Marty Ryder leaned into the bulbous podcast microphone. All these years later, he was still a big man—meaty palms and protruding neck tendons sturdy enough to secure a good-sized ship to harbor. He continued:

“As far as I’ve seen, the meek don’t inherit shit, but a condo in Myrtle Beach and probate fees.”

He was still at it: Marty Ryder—the big-dick, biohacking John Wayne of wellness. Author. Disrupter. Businessman. One in a long, grand legacy of men who lived off the strength of their diaphragms. 

His following had clearly dwindled since Talia first saw him. He had packed convention centers then. He was still supermarket-famous, but had seemingly transitioned to making cameos on motivational podcast TikTok’s like the one now gracing Talia’s explore page.

His empire had not toppled, but surely eroded in the intervening years. There had been the employment lawsuit and the FTC claims about the beet-based cognitive supplements. Both were settled out of court, but still garnered him a new “2015 Controversies” Wikipedia subtab between “Publications” and “Personal Life and Philanthropy.”

But maybe biggest of all, the market had become saturated. Marty Ryder had been supplanted by a younger, louder cohort of blustering bastards. Ones not so reluctant to say the quiet part out loud.

But there was a time. Not so long ago. When he was America’s favorite fabulist.

~

The phone rang some seven years back, maybe eight. Talia’s family still had a landline then, just to the left of the heavily-magneted fridge. Talia answered.

“Hi Tal, can you put Mom on?” It was her big sister, Shelly. A husky male voice was just audible behind her.

“This is you making a choice, Shelly.” The man’s voice encouraged. 

“Tal—Mom, can you get her?” Shelly asked again. 

“Yeah, yeah. Gimme a sec,” Talia hoisted herself off the couch and paused the YouTube compilation of America’s Next Top Model she’d been working her way through. She sealed her bag of pretzel thins, shellacking the bag’s freshness seal with seasoning mix and saliva. 

Her mom was on the other side of the sliding glass door, out on the back porch. She sipped a Fresca and flipped through the Parade magazine pull-outs she maintained were trash, but still religiously read.

Talia passed the phone.

“How is it?” her mom asked, speaking into the receiver. “Going good?”

Talia couldn’t make out what her sister said next, but she could hear the urgency. She caught snippets. Loose phrases maybe remembered or maybe Frankensteined together from later retellings and viral videos viewings. There was talk of “regenerative realness” and “lazy mental schemas” and “victim narrative”s. 

The phrases were not new to Talia. She’d seen them before–embossed on the thick spines of the books her sister would send her from time to time. The books formed a temple on her childhood dresser. Their titles would leer at her as she skimmed her school’s required summer reading in bed: “Regenerative Realness: Building Wealth Straight Up,” “The Good Samaritan Drives a Benz,” “I Think The F*ck NOT: Reject Your Inner Victim and Transform Your Life.”

“What are you saying right now?” Talia’s mom was upset, pacing now. Her bare feet narrowly missed the splintered boards. “I’m trying to…..I’m trying to wrap my head around…you’re saying….so that is what you’re saying?!” She said. Her pitch creeping upwards, she continued, “Can I…let me talk here for a second…can I talk? Just, are you at the conference right now? Is this that?”

“What’d she say? Mom, what’d she say though?” Talia asked. “Is everything okay?” Talia asked again, scrounging for any morsel of clarity.

“I can’t believe you’re saying this. Shelly! Are you actually, really meaning this right now?” Her mom sputtered. Talia had noticed that grown-ups tend to ask lots of questions when they’re losing their handle on a conversation. A sort of linguistic filibuster.

“What’s she saying though? Mom, what’s she saying?” Talia continued on–an abandoned magic eight ball, churning questions into an answerless eternity.

~

A classmate–and not a particularly nice one–instant messaged Talia the link. “Yikes, super tough, lmk if u wanna talk about it tho <3,” she’d included.

