As long as anger, paranoia and misinformation drive our political

Host: The evening hung heavy over Washington Square, the sky a bruise-colored dome smudged with the last breath of sunlight. The city was alive, yet uneasy — the kind of night where sirens echoed like questions, and news screens on buildings flashed with anger dressed as truth.

In a dim café beneath the glow of a flickering neon sign, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other. The TV above the counter murmured a political debate — two voices, shouting, spinning, cutting — like sparks from a machine running too hot.

Jack watched, his jaw tight, his eyes grey and storming. Jeeny sat quietly, her hands folded, her expression a mix of sorrow and resolve.

Jeeny: “David Horsey said something once. ‘As long as anger, paranoia and misinformation drive our political debate, there are unhinged souls among us who will feel justified in turning to violent remedies for imagined threats.’”

Jack: (scoffs) “And yet here we are, Jeeny. You think that quote ever stopped a single person from loading a gun? People don’t need quotes — they need something real. Anger moves the world. Always has.”

Host: The TV crackled, a commentator’s voice rising into accusation, blame, righteous fury. The bartender muted it, but the silence left behind felt louder.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what he was warning about, Jack. When anger starts to feel like a purpose, violence becomes a solution. And once that happens, truth doesn’t matter anymore.”

Jack: “Truth never mattered to the masses, Jeeny. It’s tribes now. Teams. One side says the other is the enemy. The enemy says they’re the saviors. Everyone’s got a cause, no one’s got a clue.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windowpane, carrying the distant chant of a protest down the street — voices echoing off the buildings, raw and unified in rage.

Jeeny: “That’s what scares me. Rage without reflection. It’s a kind of mass intoxication. It blinds the individual, but it feels like clarity because everyone’s drunk together.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, but anger is a language, Jeeny. The only one the powerful seem to understand. History’s full of it — revolutions, civil wars, uprisings — they all began because someone got furious enough to act.”

Jeeny: “And how many of them ended in blood and broken promises? The French Revolution was born out of rage, and it devoured itself. McCarthyism, the Red Scare, January 6th — all of them began with fear disguised as truth, and anger doing the talking.”

Host: The light from the neon sign flashed, casting their faces in alternating red and blue — like a heartbeat split between sides.

Jack: “So what, Jeeny? You’d rather we all just sit quietly, meditate, and tweet compassion? The world doesn’t change with calm words. It changes when someone shouts.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The world changes when someone listens. But no one’s listening anymore. We’re too busy shouting at ghosts of our own making.”

Host: The rain began — soft, steady, unnoticed. It tapped the glass like questions unanswered.

Jack: “You think people want truth? They don’t. They want to belong. And anger gives them that. It’s the easiest religion there is — you just have to hate the same people.”

Jeeny: “And every faith like that ends in sacrifice — usually of the innocent.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tightened around his glass, knuckles whitening. The TV screen, still muted, flashed with images — crowds shouting, flags waving, faces twisted in fury.

Jack: “You ever wonder if maybe Horsey was wrong? Maybe it’s not just the unhinged who turn to violence. Maybe it’s all of us, pushed just far enough.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point, Jack. That’s what the misinformation does — it keeps pushing, whispering that we’re cornered, that the enemy is everywhere, until we stop seeing each other as people. We stop seeing at all.”

Host: A beat. The rain grew heavier, drumming against the windows. Jack’s reflection in the glass looked like a stranger — a blurred silhouette, split between the inside and the storm.

Jack: “But what do you do when the other side is the one lying? When they’re the ones corrupting the truth? You just forgive them?”

Jeeny: “No. You hold them accountable — but you don’t become them. That’s the trap. Anger makes you think justice and vengeance are the same thing.”

Host: Her voice was steady, but her eyes trembled, reflections of light like small fires in dark water.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe people can be reasoned with. But what if the truth doesn’t matter anymore? What if it’s just entertainment now?”

Jeeny: “Then we fight to make it matter again. Not with fists or screams, but with clarity. With decency. Anger doesn’t need to be silenced — it needs to be sobered.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning to a mist that clung to the glass. The neon sign hummed, casting the word ‘OPEN’ in a tired pink glow.

Jack: “You ever think maybe we’re past that point? That we’re already too divided to heal?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think we’re too afraid to try. Fear sells, Jack. Fear votes. Fear wins elections. The moment we stop being afraid of each other, everything built on that fear crumbles.”

Host: The storm clouds broke, a single ray of streetlight cutting through, catching the steam of coffee rising between them — like a truce, fragile but real.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. But people love their monsters. They’d rather feed them than face them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But monsters only grow in the dark. The moment someone turns on the light, they shrink.”

Host: A pause, and for the first time that night, Jack smiled — a tired, haunted smile, but a human one.

Jack: “So you’re saying we don’t need more anger — we need more light.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Anger might wake us, but understanding is what keeps us awake.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back, the rain subsiding, the city lights mirroring in the wet pavement like fractured constellations.

Host: In that moment, the world outside the window still buzzed with shouting, scrolls of outrage, and endless debate. But here — in this small café, beneath a flickering neon word that refused to close — two voices had found stillness.

Host: And as the steam rose, curling into the cool air, it seemed to say what both of them already knew:
that anger, when fed by fear, becomes madness —
but when tempered by truth, it becomes change.