Destiny: A tyrant's authority for crime and a fool's excuse for

Host: The night was brittle, heavy with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and the faint tang of smoke rising from the city below. Through the tall windows of an old hotel bar, the lights of downtown shimmered like fractured promises, bending in the puddles that gathered beneath flickering street lamps. The piano in the corner sat silent, its lid closed, its ivory teeth bared in quiet resignation.

At the far end of the room, Jack sat alone, a half-finished glass of whiskey glowing amber in front of him. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her elbows on the table, the flame from a small candle trembling between them. Outside, the thunder murmured — not loud, just enough to remind them that something vast and indifferent was moving through the night.

Host: They had been speaking of choices, of the lives they’d both ruined and rebuilt. Then Jeeny, her eyes sharp as glass, said the line that broke the stillness.

Jeeny: “Ambrose Bierce once said, ‘Destiny: a tyrant’s authority for crime and a fool’s excuse for failure.’”
(she smiles faintly) “He always had a way of tearing the mask off philosophy.”

Jack: (smirking) “And people call me cynical. Bierce had the right idea — ‘destiny’ is just a fancy word for cowardice.”

Jeeny: “You think belief in destiny makes us cowards?”

Jack: “No, I think it makes us lazy. Every tyrant needs justification. Every failure needs forgiveness. Destiny gives both.”

Host: The light from the candle flickered against Jack’s face, catching the hard lines around his mouth, the shadows carved deep around his eyes. He looked like a man who’d fought too long against his own reflection.

Jeeny: “But don’t you ever feel like something greater is moving you? Like the universe sometimes conspires — not against you, but for you?”

Jack: “That’s what losers say to sleep at night. The universe doesn’t conspire, Jeeny. It doesn’t care.”

Jeeny: “That’s your gospel, isn’t it? Indifference as theology.”

Jack: “It’s not theology. It’s arithmetic. Cause and effect. You make a choice, you pay the price. No prophecy. No plan.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, striking the windows in hurried rhythm. The candle flame bent low, as if flinching from the truth.

Jeeny: “And yet you’re still here — drinking, talking about fate as if it ever gave you a reason to fight. Why bother, if nothing’s written?”

Jack: (leaning back) “Because that’s the only freedom that’s real. If nothing’s written, then everything matters.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “That’s the paradox, isn’t it? You deny destiny but still crave meaning.”

Host: She took a slow sip of her drink, the glass trembling slightly in her hand. There was a pause — the kind of silence that carries the weight of a hundred arguments.

Jack: “Meaning isn’t given, Jeeny. It’s made. You hammer it out of chaos, one mistake at a time.”

Jeeny: “But chaos isn’t freedom, Jack. It’s just noise without purpose. Even Bierce — as bitter as he was — wrote those words because he believed in something better.”

Jack: “He believed in irony.”

Jeeny: “He believed in human responsibility. He was warning us: if you blame destiny, you surrender accountability. If you invoke it as excuse or defense, you’ve already betrayed yourself.”

Host: Her voice trembled with conviction, but her eyes softened — not with pity, but with the ache of understanding. Jack looked at her, his jaw tightening as if her words had hit too close.

Jack: “You talk about accountability like it’s a virtue. But sometimes, Jeeny, guilt is the only thing keeping a person sane.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve mistaken guilt for atonement.”

Jack: “And you’ve mistaken hope for control.”

Host: The thunder cracked this time, close — loud enough to shake the bottles on the shelf. The bartender looked up briefly, then turned away again. It was their world now — isolated, illuminated by lightning and regret.

Jeeny: “So tell me, Jack. When you lost her — when the choices went wrong — did you call it destiny or mistake?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “At first, destiny. Later, cowardice.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then Bierce was right about both of us.”

Host: The light caught her face, and in that flicker of gold, her expression looked almost mythic — a blend of pain and defiance. Jack poured himself another glass, his hands steady now.

Jack: “You want to know what destiny really is? It’s hindsight with better PR.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You think everything’s marketing.”

Jack: “Everything is marketing. Even God needs branding.”

Jeeny: “Then what do you call conscience?”

Jack: (after a beat) “Bad PR for desire.”

Host: She laughed — not mockingly, but as someone who’d finally reached the point of exhaustion where laughter and sorrow share the same voice.

Jeeny: “You twist everything, Jack. But you can’t twist what Bierce meant. He was saying that destiny is the lie we tell ourselves to escape responsibility — whether we’re tyrants hiding our crimes, or fools hiding our failures.”

Jack: “So where does that leave the rest of us? The ones who aren’t tyrants or fools?”

Jeeny: “It leaves us choosing. Every day, every hour — without excuses.”

Host: A gust of wind blew through the open door, rattling the hanging sign outside. Somewhere, a car horn blared. The city breathed around them — alive, unforgiving, unplanned.

Jack: “And if choice just leads to pain?”

Jeeny: “Then pain is proof you’re still free.”

Jack: “That’s a hell of a consolation.”

Jeeny: “Better than a destiny that forgives the coward.”

Host: The rain began to ease, tapering into a delicate drizzle. The candle between them flickered back to life, steady now, its flame upright and calm.

Jack: (softly) “You really believe there’s no fate? That everything we are — it’s all just us?”

Jeeny: “I believe fate is the story we tell after the act. We give it names to make sense of chaos. Destiny. Providence. Karma. It’s all just our way of making guilt poetic.”

Jack: “Then what would you call it, Jeeny? All of this — the accidents, the miracles, the near misses?”

Jeeny: “Consequence. That’s all.”

Host: He stared at her for a long moment — his reflection trembling faintly in her eyes. For once, his cynicism seemed to falter, replaced by something smaller, more human.

Jack: “Then maybe consequence is god. At least it answers.”

Jeeny: “And listens.”

Host: Outside, the clouds began to part, revealing the faint moonlight — fragile but certain, like truth breaking through denial. The streets shimmered silver, washed clean for a moment before the world dirtied them again.

Jack: “Bierce would’ve liked this conversation.”

Jeeny: “No. He’d have mocked it. Then written it down.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “So would I.”

Host: They sat there for a while, not speaking. Just watching the rain dry into mirrors of light. Somewhere in the stillness, the sharp edges of cynicism dulled — not because they’d found agreement, but because they’d finally found reflection.

Host: And as the city resumed its rhythm, Bierce’s words lingered between them — not as condemnation, but as challenge:

“Destiny: a tyrant’s authority for crime and a fool’s excuse for failure.”

Host: The candlelight flickered once more, then steadied — a fragile symbol of self-determination in a world that loved its excuses.