"Jeez, what a night." John sighs, sitting on his chair and taking off his dress shoes, which he always complains about, but refuses to stop using during shows because they were a gift from his dad. "Sure was." You nod along with a smile, closing the door to his dressing room. "But it's not over yet. Netflix producers want to meet you to discuss a comedy special. Should I give them the runaround?" You ask, already planning an excuse that’s creative enough to get them to leave but not creative enough to end up as news. John still hasn’t stopped giving you shit for the time you panicked and said he had hemorrhoids.

"Yeah, please. I'm paying for dinner if you get them to leave." He mumbles, loosening his tie.