I think I have a normal threshold of anger, but it's true that I

Host: The bar was dim, washed in the amber glow of hanging lamps and the faint hiss of jazz drifting through an old speaker. Glasses clinked. The scent of bourbon, smoke, and rain hung in the air. A storm whispered outside — the kind that made the streets shimmer and the night feel infinite.

In a corner booth, Jack sat with his sleeves rolled, a drink sweating in his hand. Across from him, Jeeny traced circles in the condensation on her glass — calm, deliberate, but her eyes sharp with curiosity. Between them sat the faint tension of unspoken truths and half-finished thoughts.

Jeeny: “Gore Vidal once said, ‘I think I have a normal threshold of anger, but it’s true that I am, by nature, belligerent.’”
She looked up, her smile small, careful. “You relate to that, don’t you, Jack?”

Jack: grinning faintly “You say that like it’s an accusation.”

Jeeny: “More like an observation.”

Host: His laugh was low — the kind that came from someone used to turning confrontation into charm. He leaned back, the leather creaking beneath him.

Jack: “Belligerence gets a bad reputation. People call it hostility. I call it honesty with muscle.”

Jeeny: “You call it honesty. I call it a reflex.”

Jack: “You think I like fighting?”

Jeeny: “I think you like not losing.”

Host: The rain outside quickened — a rhythm that matched the pulse beneath their conversation.

Jack: “You know what Vidal was getting at, right? That anger isn’t a flaw. It’s fuel. Some people meditate, others erupt.”

Jeeny: “The problem is eruptions leave ash.”

Jack: “Maybe,” he said, swirling his drink. “But ash means something burned that needed to.”

Host: Her eyes softened, but her words didn’t.

Jeeny: “Or something was destroyed that didn’t deserve to.”

Jack: “You think anger’s a choice?”

Jeeny: “I think reaction is. Anger’s instinct — what you do with it is philosophy.”

Host: The air between them thickened — a strange mix of intellect and emotion, tension and tenderness.

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s afraid of rage.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m afraid of what it turns into when people stop listening to it. Anger’s a signal, Jack, not a strategy.”

Jack: “And yet, sometimes, it’s the only language power understands.”

Jeeny: “Until it becomes the only one you speak.”

Host: He looked down, tracing a finger across the rim of his glass. The ice inside had melted — watered-down fire. His reflection shimmered in the amber surface.

Jack: “You ever feel like calm people are just liars with better PR?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “I think calm people are just tired of being misunderstood.”

Jack: “Or maybe they’re just numb.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But numbness can be wisdom too — the kind that comes after enough explosions.”

Host: A flash of lightning lit the bar briefly, revealing their faces — hers, steady and lit with quiet defiance; his, shadowed, uncertain, but alive with that dangerous spark of self-awareness.

Jack: “You know, Vidal didn’t apologize for being belligerent. He owned it. Maybe that’s the point — not to suppress what we are, but to control how loudly it speaks.”

Jeeny: “Ownership isn’t license. You can own your fire without setting the room ablaze.”

Jack: “But where’s the line between conviction and combat?”

Jeeny: “In intention. Are you fighting to protect, or to prove?”

Jack: after a pause “Maybe both.”

Host: She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, her voice dropping lower — slower.

Jeeny: “Then you need to decide which one defines you.”

Jack: “You think I’m defined by anger?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you’re defined by resistance — which is nobler when you aim it at injustice, not at people.”

Jack: “Resistance is survival.”

Jeeny: “Until it becomes isolation.”

Host: The rain softened again, the thunder moving farther away. The storm had not ended — it had just gone to argue with another horizon.

Jack: “You ever been angry enough to feel righteous?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And scared enough to know righteousness can’t save you.”

Jack: “So what saves you?”

Jeeny: “Grace. The ability to stop hitting back even when you’re still bleeding.”

Host: He looked at her for a long time — not defensive now, but searching. The edges of his anger seemed to dim, replaced by something almost like surrender.

Jack: “You think anger can be holy?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Anger built revolutions. Anger wrote constitutions. Anger ended chains. But it also builds prisons if you forget mercy.”

Jack: “You always have a sermon ready, don’t you?”

Jeeny: smiling “Only when I care about the sinner.”

Host: He laughed, finally — the kind of laugh that loosens the grip of tension.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe my belligerence is just fear dressed up as strength.”

Jeeny: “It often is.”

Jack: “And you?”

Jeeny: “My calm’s just chaos that learned to whisper.”

Host: The silence that followed was not empty. It was a space carved out by understanding — fragile, imperfect, but real.

Jack raised his glass slightly, almost in a toast. “To balance,” he said.

Jeeny clinked hers gently against his. “To awareness,” she replied.

Host: The camera would linger on their reflections in the dark window — two faces framed by rain and light, the storm both outside and within them settling into uneasy peace.

The jazz slowed. The bartender turned off a few lights. The night exhaled.

And as the scene faded into amber and shadow, Gore Vidal’s words echoed through the quiet:

“I think I have a normal threshold of anger, but it’s true that I am, by nature, belligerent.”

Because belligerence is not brutality —
it is the soul’s refusal to go silent.

Anger, when understood, is not destruction —
it’s defense.

And to master it is not to mute it,
but to learn the rare, sacred art
of fighting only for what deserves fire.