, but from memory — the kind that tastes like smoke and grief. Jack looked at her, his expression softening for a moment, before the iron returned.

Jack: “Maybe meaning always demands blood. You can’t build something eternal out of ease.”

Jeeny: “But you can build something beautiful out of peace. You just have to redefine what fire means.”

Host: The jukebox in the corner clicked, and a song began — slow, crooning, the kind of melody that tried too hard to please. The room seemed to sigh, as if agreeing with Jack’s disgust.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “He’d probably call that song meaningless too.”

Jack: “He’d be right.”

Jeeny: “And yet someone, somewhere, is dancing to it — maybe in love, maybe alone. Does that make it meaningless? Or does it give it meaning, because it makes someone feel alive?”

Jack: (takes a long drag) “It makes them feel comfortable, not alive. There’s a difference. Real art unsettles. It challenges you to face yourself.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes comfort is revolutionary too. In a world of chaos, giving someone peace can be just as radical as shaking them.”

Host: The smoke from Jack’s cigarette curled upward, spiraling into the light, vanishing like a thought unfinished. The bar felt smaller, closer, the air thickening with tension.

Jack: “You sound like you’re defending mediocrity.”

Jeeny: (quietly, but sharp) “And you sound like you’re addicted to pain.”

Jack: (snaps) “Pain is honest!”

Jeeny: “So is joy!”

Host: Their voices clashed, like steel against stone — brief, bright, and echoing. The bartender looked up, then looked away. Outside, the rain softened, as if exhausted by the heat inside.

Jack: (sighs, quieter now) “You know… I used to write music once. Nothing great, but it was mine. Then one night, I played at a bar like this. People clapped, smiled, asked for requests — and I hated it. Hated that they wanted me to repeat what they already knew. That’s when I stopped.”

Jeeny: “Because they loved it?”

Jack: “Because they didn’t need it. It didn’t wake them up. It didn’t sting. I realized I’d become… background noise.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you became someone’s solace for one night. That’s not meaningless, Jack. That’s human.”

Host: The rain had stopped entirely now, leaving the window streaked with silver trails. The silence in the bar was different — softer, fragile, like a truce waiting to be spoken.

Jeeny: “The fire doesn’t always have to roar. Sometimes it’s a quiet flame, steady, unseen — but still there. You don’t lose it by being gentle. You lose it by forgetting why you lit it.”

Jack: (looking down at his cigarette) “And what if it burns too low?”

Jeeny: “Then you feed it again — with truth, not bitterness. With purpose, not resentment. Even Bublé has his fire; it’s just not the kind that scorches.”

Jack: (chuckles) “You make even Michael Bublé sound profound.”

Jeeny: “That’s because every soul with a voice has meaning — it’s just a matter of how deep they dare to dig.”

Host: A light from a passing car swept across their faces, catching the shine in Jeeny’s eyes, the soft exhaustion in Jack’s. The bar was nearly empty now — just them, the bartender, and the echo of a melody that refused to end.

Jack: “So, fire in the belly — it’s not just about rebellion?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s about aliveness. The moment you stop feeling — love, rage, awe — you become famous and meaningless. Like a voice echoing through an empty hall.”

Jack: “Then maybe meaning isn’t in the fame or the fire. Maybe it’s in staying lit, no matter how small the flame.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Exactly.”

Host: Jack stubbed out his cigarette, the ash falling like dust on the counter. The jukebox stopped, and for a moment, there was only the sound of the rain returning — a soft, steady murmur, like the world breathing again.

The camera would have pulled back, leaving them framed in the warm, dim light — two figures, no longer arguing, just listening to the quiet pulse of being alive.

Outside, the streetlights blurred in the mist, their glow like a low fire that refused to die.

And in that flickering, the unknown music of meaning — restless, tender, unending — kept burning.