All dictators, the rich and famous, to the lowest security guard

Host: The night had settled over the city like a heavy blanket, swallowing the hum of distant traffic into a low, endless murmur. Inside the old bar at the edge of the harbor, the lights hung dim, trembling slightly in the salt-stained air. A single ceiling fan turned lazily, scattering faint shadows across the wooden floorboards that creaked under the weight of memory.

Jack sat by the window, his reflection blurring in the dark glass, a half-empty glass of whiskey catching the flicker of neon from outside. His shoulders were drawn tight beneath his coat, the way a man holds his own armor even when no one is watching. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her hands wrapped around a chipped cup of tea, her eyes luminous beneath the tired light, filled with both fire and forgiveness.

Host: The quote had come from a book she’d been reading earlier that evening — F. Sionil José’s quiet reminder that power is transitory. But now, in this room that smelled of tobacco, salt, and regret, it didn’t sound like a moral lesson. It sounded like a confession.

Jeeny: “He’s right, you know,” she began softly, her voice almost lost beneath the fan’s hum. “All of them — the dictators, the tycoons, the influencers — they all believe their power is forever. Until one day, they wake up and it’s gone. Just... gone. Like the tide.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic,” he muttered, eyes still fixed on the streetlights outside. “But it’s not the tide, Jeeny. It’s the sea. And the sea doesn’t care who it swallows.”

Host: A long silence followed. The air between them thickened, filled with the kind of truths people hesitate to name. The bartender wiped a glass, pretending not to listen.

Jeeny: “Maybe,” she said slowly. “But even the sea retreats. Even storms pass. You can’t hold on to power, Jack, because it’s not something you keep — it’s something that’s lent.”

Jack: “Lent by who? God? Fate? The masses?” He turned to her, his eyes like steel in the flickering light. “Power isn’t borrowed, Jeeny. It’s taken. Fought for. Built with blood and fear and strategy. Ask any leader, any CEO — power doesn’t fall into your lap.”

Jeeny: “No, it doesn’t,” she said, meeting his gaze steadily. “But it also doesn’t stay. Look at Hitler, at Marcos, at the Roman emperors who thought they’d rule forever. They all burned their own empires to ash because they forgot what power really is — a shadow that moves when the light shifts.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He took another sip of whiskey, the liquid tracing a slow path down his throat like something bitter he’d learned to tolerate. The rain outside began to fall, tapping against the windowpane like impatient fingers.

Jack: “You’re talking about morality, Jeeny. I’m talking about reality. Power isn’t meant to be eternal. It’s not designed to last. But that doesn’t mean people are wrong for chasing it. Power gives structure. It keeps the world in line. Even if it’s temporary — it’s necessary.”

Jeeny: “Necessary?” she repeated, her voice trembling between disbelief and sorrow. “Is it necessary for a dictator to silence a thousand voices to keep his throne? Is it necessary for a billionaire to hoard while others starve? You call that structure? I call that sickness.”

Jack: “And yet,” he said, almost gently, “people follow them. Worship them. That’s the real sickness — not in the ruler, but in the ruled.”

Host: Her eyes flashed — that quiet, moral fire that had always set her apart. The rain had grown heavier now, drumming against the roof, filling the room with its steady rhythm, like the heartbeat of an old truth trying to make itself heard.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. People follow because they’re afraid. Because they’ve been taught that power means protection. But power never protects — it only trades favors. Even the lowest security guard, as José said, forgets that his gun isn’t his. It belongs to the hand that feeds him. He holds it for someone else.”

Jack: “And when that someone else falls, he picks it up. That’s how power survives — by moving from hand to hand. You think you can destroy it? No, Jeeny. You can only redirect it.”

Host: She looked at him then — not with anger, but with a deep, tired kind of sadness. Her fingers traced the rim of her cup, her reflection trembling in the tea like a fading flame.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the tragedy,” she whispered. “That we’ve made peace with something so hollow. We call it power, but it’s really just fear in a different uniform.”

Jack: “Fear keeps people alive. It’s the first law of nature. You strip that away, and everything collapses. Look at history — every revolution replaces one tyrant with another. Even in freedom, someone’s holding the strings.”

Jeeny: “Maybe,” she admitted. “But sometimes revolutions aren’t about changing the ruler — they’re about remembering that no one should rule forever. Power’s transitory — that’s not a curse, Jack. It’s our only mercy.”

Host: A flicker of lightning illuminated her face, her eyes glistening with conviction. Jack stared at her, caught between admiration and resentment, between the part of him that wanted to believe her and the part that couldn’t.

Jack: “Mercy doesn’t rebuild countries. It doesn’t feed mouths. You think moral clarity can hold a system together? Power — even temporary — gives direction. Without it, we’re chaos.”

Jeeny: “But with it, we’re enslaved,” she said sharply. “Is that your direction, Jack? Controlled chaos with a nice flag on top?”

Host: The room had grown tense again, the rain hammering harder, as if the world itself couldn’t bear their argument. Jack’s hand trembled as he set his glass down, and for the first time, his voice cracked — just slightly.

Jack: “You don’t get it, Jeeny. I’ve seen what happens when people forget power is temporary. They think they can stop the fall if they grip harder. But when it slips, it takes everything with it — their pride, their soul, their sanity.”

Jeeny: “Then you do agree with him,” she said softly. “With José. You just can’t admit it.”

Host: The fan overhead groaned, its blades whining like an old confession. Jack didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were distant now, as though watching something far beyond the bar, something only he could see — perhaps the memory of someone who had once held power, and lost it.

Jack: “Maybe I do,” he said finally. “But knowing it doesn’t change the game. Power fades — yes. But while you have it, you use it. Because if you don’t, someone else will. And maybe they’ll use it worse.”

Jeeny: “That’s the excuse every tyrant gives,” she replied, her voice trembling, but still firm. “That someone else would’ve done worse. That fear justifies control. But tell me, Jack — when it’s gone, when the uniform’s off, and the title means nothing — what’s left?”

Host: Her question struck him harder than any accusation. For a long moment, the only sound was the rain, washing against the windows, whispering of things that outlast all men. Jack looked down at his hands, the roughness of them, the quiet tremor.

Jack: “What’s left?” he repeated, almost to himself. “I don’t know. Maybe… just the man. Without the armor.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s where power ends — not in loss, but in remembrance. In learning to be human again.”

Host: The storm began to ease. The rain slowed, turning to a gentle drizzle, as if even the sky was tired of shouting. The lights flickered once, then steadied, throwing long shadows across the table, where two people sat — not conqueror and critic anymore, just souls learning the weight of impermanence.

Jack: “You always make it sound so easy,” he murmured.

Jeeny: “It’s not easy,” she smiled faintly. “It’s just necessary. Because the moment we forget that power fades, we forget that life does too. And maybe that’s the real warning.”

Host: The bar grew quieter. Somewhere outside, a sirensong faded into the distance. Jack raised his glass one last time — not in defiance, but in surrender — and the amber light caught it, glowing like a final ember.

Host: And as they sat in that small, flickering room, it was clear that even power — with all its steel and shadow — could not outlast the simple, human truth between them: that everything, in time, must yield.