George W. Bush is history's president, a man for whom the

Host: The sound of static opens the scene — the low hum of an old television, its blue light flickering across the walls of an abandoned newsroom. Dust drifts through the stale air like forgotten deadlines. The room is scattered with relics — newspapers yellowed with time, a cracked teleprompter, coffee mugs that once held the urgency of truth.

Outside, through the wide windows, the skyline glows — a city caught between peace and consequence, as though history itself were holding its breath.

Jack sits behind the long news desk, the once-sharp emblem of media authority now faded beneath his hands. His gray eyes, sharp but weary, track the endless scroll of a muted news feed on the monitor before him. Jeeny stands nearby, her dark hair illuminated by the soft blue of the screen, her arms folded — her expression neither angry nor calm, but pensive, as if standing in a cathedral of broken ideals.

On the cracked glass of the teleprompter, still legible, are the words that ignite their conversation tonight:

“George W. Bush is history’s president, a man for whom the long-term success or failure of democracy in Iraq will determine his place in history.” — Andrew Breitbart

Host: The room hums, the silence heavy, the screens glowing faintly like ghosts of all the narratives that once demanded attention. The quote lingers in the air, not as a headline — but as a question that time itself hasn’t answered.

Jack: [leaning forward, voice low] “History’s president. What a phrase. It sounds grand — until you realize how cruel it is. To be ‘history’s president’ means to be judged not by your intentions, but by your consequences. And consequences never stay still.”

Jeeny: [softly] “Maybe that’s the point. Breitbart wasn’t writing a eulogy; he was writing a prophecy. Bush’s presidency was a test — not of policy, but of legacy. Democracy in Iraq wasn’t just about Iraq. It was a mirror held up to America itself.”

Jack: [scoffs lightly] “A mirror that cracked the second we looked into it. We went there preaching freedom, but found out freedom isn’t something you export — it’s something you earn. Democracy built on occupation isn’t democracy; it’s theater.”

Jeeny: [walks toward the window, watching the rain begin to fall] “And yet… it changed the world. Whether for better or worse, history doesn’t forget those who set it in motion. That’s what makes him ‘history’s president.’ The wars, the rhetoric, the images — they reshaped how nations saw power. And maybe how power saw itself.”

Jack: [grimly] “Power doesn’t see, Jeeny. It only casts shadows.”

Jeeny: [turns toward him] “But shadows reveal shape. Every empire needs its reckoning — and perhaps Bush was America’s. He was the man who believed democracy could be engineered. That belief, naive or noble, forced the world to confront what democracy truly means.”

Host: The rain intensifies, streaking down the window like ink spilled across the story of an era. The glow from the screens flickers over their faces, painting them in alternating light and darkness.

Jack: [lights a cigarette, voice rough] “Belief isn’t enough. The road to ruin is paved with conviction. You know what’s ironic? He might be remembered less for what he built and more for what he broke — the illusion that moral clarity and political action are the same thing.”

Jeeny: [quietly] “Maybe history isn’t about who was right or wrong. Maybe it’s about who dared to try.”

Jack: [sharply] “Try? Tell that to the civilians who buried their children. To the soldiers who came home to ghosts. ‘Trying’ doesn’t sanctify destruction.”

Jeeny: [her tone firm but sorrowful] “No, it doesn’t. But it exposes the fragility of our ideals. The Iraq War wasn’t just a political failure — it was a moral mirror. Every democracy must face its reflection and ask: do we practice what we preach?”

Jack: [staring at the static on the monitor] “And what if the answer is no?”

Jeeny: [after a pause] “Then history keeps the receipt.”

Host: The television crackles, switching channels — flashes of speeches, bombs, crowds, elections. Images blur: a dictator’s statue falling, a city burning, soldiers waving from tanks, protests in every language. The reel of consequence spins endlessly.

Jack: [mutters] “We called it liberation. But liberation without understanding is just chaos with better branding.”

Jeeny: [quietly] “And yet, somewhere in that chaos, real people still fought for the idea — that they could choose, that their voices could matter. Even in failure, democracy plants seeds. The soil just takes longer to forgive.”

Host: A single lightbulb buzzes overhead, casting faint halos across the newsroom. Jack’s cigarette burns low; the smoke curls like history itself — slow, invisible, inescapable.

Jack: [after a long pause] “You know, sometimes I wonder if any leader escapes history’s hunger. It doesn’t matter what they mean to do — time eats intention. What’s left is the skeleton of what they dared to try.”

Jeeny: [softly] “Then maybe the question isn’t how history remembers you, but how much truth you can carry before it crushes you.”

Jack: [watching her now] “You think Bush carried truth?”

Jeeny: [meeting his eyes] “He carried belief. That’s both his legacy and his undoing. He believed that freedom was a universal right — and maybe it is — but he forgot that it’s also a universal burden.”

Host: The clock ticks loudly, echoing against the vast emptiness of the room. The monitors fade one by one, their blue light dying into gray.

Jack: [quietly] “So Breitbart was right. Bush’s place in history isn’t written yet. It’ll be decided by the echo of what comes after.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And by whether we learned anything from it.”

Jack: [half-smiling] “Do you think we did?”

Jeeny: [after a long silence] “Ask me again in another hundred years.”

Host: The rain softens, its rhythm now a lullaby against the glass. The two sit in silence — not of agreement, but of reflection. The world outside glows faintly — imperfect, restless, alive.

Host: Breitbart’s words drift like smoke across the air, neither absolving nor condemning, but illuminating the one truth that threads through every age:

That history is not a judge — it is a witness.
It records our choices without mercy,
our convictions without context,
and our failures without erasure.

And for those who lead,
it offers only one question worth fearing:
Will your belief build the world, or burn it?

Host: The scene fades, leaving only the hum of static on the empty screen —
the sound of history, still deciding.