Under the golden lighting of the Hyatt Regency Presidential Ballroom Marty Ryder stood, exalted. Two massive projection screens flanked the proscenium stage, magnifying up-close shots of his and the audience’s faces. Crinkled Dasani bottles, hand bags, and already-eaten chicken caesar wrap box lunches were stuffed beneath the infinite sea of chairs. Every dozen rows, staff adorned in “TRIGGER ME” t-shirts stood at attention.

“And who’s ready to take that victim narrative out right now?! Take that bullshit out behind the barn right now?! Who’s ready to say ‘I see myself; I know myself; and I will be UNAPOLOGETICALLY REAL with myself FOR myself” now?!” Marty howled.

The crowd was up, eager to be chosen. Marty surveyed the crowd. He took his time. The video feed panned across the room, projecting mega shots of each awaiting face, their mouths slightly open as if they were hungry, hankering for help. His gaze stopped in the middle of the room. There, on the aisle, was a woman. A Snow White, fairest-of-them-all woman, reluctantly raising her palm to chin-height.

Shelly had always been a striking woman. Even as a baby, she was the ideal. Talia had spent most of her life wanting people to see Shelly. She’d linger at her play dates, pretending not to see the idling sedan in the driveway and hoping Shelly’d have to ring the doorbell and meet her friend’s mom at the door. She wanted them to behold her big sister. She reveled in that first moment when they realized this spectacular vision, this glorious person, belonged in her same bloodline.

They were four and a half years apart, but there had long been an aesthetic delta. Or at least, Talia thought so. As a child, Talia had lost her baby teeth early and her adult teeth had taken so long to come in her parents sought professional dental intervention. Shelly, on the other hand, had always been the most beautiful person Talia had ever beheld. To her little sister, she was transcendent—older and otherworldly. If Shelly did it, so did Talia. Talia would never need to live in New York City or spend a summer traversing the American West. She’d never need to date a session drummer or a volatile sous chef. 

One after the other, Shelly fell for would-be artisans. Men who would barely spare a “thank you,” let alone a compensatory six pack for help moving into their new basement apartments. They came and went—offbrand Lou Reeds with the flattest asses you’d ever seen.

In the expansive conference room, Marty Ryder had clearly spotted this luminous woman and decided upon her.

“Right here, lady on the aisle, Betty Boop here,” he pointed down to her from the stage. Shelly looked left. She looked right. “Yes you, honey, c’mon now.”

A staff member—a svelte, nordic-looking woman—rushed to Shelly, positioning a microphone an inch or so from her mouth. Shelly’s exhale hit the microphone hard, send a harsh noice across the room, causing swathes of the audience to flinch. She grimaced then giggled.

“Oop, sorry about that. Hi, sorry.” Shelly spoke into the microphone.

“And what’s your name?” Marty smiled.

“Shelly.”

“Shelly?” Marty repeated.

“Yep,” she confirmed.

“Shelly No Last Name.” Marty grinned. The audience tittered. “Okay, Shelly No Last Name, what brings you here today?” He asked.

“I want to grow my business,” Shelly responded, a certain practice nature to her tone.

“And what’s your business, Shelly?” Marty dug in.

“I’ve recently started my own wellness business.”

“CLAP for Shelly, everyone,” Marty instructed. The crowd did as it was told. He turned his attention back to her. “Wow, Shelly, okay. So you’re here, taking, what three days out of your week, no paying customers for three days, for what?” He asked.

“To optimize my business; to really get the personal skills to improve my efficiency and growth.” She said.

“Don’t buy it!” Marty interjected. The audience giggled knowingly. This is what Marty did. This is what they’d come for. “But spiffy 10 dollar word,” he added, winking.

She tried again. “I mean, I really want to improve my own personal life, but I feel like it’ll be through my business that I’ll be able to—” She explained.

