On his way out of the lecture hall, James noticed a sign outside it. Presumably in preparation for a later lecture in the day, the sign said: 'music - guest lecturer: Kenneth Roy.'
James had been about to go home (having no other lectures until the afternoon) but stopped at the sight of this sign. Kenneth Roy was an absolute legend of rock music and one of James' favourite people of all time. Although he didn't study music, James wandered if it would be appropriate to attend the lecture, purely to hear Mr. Roy speak. He concluded that, in fact, it didn't matter whether or not it was appropriate; he would do it regardless.
*****
An hour later - after a quick coffee - James returned to the lecture hall and entered. He took his seat, and looked around at the music students as they entered. One in particular caught his eye, although in fairness it would be hard to miss him: he was of an Asian complexion and, more significantly, looked about seven feet tall. He came over and sat next to James.
'Never seen you here before.' His voice was surprisingly soft, at odds with his enormous size. It wasn't only the height that made him seem so gigantic - although that certainly helped - it was his sheer size: the man was broad-shouldered and, on closer inspection, extremely muscle-bound. Finally, James got round to replying:
'No, I'm not studying music, I'm just a big fan of the lecturer.'
'Aren't we all? The man's a living legend. Have I seen you performing around town?'
Slightly taken aback by the change in topic, James, again, hesitated for a moment before replying:
'You may have done, I have been performing.'
'Cool, well I'm a fan. I'm a drummer myself, so if you ever need one, get in touch. I'm Hoi, Hoi Ciao.'
'James Wilkins.'
At this moment, Kenneth Roy took to the stage, immediately drawing their conversation to a cease.
*****
The lecture was just as fascinating and illuminating as James had anticipated, and his attention didn't stray from Roy for the entirety. When it finished - as one would expect - James left along with everybody else in the hall.
As he walked out, he thought about what he would do next. Logically, there wasn't much point going home, as by this stage there wasn't long until his next lecture. However, there was still a fairly long wait before the aforementioned lecture, certainly long enough for it to not be worth going straight there. Just as he was thinking this, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
'You James Wilkins?' Came a gravelly voice.
'Yeah, why?' James replied as he turned. At that point his thoughts stopped.
Before him stood one of his all time heroes, a man who was a legend of his industry, one of the world's most famous - and infamous - people: the one and only Kenneth Roy.
'I saw you performing the other day,' Roy responded, 'I have to say I was impressed.'
James - unusually for him - was absolutely speechless at this. He was about seventy percent sure that this circumstance wasn't actually occurring, and even if it was, it must be some kind of joke; his mind couldn't come to terms with the fact that this person was really saying these words to him.
Finally, he stuttered out a reply:
'Th-thank you'
'So, you wanna make it in this business?'
'Yeah, of course, it'd be a dream come true.' James still wasn't talking with anything approaching his usual confidence.
'Well, how about you send me an official press pack and I'll see if I can't get you signed onto my label?' Roy handed James his business card. 'You think you've got what it takes to be a rock star?'
'Yes sir, I reckon so.'
'Ok, first thing, bitch, you don't call me 'sir', you don't fucking call anyone fucking 'sir'. You wanna be a fucking rock star? Get the fucking attitude. You need confidence, you need to fucking feel like you're fucking better than everyone. You need to fucking know you're better than fucking everyone. The world fucking owes you, ok? You got that? Everybody, the entire fucking world, fucking everyone fucking owes you. Don't take shit from anyone, no fucking shit, from fucking anyone. If anyone fucking disrespects you, fucking show them they're fucking wrong. Make them fucking regret giving you that fucking disrespect. You don't need to be fucking respectful to people. You know what it fucking says to me, when you call me fucking 'sir'? It says you're fucking worse than me; fucking beneath me. It tells me I can fucking walk all over you. Is that the fucking impression you want to fucking give me? No? I fucking thought not. Alright, I've got fucking news for you: the world doesn't fucking owe you anything. Ok? Not a fucking thing. If you fucking want anything from the fucking world - and if you don't, what kind of fucking man are you? - you've got to fucking grab it for yourself. Take life by the fucking dick and suck it. You fucking get nothing by being fucking nice. Being nice just gets you fucking pissed over. Don't be nice, be a fucking dick, that's the fucking key to success. So I'll fucking ask you again: do you think you've got what it takes to be a fucking rock star?'
James paused only momentarily before responding:
'Bitch, I am a rock star.'
'Ha! I like you, you single?'
'Uh... Yeah.' Responded James, mildly disturbed.