Bastard Freedom waves Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves.

Host: The square was silent now, long after the protest had ended. Torn banners lay soaked in the gutter, the ink bleeding into the rain like forgotten prayers. The faint hum of sirens drifted from far-off streets, fading into the distance. Streetlights flickered over the debris — papers, signs, and one crumpled flag, caught on the iron fence, its edges shivering in the wind.

Jack stood in the middle of the emptiness, his hands in his coat pockets, the dampness creeping into his bones. Jeeny stood beside him, her face streaked with dirt and light, her eyes reflecting the flicker of the wet asphalt.

Jeeny: “Thomas Moore once wrote, ‘Bastard Freedom waves Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves.’”

Host: Her voice was quiet, almost reverent — as if afraid that the night itself might overhear. Jack turned toward the flag, its faded red and blue now nothing but dull cloth against gray.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How easily the word freedom gets cheapened. It used to mean something pure. Now it’s printed on T-shirts, shouted through microphones, used to sell everything from oil to outrage.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what Moore meant — freedom becomes a parody when it forgets the enslaved. It waves its banner over suffering and calls the illusion victory.”

Jack: “You think that’s what we are? A nation living under a counterfeit sky?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I think we’re a people who’ve mistaken noise for liberty.”

Host: A gust of wind tore down the street, catching the flag again — it snapped loudly, echoing against the wet brick walls like a reprimand. Jack stared at it, the sound slicing into the silence.

Jack: “Funny how flags always look noble when they’re new — before they get soaked in hypocrisy.”

Jeeny: “Because we make symbols to feel righteous. But symbols mean nothing if the people beneath them are still shackled.”

Jack: “Shackled by what?”

Jeeny: “Debt. Fear. Prejudice. Indifference. Pick your chain, Jack — they’re all invisible until you tug on them.”

Host: The rain started again — thin and relentless — washing over the graffiti on the wall behind them, words like justice, truth, and freedom running down the brick like tears.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always thought Moore was too harsh. Maybe he just didn’t believe people could ever live up to their own slogans.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he was just honest enough to call out the lie. Freedom without equality is just privilege with better PR.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. And tragic.”

Jeeny: “So is history.”

Host: The two stood in silence. A passing car splashed through a puddle, scattering fragments of paper — a protest flyer drifted to their feet. Jeeny bent down, picked it up, and read aloud the faded print.

Jeeny: “No justice, no peace.” (She looked up at him.) “Two centuries later, and we’re still repeating the same chorus.”

Jack: “Maybe freedom’s not something you earn once. Maybe it’s something you have to keep fighting for, even after you think you have it.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not freedom. It’s vigilance.”

Host: The streetlight flickered again, painting their faces with alternating shadow and glow — the rhythm of contradiction.

Jeeny: “You see, Moore was calling out hypocrisy — the kind that waves the flag of liberty while profiting from chains. The kind that says everyone’s free, but only within invisible borders.”

Jack: “Borders of comfort.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The soft kind — the ones you don’t feel until someone else bleeds against them.”

Host: She lifted her gaze to the flag again, still fluttering faintly in the rain. Its edges were frayed, its color dulled, but it moved — stubborn, alive, proud in its ruin.

Jack: “You think the flag deserves redemption?”

Jeeny: “The cloth? No. But maybe the dream it once stood for does.”

Jack: “And who redeems it?”

Jeeny: “The ones who refuse to stop calling out the lie — who keep naming the difference between the slogan and the soul.”

Host: The wind rose again, harder this time. The flagpole groaned, but the flag held on, whipping fiercely — not majestic, but desperate.

Jack: “You think Moore would recognize our age? This chaos, this shouting, this fractured faith in freedom?”

Jeeny: “He’d recognize the irony. Every empire that chants freedom loudest builds new chains in the echo.”

Jack: “So freedom itself becomes corrupted by the mouth that speaks it?”

Jeeny: “Only when it stops listening.”

Host: A deep silence fell — the kind that only arrives after too many truths have been spoken. Jack exhaled, slow and heavy.

Jack: “You know, my father used to say freedom was simple — the right to choose your life. But that’s not true, is it?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the right to live your choice without fear. That’s where most of us still fall short.”

Jack: “So we keep waving the flag — and pretending it’s enough.”

Jeeny: “Pretending is easier than repairing.”

Host: The rain eased again, leaving the air damp and raw. The city lights shimmered across the puddles like small, false stars.

Jeeny: “You know, Moore wrote that line as an accusation — but I think it can also be a warning. Every generation inherits a flag. And every generation decides whether it waves in truth or in mockery.”

Jack: “And ours?”

Jeeny: “Still deciding.”

Host: She reached up, grabbed the tattered edge of the flag, and tore it free from the fence. The cloth came loose easily, collapsing in her hands like something exhausted.

Jeeny: “Maybe the next one we raise should mean something again.”

Jack: “And what would that look like?”

Jeeny: “Not perfect — just honest.”

Host: She handed him the flag. It was soaked, heavy, and limp. He held it for a long moment, then folded it carefully, the way you’d fold something sacred or broken — or both.

Jack: “You think that’s possible?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Otherwise all we’re waving is guilt.”

Host: The street was empty now, but the echo of their voices lingered — quiet, defiant, human. The wind moved on, taking the scent of rain and rust with it.

Because Thomas Moore was right —
freedom becomes a farce when it forgets compassion,
a flag of mockery when it covers injustice.

But when hands reach to repair what’s torn —
when truth stands taller than pride —
then even a frayed flag can rise again,
not in mockery,
but in meaning.