“Nope!” Marty bounded off the stage, his headset allowing maximum movement. He powered down the aisle towards Shelly, the difference in their physical statures becoming more and more obvious with each step. “What’s the real reason you’re here today, Shelly? You got up so you obviously came for a reason. You raised your hand in front of all these other people needing help—people grieving, people healing and hurting—and yet you raised your hand feeling, KNOWING you needed some sort of special help, so c’mon. Everyone’s jealous here already!” The crowd chucked. Marty had just reached Shelly. He stood close. “Shelly.” He paused. “What’s the REAL reason you’re here today?”

“I’ve not been feeling, really, great, lately?” Shelly managed.

“And that’s something real.” Marty nodded. He took a beat, leveling the crowd with his pause. “Thank you, Shelly. It is, fundamentally, a brave thing to admit that. Thank you.”

Shelly offered a tentative grin. She giggled a bit.

“But see, that makes you laugh. What makes you have that immediate urge to diminish your feelings?” Marty pressed.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m nervous a little bit.” Shelly giggled again.

Marty turned on his heel, facing the other quadrant of the audience. “Okay Shelly! Betty-Boop-Mini-Mouse-little-giggle-Shelly, let’s get to know you a bit here. How old are you, Shelly?” Marty asked.

“I’m 26.”

“You married, Shelly?” He turned back to her.

“No. I was engaged last year, but not anymore,” Shelly grimaced.

“Bad breakup?”

“Yes, very bad. Brutal actually.”

“Just looking at you, I know you could do a number on somebody. Whew!” Marty grinned. The crowd laughed. “Take that as a compliment.”

“I, yeah I guess so. Wasn’t my finest hour,” Shelly conceded.

“You lived with him?” Marty dug in.

“I did, yeah, but I live with my mom now,” Shelly clarified.

“What’s mom like?”

“She’s great. She’s good, yeah,” Shelly offered.

“Downgrade there!” Marty exclaimed. He addressed the audience, “Y’all here that? That downgrade?” The crowd murmured affirmatively. He turned back to Shelly, “Is she great or good then?”

“It’s just ‘good’ right now I guess. We’re—we tend to argue a lot and she has this tendency to like always pick at my life right now, though she’s been really good about letting me stay with her after I had to move out of my fiancé’s place—”

“Hold on. Slow down Miss Shelly, okay? Let’s look at that ‘but.’ Let’s break this down,” Marty cut in. “

“Okay,” Shelly nodded.

“What’s Mom picking at, specifically?” Marty dug in.

“She’s, well, I think she kinda resents that I’m not doing the more traditional career route.”

“9-5?” Marty asked.

“Yeah like I think she’d prefer if I did something more conventional instead of starting my own business. She just, like well, I think she thinks it’s not gonna work out.”

“She thinks you’ll fail?” Marty pressed.

“Yeah she just doesn’t, she says the way the broader system works, with like building your downline and what it takes to get to the next level—I’m a pearl level, but ideally want to be diamond—she says it’s a scam,” Shelly explained.

“So I take it mom’s an economist?” Marty asked.

“No,” Shelly smiled slightly.

“She’s an MBA then?”

“No. She’s a middle school English teacher.”

“Okay so yes, clearly well positioned to speak to the viability of new business ventures. Sure,” Marty joked. The crowd liked that one.

“Let me tell you something, Shelly. Every business I have ever started—and I’ve coached Fortune 500 CEOs and sold my last venture for 57 million dollars—has had detractors. Loud mouthes knawing at my ankles saying I won’t make it. ‘It’s a long shot.’ ‘It’ll fail.’ ‘You’ll fail.’” Marty paused. He continued,

“People with little lives don’t like people with big dreams! So they pick and they try to scratch away at your greatness until you’re as measly and small as they are.” Marty turned back to Shelly. “Do you believe in your greatness, Shelly?”

“Yes,” Shelly affirmed, her audible exhale again echoing awkwardly through the room.

“Don’t buy it! Shelly—do you believe in your greatness?” He repeated.

“Yes.” Shelly agreed, more firmly now.

“Yes you do, Shelly, because I sure as shit do!” Marty shouted. The crowd concurred.

“Besides the business, what’s the situation at home? How’s it with mom?” Marty pivoted.

