I once had an extraordinary experience with former prime minister

Host: The rain had started as a whisper against the tall, Gothic windows of the old library, but now it was a storm — sheets of water slashing through the night as if trying to erase the world beyond the glass. Inside, the air was thick with dust and memory. The only light came from a single brass lamp that cast a pool of amber glow over a large, ancient oak table.

On it lay a spread of newspapers, clippings, and half-burned candles, the wax running like slow tears across forgotten headlines.

Jack sat hunched over them, grey eyes flickering with obsession. Across from him, Jeeny sipped her tea slowly, the cup trembling slightly from the thunder outside.

Jeeny: (softly) “David Icke once said, ‘I once had an extraordinary experience with former prime minister Ted Heath. Both of his eyes, including the whites, turned jet black, and I seemed to be looking into two black holes.’”

Jack: (smirking without looking up) “Ah, the famous lizard theory. The devil wears diplomacy.”

Jeeny: “Don’t dismiss it so easily. Whether you believe him or not, it’s the metaphor that matters.”

Jack: (leaning back) “Metaphor? The man literally said he saw a politician’s eyes turn into black holes. That’s not symbolism, Jeeny. That’s psychosis.”

Jeeny: “Or revelation. Sometimes madness and insight are separated by little more than perception.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “So you think Heath was some kind of demon?”

Jeeny: “No. I think Icke saw what we all sense but refuse to acknowledge — that power, when stripped of empathy, looks like possession.”

Host: The lamp flickered, the shadows shifting across their faces. Jack’s profile caught the light — sharp, skeptical, almost sculpted in irony. Jeeny’s face, meanwhile, held a calm intensity, as if she were defending something deeper than the words themselves.

Jack: “You’re poetic tonight. But this is classic human projection — we can’t bear to see evil in human form, so we invent monsters.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But history is filled with men whose eyes were voids — not literally, but morally. Stalin, Pol Pot, Hitler. Wouldn’t you say they stared out from a kind of darkness?”

Jack: “Sure. But that’s metaphor, not metamorphosis.”

Jeeny: “And yet, metaphor is how the soul speaks when reality refuses to listen.”

Host: Outside, a flash of lightning tore the sky apart, and for a second, the reflection of both of them shimmered in the glass window — their silhouettes framed against the storm, looking like two souls suspended between belief and disbelief.

Jack: “You really think power changes people like that — from the inside out?”

Jeeny: “Power doesn’t change people, Jack. It reveals them. Icke may have seen ‘black holes’ in Heath’s eyes because he was looking into the truth — that absolute power consumes light.”

Jack: “So we turn our leaders into demons because it’s easier than confronting the systems that make them that way.”

Jeeny: “Or we ignore the demons entirely and call it politics.”

Host: The thunder rolled closer, rattling the windowpanes. Jack stood, pacing slowly, his boots thudding against the wood floor like the pulse of thought itself.

Jack: “You know, this is exactly why people love conspiracy theories — they offer structure to chaos. Evil becomes simple. One man, one monster, one secret cabal. Easier than admitting the corruption’s everywhere — in us, around us, normalized.”

Jeeny: “You’re right. But people like Icke aren’t wrong to sense that something inhuman lies beneath the human mask. Maybe it’s not lizard blood. Maybe it’s apathy, greed, detachment. Maybe the ‘black holes’ he saw were the emptiness of a man who’d traded humanity for ambition.”

Jack: “That’s a poetic way of saying politicians are soulless.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s a way of saying power feeds on empathy like a parasite. It hollows people out.”

Host: The lamp flickered again, dimming this time to a dull orange ember. The air seemed to tighten — as though the conversation itself had drawn the room closer around them.

Jack: “So what, Jeeny — you think the powerful are possessed?”

Jeeny: “Not possessed — surrendered. There’s a difference. Possession implies something took them. Surrender means they handed themselves over willingly.”

Jack: “To what?”

Jeeny: “To desire. To control. To the illusion that influence equals immortality.”

Jack: “You sound like Icke now.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “No. I sound like someone who’s seen men lose their souls for less than a seat in parliament.”

Host: A long silence fell between them. The storm outside subsided slightly, leaving only the soft percussion of rain — a rhythm that almost sounded like breathing.

Jack: “You know, maybe Icke’s story isn’t about Heath at all. Maybe it’s about us — about how easily humans slip into worship. We don’t see black eyes, we see screens, slogans, flags. The black hole’s just... modernized.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And what’s a black hole, if not something that devours light? Power without conscience does that too. It pulls everything inward — truth, compassion, accountability — until only the void remains.”

Jack: “You make darkness sound seductive.”

Jeeny: “It is. That’s why so many follow it.”

Host: Jack stopped pacing, leaning against the edge of the table, the lamplight carving sharp planes across his face.

Jack: “You think there’s still a way back from that? Once the eyes go black, metaphorically speaking?”

Jeeny: “Only if they remember light isn’t something you see — it’s something you keep.”

Jack: “And if it’s already gone?”

Jeeny: “Then someone else has to reflect it back to them. That’s what art does. What truth does.”

Jack: “Or what madness tries to do.”

Jeeny: “Madness is sometimes the only voice brave enough to scream when the world whispers.”

Host: The lamp gave one last flicker, then steadied. Its glow now seemed softer, warmer — like a candle at the edge of confession.

Jack: “You know, maybe Icke’s black holes weren’t evil. Maybe they were just mirrors — showing us what happens when we mistake power for purpose.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the real horror — not monsters in disguise, but men so hollow that we call them monsters because it hurts less than admitting they’re human.”

Host: A final flash of lightning lit the room in stark white — for an instant, their faces reflected back at each other, shadow and light intertwining.

Then the storm began to ease.

Jeeny closed her notebook, her voice barely above the rain:

Jeeny: “Perhaps the only thing darker than what Icke saw in those eyes is how familiar it’s become.”

Jack: (softly) “Maybe the black holes are just... spreading.”

Host: The storm broke into silence, the world outside washed clean but not changed. The two sat quietly, the lamp burning steady, the papers untouched.

And in that still, haunted light, David Icke’s strange vision transformed from conspiracy to parable —

A warning that evil rarely needs fangs,
that darkness doesn’t need monsters when men willingly blind themselves,
and that the true “black holes” are not in the eyes of others,
but in the empty conscience of the powerful.

Host: The rain slowed to a whisper. The lamp hummed faintly.
And between them — in the stillness of truth — the darkness blinked.