Businesses have moved from doing business to doing lobbying, and

Host: The city skyline shimmered beneath a bruised evening sky, its glass towers gleaming like monoliths of ambition. Down below, the streets were alive — horns blaring, screens glowing, suits rushing through puddles of neon and rain.

On the top floor of one such tower, a boardroom stretched wide and cold — floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the restless world below. The room smelled of polish, power, and late capitalism.

Jack stood at the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled, his reflection merging with the lights of the city — a man at war with the very empire he’d helped build. Jeeny sat across the long glass table, her expression sharp yet compassionate, the kind of calm that sees through wealth’s illusions without scorning them.

The rain began to fall, thin lines streaking down the glass like truth finally finding its way through.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Angus Deaton once said, ‘Businesses have moved from doing business to doing lobbying, and I think that's a very bad thing.’”

Jack: (without turning) “Bad thing? It’s the only thing that works now.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the tragedy, Jack.”

Jack: (turning toward her) “You call it tragedy, I call it adaptation. The game changed — we just learned the new rules.”

Jeeny: “Rules written by the winners, for the winners.”

Jack: “That’s always been the case. At least now, we admit it.”

Jeeny: “Admitting corruption doesn’t make it honorable.”

Host: The rain tapped harder on the windows — the city below glowing through the streaks, blurred and restless, like a painting of civilization in motion and denial.

Jack: “Look, Jeeny, you think I like it? I built this company from the ground up. I believed in markets, in merit. But the world stopped rewarding value and started rewarding access. If you don’t lobby, you lose.”

Jeeny: “And if everyone lobbies, no one competes. You’ve turned innovation into influence.”

Jack: “Influence is innovation — at least now. It’s how you protect your people, your investors, your future.”

Jeeny: “Protect from what? Accountability?”

Jack: “From extinction.”

Jeeny: “Extinction of what — profit margins or conscience?”

Host: The silence that followed was taut, vibrating with the tension of two moralities. Jack’s jaw tightened. Jeeny’s eyes softened — not with pity, but with understanding.

Jeeny: “Angus Deaton wasn’t condemning business, Jack. He was mourning it. He believed in capitalism as an engine for prosperity — not manipulation. When companies spend more on persuasion than production, they stop serving the world and start seducing it.”

Jack: “You think you can separate the two? Look at politics. Lobbying’s not a side effect; it’s the bloodstream. Business runs through it.”

Jeeny: “But at what cost? You used to create things. Now you just curate influence.”

Jack: “Because creation doesn’t scale anymore. You build something beautiful, someone in power blocks it because it threatens their donor. So you play their game, or you vanish.”

Jeeny: “That’s fear talking.”

Jack: “No — that’s realism. Every regulation is for sale, every loophole leased. I’m not bending the system. I’m surviving it.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the room — two figures cast in silver light, divided not by wealth, but by belief.

Jeeny: (softly) “And how many dreams die in the name of survival?”

Jack: “You call them dreams; I call them casualties. Every empire has them.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the empires are the problem.”

Jack: (coldly) “Empires build civilization.”

Jeeny: “Empires also bury it.”

Host: Her words hit like thunder. Jack looked away — not in anger, but in quiet recognition that she had touched a truth he’d buried long ago.

Jack: “You think I don’t remember what it used to be like? When we built things people needed? When success meant craft, not contacts? But that world’s gone. You can’t compete with conglomerates that buy legislation like assets.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the brave thing isn’t to compete — it’s to refuse.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Refusal is suicide.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s integrity.”

Host: The rain thickened, drowning out the distant sound of sirens. The city looked softer now — its lights smeared into watercolor by the storm, as if the world itself was trying to blur its own lines.

Jack: “You talk about integrity as if it feeds people. Try telling that to the employees counting on me for their paychecks.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re counting on you for more than that. Maybe they’re waiting for a leader who remembers what business is supposed to be — not a puppet of power, but a maker of value.”

Jack: “Idealism doesn’t balance books.”

Jeeny: “Neither does corruption, Jack. It just delays the bankruptcy of the soul.”

Host: The lightning flashed again, reflecting off the glass table like fractured conscience. Jack sank into his chair, the weight of his own words pressing against him like gravity.

Jack: “You think Deaton was naïve?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he was brave. Brave enough to name the rot in a system everyone benefits from and no one admits to feeding.”

Jack: “So what, we burn it all down?”

Jeeny: “No. We rebuild it — smaller, humbler, human.”

Jack: “That’s not how markets work.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the market’s not working.”

Host: The air between them was electric — not hostile, but alive with the friction of awakening. The storm outside mirrored the one inside: loud, necessary, cleansing.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, when I started, I thought success was freedom. But somewhere along the way, I realized I was just building a bigger cage.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I’m wondering who I built it for.”

Jeeny: “For shareholders. For power. For fear. But not for people.”

Host: Her tone was gentle, not accusing. Jack’s eyes lifted to hers, and in them flickered something rare — not defense, not defiance, but the first fragile spark of clarity.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Deaton meant by a ‘bad thing.’ Not corruption alone — but the moment profit stopped serving purpose.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Lobbying didn’t kill business. It replaced its soul with strategy.”

Jack: “You make it sound like redemption’s still possible.”

Jeeny: “It always is — but it demands risk. The kind of risk no corporation wants: humility.”

Host: The storm began to ease, the rain slowing into a soft patter. Outside, the clouds broke, revealing streaks of silver light reflecting off the city towers — gleaming, but fragile.

Jeeny: “The best businesses don’t lobby for power, Jack. They earn respect through value. Deaton saw that. He believed economics wasn’t just numbers — it was ethics.”

Jack: “And now we’ve made it politics.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to make it personal again.”

Host: Jack stood and walked to the window, the glow of the city washing over him. He placed a hand against the glass — as if he could feel the pulse of the world beneath his fingertips.

Jack: (quietly) “You ever think it’s too late to change course?”

Jeeny: “Only if you think time belongs to the lobbyists.”

Host: The city lights flickered — a small blackout, a brief silence — then surged back brighter than before.

Jack turned back toward Jeeny, a faint, weary smile breaking across his face.

Jack: “Maybe it’s time to start doing business again.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Then start with the truth. It’s the only investment that never loses value.”

Host: The last of the storm cleared, and the first stars pierced the skyline — small, stubborn lights above a world that had forgotten what light meant.

And in that stillness, Angus Deaton’s words resonated not as criticism, but as prophecy —

That when business stops creating and starts lobbying,
it trades innovation for manipulation,
vision for leverage,
ethics for advantage.

But the world does not need more lobbyists.
It needs builders again.

Host: Jack turned back to the skyline — the towers gleaming like second chances. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t see competition.

He saw possibility.