“I, yeah, it’s—I mean, she did not want me coming here. It was a whole thing for this past month, but she says she’s trying to understand the importance and the, the value add to my business.”

“And your engagement, your marriage, safe to assume mom was negative about that too or no?”

“Yeah towards the end, she was not a fan. But at that point, it had gotten really hard and he’d become really manip—“ Shelly began to explain. Marty stopped her.

“See that? See that instinct? We all have it. We all have it!” Marty exclaimed. He chuckled, turning “people say ‘you a tits or a butt man?’ Let me tell you something, there was a time in my life when I WAS A ‘BUT’ MAN.” The crowd erupted in overly giving laughter.

“BUT I was wrong!” Marty yelled out. His tone turned stern. The audience quieted, accustomed to his brand of emotional whiplash. Marty continued, “That word was the very foundation of my daily vocabulary. There was a time when I blamed every bad thing that happened to me on my father and his drinking and my mother and her whooping on me.” He paused. “And where did that victim narrative get me?”

He slowed and dropped his voice. “Write this down. Now. The most dangerous word in this world is ‘but’.” The room was silent, spare the sound of a few people retrieving a dropped pen. Marty repeated himself. “The most dangerous word in this world is ‘but.’”

The silence lingered. The crowd would not move without his signal. Slowly, purposefully, he walked back to Shelly, standing in the aisle. She pulled her shoulders back, fixing her posture.

“No more ‘but,’ yes?” Marty asked.

“Yes. No more ‘but,’ Shelly nodded.

“Why did your engagement end, Shelly?” He asked, slowly this time.

“I gave up,” Shelly said. Her eyes were wet and full.

“Because it was hard or because it was wrong? Now think about that one.”

Shelly took a beat. “Because it was hard.”

“And because you knew you had your mommy to fall back on.”

“Yeah she definitely encouraged the break-up and like, I knew there was somewhere I could always stay,” Shelly agreed.

“She made you think you’re her little princess. You’re a little Rapunzel, aren’t you? Up in her tower? Too scared to scale down to the earth and get your hands dirty with LIFE!”

Shelly thought on it, as if digesting the idea. She nodded. “Yeah, I guess, yeah, that’s right.”

“CLAP, clap if you think she is,” Marty bellowed. The crowd did as asked. He clarified, “listen, I’m not knocking loving your mother; I’m knocking the victim narrative. Clap if you get that…” The crowd complied. Marty inhaled. He looked down solemnly before bringing his gaze back to Shelly’s.

Marty began, “I’m seeing it, just looking at you, looking at those striking, dynamic eyes of yours…you’re already realizing what it is you have to do.” Shelly nodded. Marty went on, “what is it you need to do?”

“I think first, I really need to set boundaries,” Shelly started.

Marty made a clicking sound with his cheek, shaking his head. “Okay boundaries…sure…so you go in and say some big bad words and then you don’t get the sale you were banking on or some guy tells you he wants to see other people and there you go, scrambling back up to your tower, back to Mommy who wants nothing more than to keep you there with her.”

He paused. “What would it be like to make the choice to take distance from mom? Think on that. What would that empower you to do?”

“Make my own decisions…feel more strong, empowered to grow my business…be on my own,” Shelly contemplated.

“And what would it be like to tell her that? To tell her ‘hey, only people who I allow in my life, are people who support me and the chances I take?”

“It’d feel powerful. Really good,” Shelly agreed.

“Now.”

“Now?” Shelly asked.

“Call her now. If you’re gonna do it, prove it.” He took a step forward. Shelly looked up at him. She nodded.

The blonde staffer scurried behind Shelly, retrieving her cell phone from the edge of her empty seat. Marty took it, pressing it into Shelly’s palm as if he were arming her with a great, ancient divining rod.

Shelly dialed.

The room was still. The staff member held the phone to Shelly’s mouth as she reached her little sister and then her mother. Shelly described a deep, unabating frustration. No matter what she did, nothing was ever monumental. She was devastatingly mediocre. A nothing person, living only in the moments when wasn’t being hemmed in by her mom’s nagging.

