If I were a liberal Democrat, people would say I'm the super

Host: The bar was a shadowed refuge from the storm that raged outside. Rain hammered the windows like fists, lightning split the sky, and the city seemed to shudder under the weight of its own division. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, neon, and the murmur of a late-night news broadcast — the kind that made everyone feel like they were right, and everyone else was wrong.

Jack sat at the counter, his jacket damp, his eyes fixed on the television. Jeeny entered quietly, shaking the rain from her hair, her presence soft but steady, like a candle in a storm.

The bartender wiped down the counter without looking up. The television flickered with a clip of Donald Trump — animated, defiant, declaring, “If I were a liberal Democrat, people would say I'm the super genius of all time… But if you’re a conservative Republican, you’ve got to fight for your life.”

The sound cut, but the echo stayed in the room.

Jeeny: “You always pick the most peaceful places to think.”

Jack: “Peace is overrated. Conflict is where the truth leaks out.”

Jeeny: “Or where it gets twisted.”

Jack: “Maybe both.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, his tone carrying the gravel of a man who had argued too much with the world — and maybe with himself.

Jeeny slid onto the stool beside him, glancing at the screen.

Jeeny: “He always sounds so sure of himself. Like the universe owes him recognition.”

Jack: “He’s not wrong about one thing, though. Perception decides who gets called a genius and who gets called a madman. Politics is just another kind of mirror — it distorts, it decorates, it hides.”

Jeeny: “No. It reveals. It shows what people want to believe. The mirror isn’t the problem — it’s the eyes looking into it.”

Jack: “Spoken like someone who still thinks truth exists out there in clean, unfiltered light.”

Jeeny: “It does. It’s just buried under everyone’s noise.”

Host: The television flashed images — crowds, banners, hands raised in cheers and anger. The storm outside mirrored the division inside. The bar was a microcosm of America itself: half asleep, half screaming.

Jack: “You know what’s really ‘amazing,’ Jeeny? The way both sides claim they’re fighting for the truth while they’re just fighting to be right. Trump’s just saying out loud what everyone else whispers — that the world only loves you when you echo what it already believes.”

Jeeny: “That’s not truth, Jack. That’s ego. He’s not talking about principle — he’s talking about validation. He wants praise, not justice.”

Jack: “And who doesn’t? Every leader, every activist, every artist wants to be seen, celebrated. The difference is — he’s honest about it. The rest just pretend their pride is purpose.”

Jeeny: “Honesty without humility is just narcissism dressed in candor.”

Jack: “And humility without conviction is cowardice dressed in virtue.”

Host: Their voices rose, not in anger, but in intensity — like lightning striking closer each time.

Jeeny: “You sound like him, you know. That tone — cynical, defensive, always expecting betrayal.”

Jack: “Maybe I’ve just been awake long enough to see how the game works. The media, the institutions, the crowds — they don’t want truth, they want sides. Trump just plays the game better than most.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the tragedy. We’ve turned democracy into a performance, where the loudest actor gets the applause. It’s not about ideas anymore, it’s about idols.”

Jack: “Idols have always been the currency of belief. From pharaohs to popes to presidents. People don’t follow truth — they follow confidence.”

Jeeny: “Confidence isn’t truth. Hitler was confident. So was every demagogue who ever marched under the banner of their own greatness.”

Jack: “Careful — compare anyone to Hitler and the conversation ends. That’s how we’ve sterilized debate. We don’t disagree anymore — we excommunicate.”

Host: The bartender lowered the volume; the room dimmed into murmurs and shadows. A thunderclap rolled like a verdict across the city.

Jeeny: “You think he’s a victim, don’t you?”

Jack: “No. But I think he’s right about one thing — if you don’t fit the narrative, you have to fight just to exist. And that’s true for everyone, not just Republicans. You see it in artists, in thinkers, in anyone who doesn’t bend to the script.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But when you have power, you’re not the one who’s fighting for your life — you’re the one who’s writing the rules.”

Jack: “Power’s not static, Jeeny. It’s a current. It shifts. Today you’re lionized, tomorrow you’re lynched. Ask any fallen idol — the crowd is a beast that loves and devours with the same mouth.”

Jeeny: “Then why feed it? Why not just walk away?”

Jack: “Because the world belongs to those who refuse to.”

Host: The storm outside had reached its crescendo. Rain poured in sheets down the window, smearing the city’s lights into colors — red, blue, white, all bleeding together.

Jeeny: “You think the fight itself gives him meaning.”

Jack: “It gives him survival. You can’t exist in this age unless you pick a side and defend it like a fortress. Even genius isn’t enough anymore. You need loyalty, spectacle, tribe.”

Jeeny: “That’s not genius, Jack — that’s fear dressed as bravery. Real strength isn’t in shouting, it’s in listening. It’s in standing alone when no one cheers.”

Jack: “You think the world rewards that kind of strength? It crucifies it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time we stop rewarding the noise.”

Host: A silence fell, deep and fragile, like the pause between lightning and thunder. Jack looked at her — really looked, as if her calm had finally cut through the storm inside him.

Jack: “So what do you do, Jeeny? How do you live in a world that judges truth by team and genius by ideology?”

Jeeny: “You speak anyway. You fight without becoming what you hate. You defend your truth, but you don’t let it consume your soul.”

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s war. But the real one — the one inside.”

Host: The television now showed only the weather map, a swirl of storms moving east. Jack reached for his glass, watched the ice melt into the amber.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the part people forget. Whether you’re loved or hated, praised or mocked, the fight isn’t against others — it’s against yourself. To not lose your mind in the noise.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the only kind of genius worth having.”

Host: The lights flickered, then steadied. The storm had moved on, but the smell of rain and electricity still hung in the air. Outside, the streets glistened — red and blue reflections from the signs, mixed like the ideologies that divided them, and yet, somehow, painted the same city.

Jack stood, tossed a few bills on the counter, and turned toward the door.

Jeeny followed, her eyes bright, her voice soft:

Jeeny: “Maybe the real genius, Jack, is not in being right, but in still listening when the world calls you wrong.”

Host: He paused, half-smiled, and pushed the door open. The rain had stopped, the streets steaming in the afterglow of conflict.

And as they walked into the night, the city seemed to breathe — divided, yes, but still alive, still arguing, still beautiful in its endless fight to understand itself.