Anger is wonderful. It keeps you going. I'm angry about bankers.

Host: The pub was half-empty, the kind of place where the wood was dark and honest, where the laughter had texture, and where the beer tasted of truth. Outside, the city was a tangle of rain and neon, a wet electric hum that belonged to no one and everyone.

Inside, the fire snapped lazily in the grate, throwing amber light across tired faces. The clock above the bar had stopped at 11:03 — as if time itself had given up for the night.

At a corner table sat Jack, his coat draped over a chair, a half-drunk pint before him. His eyes were sharp, restless — the kind of eyes that had seen too much and forgiven too little. Across from him sat Jeeny, stirring her tea absently, watching him with quiet amusement.

Jeeny: (softly, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes) “Terry Pratchett once said — ‘Anger is wonderful. It keeps you going. I’m angry about bankers. About the government.’”

Jack: (snorts) “Pratchett, huh? The man wrapped fury in humor better than anyone. He made outrage look civilized.”

Jeeny: “He made it look human. Anger wasn’t destruction to him — it was motion. Energy. The kind that burns through apathy.”

Jack: “Yeah, but look where anger’s gotten us. Everyone’s furious. Every screen’s a bonfire of opinion. We’ve turned outrage into entertainment.”

Jeeny: “That’s not anger, Jack. That’s performance. Real anger isn’t loud — it’s steady. It’s fuel, not fireworks.”

Host: The fire crackled, spitting tiny embers that flared and faded like miniature revolutions. Outside, rain pressed harder against the windows, streaking them with trembling lines of gold and gray.

Jack: “So you’re saying anger’s a virtue now?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying it can be. If you know what to do with it.”

Jack: “Most people don’t. They just shout into the void.”

Jeeny: “That’s not anger, that’s noise. True anger doesn’t need volume — it needs direction.”

Host: The bartender wiped down glasses, his motions methodical, almost rhythmic. The low hum of conversation around them rose and fell like the tide — laughter here, despair there.

Jack: “Pratchett said he was angry at bankers. At government. That’s righteous fury. But most of us — we just simmer about traffic, bills, bad coffee.”

Jeeny: “Because we’ve been trained to shrink our rage. To aim it downward instead of upward. At ourselves instead of the systems that deserve it.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But anger burns you out. It eats the edge off your soul.”

Jeeny: “Only if it’s selfish anger. The kind that wants revenge, not change.”

Jack: “And what’s the difference?”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “Revenge wants satisfaction. Change wants justice.”

Host: The wind howled outside, rattling the windowpanes. A single candle on their table flickered, its flame bowing to the draft and then straightening again — stubborn, alive.

Jack: “You think Pratchett really meant it? That anger’s wonderful?”

Jeeny: “I think he meant anger’s honest. It’s the proof that you still care. Apathy is easy; anger costs energy. You can’t be angry without loving something first.”

Jack: (quietly) “Love as the root of rage.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t get furious about bankers if you don’t believe in fairness. You don’t get angry at governments unless you still expect them to serve.”

Jack: “So anger’s grief with muscle.”

Jeeny: “And courage with teeth.”

Host: A man at the next table laughed too loudly at a joke that wasn’t funny. The sound lingered, hollow. Jack rubbed the rim of his glass, thinking.

Jack: “You know, I used to think anger was weakness. A loss of control.”

Jeeny: “That’s what they want you to think. Because a calm citizen doesn’t protest.”

Jack: “And an angry one does.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But only if they remember who the real enemy is.”

Host: The fire dimmed, throwing longer shadows across the room. Jeeny’s face caught the light — fierce and gentle all at once.

Jack: “You’re talking about moral anger — the kind that builds, not destroys.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The kind Pratchett had. The kind that writes satire instead of slogans. That sees injustice and turns it into story.”

Jack: “And story becomes revolution.”

Jeeny: “Every time.”

Host: The rain softened outside, but the sound of it filled the silence between them — a rhythm steady as a heartbeat.

Jack: “You know, I envy that kind of anger. Purposeful. Articulate. Mine just sits in my chest like rust.”

Jeeny: “Then give it a voice. Anger’s only poison if you bottle it.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You’d make a good revolutionary.”

Jeeny: “I’d make a patient one. Real change takes longer than rage.”

Host: The clock ticked faintly, still stuck at 11:03. Time had stopped for everyone but them.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Pratchett was really saying — that anger keeps you human in a world that tries to mechanize your soul.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s not about destruction — it’s about defiance. Anger says, ‘I still feel something in a system that wants me numb.’”

Jack: “And numbness is obedience.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The fire hissed, then flared as Jack tossed another log in. The sudden burst of heat cast their faces in bright orange light — both of them illuminated, caught between warmth and fury.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe anger’s not the opposite of peace. Maybe it’s the beginning of it.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Because only those who are angry at injustice will ever fight for harmony.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the two of them small figures in a timeless pub, surrounded by shadows and the soft crackle of flame. The rain outside glimmered like applause on the pavement, steady and cleansing.

And in that golden quiet, Terry Pratchett’s words echoed — not as cynicism, but as wisdom forged in fire:

That anger, when guided by love,
is not chaos — it is conscience.

That fury is the pulse of those
who refuse to accept decay as destiny.

And that the world does not fall to monsters first —
it falls to those who feel nothing
when monsters rise.

So let anger live —
not as rage,
but as fuel.

The proof that we still care enough to burn.