"Andy Warhol once said 'In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes'. Which begs the question: what do you do when those fifteen minutes are over?"

Thomas Girard rolled his eyes at the speaker: a woman he'd never met, yet whose reputation preceded her. He regretted showing up as early as he did, though he let himself off the hook rather quickly - after all, who expected her to actually go through with this? A "Life After Quasi-fame" (as was printed on the cheap banner that hung above her) seminar, from the woman who dropped off the face of the Earth after her last appearance in an XWF ring; who avoided actual public appearances, making a living off exploiting that fleeting "quasi-fame" to shill knickknacks and wondertools during infomercial blocks in the dead of morning. Hardly seemed logical, yet here they both were.

"I know, I know; I'm hardly an expert source on this subject. After all, I'm not even sure I ever really qualified as famous. Maybe to a niche audience sure, but I guess it never really hit me that I was a public figure. I never had to worry about keeping a positive reputation because the XWF always preferred their competitors to be, controversial, to say the least."

He rubbed his eyes. This was going to be the death of him. One quick glance at the other audience members around him told him everything he needed to know about this conference: it was a circle jerk of washups, hasbeens, and neverweres. Twitching junkies and sullen alcoholics - her people. He inspected his target as she wandered aimlessly on stage. To see her smile was off-putting, to say the least. Her wide, joyless grin seemed plastered onto her face - a Stepford special if ever there were one.

"Matter of fact, it wasn't until I became the spokeswoman for the uh, shark-tooth knife I think it was - name escapes me at the moment - that I actually had to at least stay neutral when it came to my public persona. Though, by that point I didn't have a public persona to speak of so it all worked out perfectly. Uh, I guess what I'm trying to say is, I think I'm better off now than I was before whatever level of fame I achieved, and definitely better than I was during the most profitable stage of my life. I don't really know why I was invited to this event in the first place, or why I decided to come. You would not believe how many letters I've gotten from my old high school, asking me to give some kinda feel good, hard work is key speech as if I didn't luck my way into that position in the first place."

At least she admitted it. That had to be good for something. What wasn't good for anything however, was the fact that she was already going off topic - if you could call angsting about not being remembered for being on a children's show in the 1990s a topic. He let his head drift backwards until it met the top of the steel folding chair he was seated in, sliding down in his seat. With any luck she'd run out of steam and fizzle out in the most accurate imitation of her wrestling career ever performed, though he knew he wouldn't be that lucky. He never was.

"Looking back at it though, do I miss wrestling? Fuck no. Do I regret ever getting into the business? Fuck no. See, this is what we have to look forward to in our old age? Is that what this is? Probably. This is the best possible outcome any of us could hope for: to not miss the fame, but to not regret it. What's the point in that? Just, undue stress and trust me, I've held onto my fair share of that over the years. Fair to say you all have, too."

The woman approached the edge of the stage, the smile on her face faded.

"If we're being honest, do I particularly enjoy being a spokeswoman for trite little tchotchkes? Not a chance. But, you know, it pays the bills and it's less fucking insane than the wrestling business. Uhm..."

This was getting painful. Watching her stutter and stumble her way through something that used to come so naturally for her. He sighed and kept his eyes pointed away from the lurching trainwreck in front of him and instead at the flickering fluorescent lightbulbs overhead. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted at the lights, gritting his teeth slightly as the woman seemingly found her train of thought.

"I was at an AA meeting a while back - was maybe twenty days sober then - and there was this guy there. He was almost six months sober and he said something that stuck with me: 'everyone hates their job. The trick is to find a job that doesn't make you hate yourself'. That's the thing; for a lot of us, our fling with fame left us broken and self-loathing. The job made us hate ourselves and so we tried to cope by self-medicating with drugs, alcohol, anything that we thought would make us whole if only for a short time. Then we got kicked to the curb with nothing but the neurosis and anger and loathing that plagued us. Then, when we fuck up the vultures masquerading as journalists are right there, ready to pick our bones clean. 'Remember that person you might recognize? Well they're a fucking loser now!' That's why we have fucking seminars about this shit, because no one was there to tell us that it wouldn't be forever. That sooner or later we'd have to come back to reality. It's crazy. Absolutely fucking insane. And-and I think that's the key to life after quasi-fame: realizing the underlying insanity in the whole system and understanding that it's not your fault - it's the fault of a system that will continue to do this to people for the rest of eternity."

