Cheney, Rumsfeld - they were Shakespearean in their attitude of

Host: The rain fell in thin, slanting threads across the city, carving silver veins through the dark. From a corner bar window, the neon reflection of a flickering sign read: “The Patriot’s Rest.” Inside, the air was thick with smoke, the slow hum of jazz leaking from an old jukebox, and the scent of cheap whiskey and old truths that nobody wanted to say out loud.

Two figures sat in a booth near the back — Jack, his collar turned up, his eyes sharp and tired; and Jeeny, her expression calm but electric, like someone who could see the storm both outside and in. Between them, two glasses sat half full, the amber liquid catching the dim light like a confession half-swallowed.

The television above the bar flickered — a political debate rerun, faces grim with certainty. Words like “justice,” “freedom,” and “defense” flashed across the captions, sterile in their conviction.

Jeeny: (looking up at the screen) “Glen Duncan once said, ‘Cheney, Rumsfeld — they were Shakespearean in their attitude of impunity.’”

Jack: (grins, dryly) “Yeah, Shakespearean. Tragedy with expensive suits.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t wrong though. They did carry themselves like kings — or villains pretending they weren’t.”

Jack: “More like kings who believed God himself signed their war orders. The kind who mistake conviction for conscience.”

Jeeny: (sipping her drink) “That’s what Duncan meant, I think. Impunity. The belief that power absolves.”

Jack: “No, the belief that power defines what’s right. The divine right of modern politics — as long as you say it’s for freedom.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the bar’s old door, making the neon sign outside tremble like a broken heartbeat. The bartender glanced up, then back down — uninterested. In this place, history was just background noise.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how they talked? The calm certainty. The tone of men who’d read enough history to think they’d outrun it.”

Jack: “They didn’t outrun it. They just wrote the first draft.”

Jeeny: “You think history will remember them as villains?”

Jack: “No. It’ll remember them as inevitabilities. The necessary evil. Every empire has them — men who carry blood like a medal.”

Jeeny: “That’s the Shakespearean part. The delusion of destiny. Macbeth, Claudius, Richard — they all thought their sins were strategy.”

Jack: “And they all died believing they were right.”

Host: The music slowed, the old jazz tune dragging like a tired conscience. The room seemed to contract around their words — the kind of conversation that quiets even the shadows.

Jeeny: “Do you think that’s what power does? Makes people forget their reflection?”

Jack: “No. It just makes the mirror lie back.”

Jeeny: “Beautiful line. Cynical as hell.”

Jack: “Cynicism’s just disappointment that learned how to dress itself.”

Jeeny: “And what about idealism?”

Jack: “That’s hope that hasn’t paid taxes yet.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You should’ve been a speechwriter for them.”

Jack: “They had enough poets. They just used them for propaganda.”

Host: The rain thickened, each drop against the glass like a metronome for tension. Jack lit a cigarette, the smoke curling upward — thin, deliberate, like truth slipping through control.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? Duncan called them Shakespearean — not monstrous. That’s the brilliance of it. Shakespeare never wrote monsters. Only humans inflated by power until they forgot they were human.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s why impunity feels so damn noble when you wear it. They didn’t see themselves as villains — they saw themselves as architects of order.”

Jeeny: “And what did they build?”

Jack: (quietly) “A kingdom of ruins. But with paved roads.”

Jeeny: “That’s too generous.”

Jack: “Maybe. But at least the roads are honest. They lead straight back to the beginning — to ambition, fear, and ego. The holy trinity of empire.”

Host: The smoke thickened, curling around their silhouettes. Outside, the storm broke open fully — thunder rumbling like the voice of old ghosts applauding from the dark.

Jeeny: “You think every era gets its own tragedy?”

Jack: “Yeah. And the cast never changes. Just the costumes.”

Jeeny: “So what’s ours?”

Jack: “Hubris with better lighting.”

Jeeny: “And who’s our audience?”

Jack: “A world scrolling by.”

Host: She looked at him then — that kind of look that carries both sadness and understanding, the kind that feels like silence dressed as compassion. The bar was nearly empty now. The rain outside blurred the streetlights into halos of regret.

Jeeny: “It’s funny. Shakespeare’s characters were doomed because they were human. These men were doomed because they forgot they were.”

Jack: “And that’s why they fascinate us. Because deep down, we all wonder if we’d do the same. If we’d justify anything for our own kind of control.”

Jeeny: “Would you?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “If I believed I was saving something I loved — maybe.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy. Everyone thinks they’re saving something. No one thinks they’re destroying it.”

Host: The clock ticked above the bar — steady, indifferent. A siren wailed faintly somewhere in the distance, fading into the city’s heartbeat.

Jack: “You know what Duncan captured perfectly? The theater of it all. The speeches, the flags, the handshakes. Every policy wrapped in poetry. Shakespeare would’ve envied that kind of spectacle.”

Jeeny: “Except his kings bled for their guilt. These ones wrote memoirs.”

Jack: “And sold them.”

Jeeny: “Of course. Confession is just another form of branding.”

Jack: (chuckles darkly) “You sound like me now.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I still believe there’s redemption. Even in tragedy.”

Jack: “Then you haven’t watched the last act.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But I still believe every empire falls not from rebellion — but from reflection. Eventually, someone looks in the mirror and refuses to lie back.”

Host: The light above their booth flickered, casting their faces in alternating shadow and glow. For a heartbeat, they looked like figures from another age — a soldier and a poet caught between ruin and revelation.

The rain slowed, as though the world outside was listening, too.

Jack: (softly) “You think we’ll ever stop writing this same story?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe we’ll learn to change the ending.”

Jack: “And what would that look like?”

Jeeny: “Leaders who understand that power is a burden, not a birthright.”

Jack: “And the rest of us?”

Jeeny: “Learning not to worship them.”

Host: The bartender killed the jukebox, the last notes of the jazz tune hanging in the air like smoke that didn’t want to leave. Jack stubbed out his cigarette. Jeeny stood, her coat brushing lightly against his shoulder as she passed.

Outside, the streets gleamed — slick, shimmering, waiting.

Host: Jack lingered a moment, staring into his empty glass — his reflection warped by the curve of the glass, fragmented, imperfect. Then he smiled faintly — a man who understood that tragedy wasn’t in power itself, but in the belief that one could wield it cleanly.

He stepped outside. The rain washed over him, soft, relentless, almost purifying.

The city lights bled into the wet asphalt, each reflection an imitation of the stars that the storm had hidden.

And as the camera pulled back, Glen Duncan’s words echoed like a whisper of thunder rolling across history’s endless stage —

that power, when left unchecked, becomes performance;
that leaders, when unchallenged, become actors in their own myth;
and that the truest Shakespearean tragedy of all
is not a fall from grace,
but the calm, articulate certainty
of those who believe they will never fall.

For even in modern times,
the crown may change shape,
but the impunity remains —
and the stage,
always,
is humanity.