Yes, she’d come to the three-day conference to learn how to build her business, but she couldn’t build anything without first addressing the real problem.

“You’ve become a toxic presence in my life,” Shelly insisted. Marty nodded along, his marble face so close to Shelly’s. As she spoke, he massaged the nape of Shelly’s neck with a beefy hand.

Shelly continued, back and forth with the barely heard voice on the other end. Shelly’s voice got louder now as she came to her thesis: “And I have to do the right thing for both of us. So, so really: I will be unable to continue a relationship with you until you can learn to respect my autonomy and respect me.”

Marty nodded, hard. He mouthed, “cut it.”

Shelly understood. Through the microphone, the audience could just barely hear a voice on the other end, upset and incredulous. Shelly hung up.

No one dared speak. Marty’s large jaw was so close to Shelly’s face that they could have so easily kissed. He clamped his catcher’s mitt of a hand against the back of her head.

“That’s. It. Right there—that’s IT,” Marty spoke.

An invisible DJ took his cue. From silence to cacophony, the room erupted. The ballroom speakers belted out a bassy song, loud and electric and perfect for a high school pep rally. The crowd loved it, bounding up in collective ecstasy. They cheered and clapped and weeped. Their shouts rose and quivered as if speaking in tongues. 

Marty locked his forehead against Shelly’s, casting her gaze upwards. He continued to palm the back of her head as he pulled her into an embrace. There they stayed. Barely audible to the broader audience, he whispered firmly in her ear,

“Good girl. Good girl."

~

The video—in long form and short—would make the rounds on the internet in the mid-aughts. It was one of the more popular of Marty’s public interventions. There was a drama to it that translated into video form well. It’d get cut down into snack-sized portions and welded into clunky 30-minute compilations. It would stay there on YouTube, collecting views, next to its suggested video brethren:

“Next Time You Wanna Quit, Watch THIS.”

“Marty Ryder saves suicidal teen in less than 7 minutes!!!!!”

“MILLIONAIRE MOTIVATION MINDSET.”

Years on, Talia scrolled through the suggested videos. She had come into her own now, a woman now older than her big sister had been that day. She knew she shouldn’t be watching it again. When the TikTok came across her feed, she knew where she’d end up. It was the same place she found herself whenever she surpassed more than two Moscow Mules.

Her absence from the party would soon be missed. She’d been monopolizing the bathroom far too long. Her friends would soon start texting “you good?”s. The long-chinned friend-of-a-friend who’d been hovering by her all night would soon turn his attention to his second-round one-night-stand draft-pick.

Not that Talia much cared. Her attention had turned to the past and no present flirtation could ever be more captivating, more intoxicating than the picking at a lingering scab. She scrolled on, unmoved by the prodding chatter of the other guests just outside the door, waiting to piss.

Talia had long hated Marty Ryder. Through high school and college and the hazy post-grad careerist trudge, she’d loathed him in all his heady self-exaltation and dickswagger. But there was something else too. Just beneath the hate: envy.

To live like that, like him—must have been divine. To speak in headlines—void of nuance—luxury.

Watching him again now, Talia luxuriated in her hate. Too drunk to stop herself, she navigated to the comments. There, before her, a vista of adulation and praise, interrupted only occasionally by the rogue chatbot, offering 15% off a Shein haul.

People were so happy he was still at it. Talia’s sister and mother hadn’t spoken in years, not since an ill-fated afternoon cleaning out a shared storage facility, but seemingly millennia later, Marty Ryder was still at it. Shelly barely spoke to her little sister anymore spare the biannual “sorry I can’t make it next month. hope you’re so centered rn and doing AMAZING!!!” anymore and still he spoke with his whole chest. Centuries would come. Centuries would go. He would still be belting, so sure of himself.

Talia clicked to add a new comment. She typed:

“Weasel DICK”

It felt right. She didn’t know if it was fair, but it felt right.