"Find a job that doesn't make you hate yourself," he repeated, rubbing his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand. The words felt like poison on the tip of his tongue as her recited them; how dare she talk about work-induced self-loathing as if she really understood that feeling? "If only it were that simple."

"That's it. I know, I should have some kind of snappy way to summarize whatever it was I just ranted about but the only thing I had planned to say when I got on stage was that Warhol quote. Thank you for your time."

She curtseyed before stepping off the stage, her exit marked with sparse applause from the few people in the already barren audience who were actually paying attention. "Finally," he muttered under his breath, pushing himself out of the chair and cracking his back, keeping his eye on the woman as she slipped through the set of double-doors by the hastily constructed stage. Rubbing his eyes, he pushed his way through the crowd of pathetic gits that occupied the room with him. He'd have to wash his hands after talking to the woman, he acknowledged as he shoved the doors open. He was greeted by a cool draft of wind against his face.

There she was, seated on a plush leather sofa in the hotel's lobby, phone pressed against her ear. He ran a hand through his hair to make sure everything was in place and straightened his tie - he was on business now, after all. The plastic, neutral grin found its way back to his face as he approached the woman. She raised an eyebrow when she caught a glimpse of him and as he made his way into earshot he heard her whisper:

"Hey, I'm gonna have to call you back."

Her eyes met his, and a sly smile crossed her face.

"Should I get my whistle out now or are you going to keep your hands to yourself?"

Girard scoffed, then forced a smile onto his face to match her's. This was how you deal with these types, he reminded himself, let them into your head and they win.

"Funny. From the parts of your little speech I was awake for, it sounded like you didn't follow XWF much anymore."

"You're right. I don't. I do frequent Jezebel, though. There was a great article about your little, oh what's the word someone like you would call it? Indiscretion. Sounds about right at least."

This fucking woman.

"Mademoiselle, I--"

"Skip the verbal foreplay, Girard. Tell me what's really on your mind."

He opened his mouth to speak, but got cut off once again.

"Oh, really shouldn't have said foreplay, huh?"

"I swear to fucking God--"

"Of course you'd swear to the fucking God."

"Can-can I finish a sentence?"

She shrugged, the smile on her face stretching wider.

"I don't know... can you? Try talking faster."

"Very well. I don't think I need to explain why I came all the way to this little slice of Hell, looking for you. I hope you're smart enough to figure that out on your own."

"You're right. You haven't whipped your dick out yet so I guess you're here to try and get me to come back. Now, why's that? That's the thing that's puzzling me."

"Braddock--"

"Right, that whole nasty trial business. Jezebel takes any chance it can to take shots at the XWF, should've known this already. But, why me? Why not someone like, I don't know, Arzegotti? You guys are due for the herpes flare-up that is his career, aren't you?"

"That rat-faced prick's dropped off the face of the Earth again. Apparently, he's recording a rap album. Believe me, you weren't my first pick for a replacement."

"Color me surprised: the misogynistic rapist didn't jump at the opportunity to invite a woman into the boy's club that is his vision for XWF's future."

"You got me all wrong, I'm not a misogynist or a rapist."

"I'm getting under your skin though, ain't I?"

Girard felt a certain genuineness in his smile as he leaned forward, locking eyes with the woman. He didn't remember the last time he felt this.

"You give yourself too much credit. This is nothing."

She gasped and clutched her chest in a theatrical, exaggerated manner.

"Be still, my beating heart. I have to admire your balls, though. That's not an invitation to present them, by the by. No, I gotta hand it to you: you're standing here right now, trying to get me to come back to the XWF after I just finished giving a speech saying I don't miss wrestling at all. Got a lot of confidence, at least."

"Don't take this personal; we just need a replacement. Maybe someone to get a few people in the audience excited. I know, that's a big maybe. This isn't another contract. It's just one night. Show up, get a paycheck, leave. Simple stuff."

"I've already made my lack of interest apparent, Girard. This is why it's so easy to believe you're a rapist."

"Forgive me if I don't believe you. After all, no one really stays retired in this business. Though for now, I guess I have to find someone else."

He turned on one heel and took a step away from the woman.

"You know what? Fine. One night. One condition: book me under an alias. Something. Anything. Gonna get this out of my system once and for all."

"As you wish, Miss--"

"This is the part where you shut up, before I change my mind."

He chuckled - breathy and light. The game was over. He won. This was how you beat those types - remind them they aren't the most important thing in the world.

"As you wish," he repeated, struggling to contain the smile on his face.