Anger makes dull men witty, but it keeps them poor.

Host: The tavern hummed with the low murmur of voices and glass, the clink of silver spoons against ceramic, and the lazy rhythm of a jazz trio playing somewhere near the back. Cigarette smoke curled toward the ceiling, making halos around the hanging lamps. The air smelled of bourbon, old wood, and a little bit of regret.

Jack sat at the bar, his collar undone, nursing a glass of whiskey that had already lost its purpose. His face was tired, his eyes sharp, the kind of sharpness that cuts inward more than out. Jeeny sat beside him, elbows on the counter, her long black hair falling like ink across her shoulder.

Between them, a silence that wasn’t cold — just heavy, like air right before a storm breaks.

Jeeny: gently “Francis Bacon once said, ‘Anger makes dull men witty, but it keeps them poor.’”

Jack: dryly, staring at his glass “Then I must be a millionaire of misery.”

Host: The bartender glanced their way, then decided to keep polishing glasses. Jack’s voice carried that familiar tone — irony soaked in exhaustion, humor wrapped around hurt.

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You always did mistake rage for eloquence.”

Jack: glances at her “You say it like it’s a flaw. Anger sharpens the tongue, Jeeny. Sometimes it’s the only way to be heard.”

Jeeny: “It sharpens, yes. But it also cuts the wrong people.”

Host: A woman laughed somewhere across the room — high, brittle, a note of fleeting joy amid the smoke. Jack didn’t turn. He ran a finger along the rim of his glass, the soft hum it made fading into the quiet around them.

Jack: “You ever notice how the smartest things people say often come from the darkest places? Pain’s the best editor I’ve ever had.”

Jeeny: “Pain refines words, Jack. Anger distorts them. Anger turns truth into performance — and performers always leave broke.”

Jack: half-smiling “Francis Bacon would’ve loved you.”

Jeeny: without missing a beat “And he would’ve warned you. Anger makes you witty, but it’s a temporary currency. It buys applause, not peace.”

Host: Jack looked at her now — really looked. The soft light caught the amber in his whiskey and in her eyes. Two similar hues. Two different depths.

Jack: “Peace is overrated.”

Jeeny: gently, but firm “So says every man who’s never had it.”

Jack: quietly, after a beat “You think I use anger as a crutch?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you use it as armor. It protects you from failure, from vulnerability, from love. You’ve built an empire of sarcasm and call it strength.”

Host: Her words hit like a gentle blow — not meant to wound, but to awaken. The piano in the background shifted keys, the melody now slower, softer, almost mournful.

Jack: after a pause “You ever wonder why witty men are poor?”

Jeeny: “Because they spend their intelligence defending their pain instead of transforming it.”

Jack: bitter laugh “So what, I should just smile through the fire?”

Jeeny: “No. But don’t mistake smoke for warmth.”

Host: The bartender refilled their drinks quietly — his face expressionless, but his movements slow, like someone who’d heard too many late-night confessions to be surprised anymore.

Jack: after a moment “You know, anger gives me clarity. It burns off the fog. When I’m furious, I see everything that’s wrong — and I can finally speak.”

Jeeny: softly “Yes, but clarity without compassion is blindness in disguise.”

Jack: “So I’m blind now?”

Jeeny: “No. You just keep looking at the world through firelight instead of sunlight.”

Host: He didn’t answer right away. The silence between them stretched — heavy, deliberate. The smoke above them swirled, catching the dim yellow glow.

Jack: finally, quietly “You ever get tired of always being the voice of reason?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You ever get tired of mistaking fire for wisdom?”

Host: The air seemed to still then, as if even the jazz had grown cautious. Jack stared down into his drink — the last few drops reflecting the amber light like molten gold.

Jack: “You know, when Bacon said that, I think he was mocking us — people like me. The ones who use anger to sound smart. He knew it’s a trick. Anger makes words glitter, but empties them of grace.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Anger makes poets out of fools, and fools out of poets. It makes us believe that cleverness equals truth.”

Jack: half-smiling, almost to himself “And truth doesn’t need to shout.”

Jeeny: “It never does. That’s why it’s hard to hear.”

Host: The rain began again outside, pattering softly against the window, a rhythm to their introspection. Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded note — worn, crumpled, the ink faded.

Jack: quietly “I wrote this during an argument years ago. Thought it was genius at the time. Read it now, it just sounds cruel.”

Jeeny: gently “Because wit written in anger is just intelligence grieving out loud.”

Jack: smiling sadly “You’ve got a line for everything.”

Jeeny: softly, with warmth “And you’ve got a wound for every line.”

Host: He laughed then — not bitterly this time, but like a man realizing he’s finally run out of excuses. The bartender turned down the lights a little lower; the music faded into a single, lingering saxophone note.

Jack: sighing, voice calmer “Maybe Bacon was right. Anger sharpens the blade, but it dulls the soul.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. It gives you brilliance, then bills you for peace.”

Host: They sat in silence again, two weary philosophers at the altar of their own contradictions. Outside, the city lights shimmered against the puddles like reflections of broken stars.

Jack: finally “You know what I envy about you, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: curious “What’s that?”

Jack: “You’ve learned how to be fierce without being cruel.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “That’s because I learned that the sharpest minds are useless if the heart behind them isn’t kind.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the bar now distant, their figures small beneath the dim glow of the hanging lamp. The sound of rain filled the background, steady and cleansing.

And as the scene faded, Francis Bacon’s wisdom lingered like the aftertaste of whiskey — bitter, honest, and enduring:

that anger may lend us words that cut deep,
but it robs us of the grace to heal what they wound.

Host: For cleverness born of fury
is the brilliance of a flame —
bright, consuming, fleeting.

And when the embers die,
what remains is not wealth or wisdom,
but ashes —
and the faint, humbling truth
that peace,
unlike wit,
cannot be bought with rage.

And that realization —
that quiet turning inward after the fire —
is what makes the human spirit,
in all its flaws,
so painfully,
so beautifully,
amazing.