In day-to-day commerce, television is not so much interested in

Host: The city burned in neon. The skyline shimmered like a restless pulse — towers of light, windows alive with advertisements promising happiness, youth, escape. Billboards flickered over the rain-slick streets, streaming faces, products, slogans — the rhythm of an empire built on attention.

Inside a downtown production studio, the hum of machines filled the air. Monitors glowed like silent gods, each one looping a different ad, a different show, a different illusion. In the reflection of the largest screen, two figures sat — Jack and Jeeny.

Jack wore his usual expression of amused contempt — the kind a man wears when the truth tastes too bitter to spit out. His grey eyes flicked from monitor to monitor, calculating, dissecting.
Jeeny, her long hair catching the light of the screens, watched not the images but the people within them — the smiles, the cries, the forced laughter.

The studio’s light flickered, and somewhere outside, a siren wailed, almost like applause.

Jeeny: “Les Brown once said, ‘In day-to-day commerce, television is not so much interested in the business of communications as in the business of delivering audiences to advertisers. People are the merchandise, not the shows. The shows are merely the bait.’”

Host: Her voice cut clean through the hum of machinery — soft, but sharp enough to slice illusion.

Jack: (dryly) “Finally, someone admits it. We’ve been livestock for decades, Jeeny. The screen just swapped the barn for pixels.”

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s hopeless.”

Jack: “It’s not hopeless — it’s perfected. They don’t even need to force us anymore. We volunteer our attention. We line up for our own harvest.”

Host: The glow of a looping perfume ad played across Jack’s face — flawless models moving in slow motion, selling not fragrance, but fantasy.

Jeeny: “But surely that’s not the whole story. People watch because they want to connect. To feel something.”

Jack: “Connection?” He laughed, low and bitter. “No, Jeeny. They watch because they want to forget. That’s the real product — distraction. The more we consume, the less we remember who we are.”

Jeeny: “You sound like an old prophet shouting into static.”

Jack: “Maybe I am. The difference is, the prophets didn’t have to compete with Netflix.”

Host: The screenlight danced across the room — images of cars, jewelry, politicians, wars, games — all spliced together in a seamless rhythm. The world condensed into thirty-second stories, each one designed to make someone somewhere want.

Jeeny: “Still, television gives people something — a window into other lives, other dreams.”

Jack: “A window, maybe. But the glass is one-way. The audience looks in — the advertisers look out.”

Jeeny: “You think everyone’s trapped.”

Jack: “No. Some are just comfortable in the cage. You think the network execs care about storytelling? They care about eyeballs per second. The human soul’s just a metric now.”

Host: His words hung in the air, heavy with cynicism but not without truth. Outside, thunder rolled — the kind that sounds like a warning from somewhere above the skyline.

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, millions still cry over a movie, still feel inspired by a show. Can manipulation create meaning?”

Jack: (leans forward) “Meaning’s collateral damage. The machine’s too efficient to care. You ever notice how every heartfelt drama cuts to an ad for antidepressants? That’s not irony — that’s architecture.”

Jeeny: (frowning) “But that’s not just manipulation, it’s reflection. The medium mirrors what we crave.”

Jack: “No. It teaches us what to crave. Every frame, every pause, every sponsored smile — it’s designed to guide the hunger. And the cruel part? It works.”

Host: The room flickered with scenes from a live broadcast — breaking news, flashing headlines, a reporter’s urgent face. Behind the spectacle, the lower ticker advertised a new smartphone.

Jeeny: “So what do you suggest? Turn it all off? Hide in a cave?”

Jack: “No. That’s the problem — there’s no ‘off.’ The cave’s been replaced by content. We consume even when we think we’re escaping it. You scroll, I binge, they profit.”

Jeeny: “You talk like you’re not part of it.”

Jack: “I am. We all are. I know the camera’s lying — and still, I can’t look away.”

Host: The light from the monitors reflected in his eyes, tiny screens flickering inside a larger one. A man staring at himself, multiplied, commodified.

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe you hate it because it works too well.”

Jack: “Maybe I hate it because it replaced the sacred with the sale. We used to tell stories around fires, to feel less alone. Now the stories sell shampoo.”

Jeeny: “But that’s evolution, isn’t it? Even religion sells something — salvation, belonging. We’ve always traded hope for currency.”

Jack: “And now the currency is our attention. You think ancient priests collected tithes? The new ones collect data.”

Host: A distant commercial jingle seeped through the speakers, haunting in its cheerfulness — a melody made of dopamine and design.

Jeeny: “Still, I can’t believe it’s all hollow. Even the bait can teach you something. There are films, stories, moments that wake people up instead of putting them to sleep.”

Jack: “A few rebels in a marketplace don’t change the fact that the market owns the microphone.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the solution isn’t silence — maybe it’s better noise. If television sells attention, maybe we use that attention to sell truth.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Truth doesn’t trend, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Then make it viral.”

Host: The light flickered again. For a heartbeat, the screens went dark — a brief, impossible silence. Then one monitor blinked to life: an old film clip, black and white — a man delivering a monologue to no audience but the void.

Jeeny watched it, her eyes glistening. “You see? That’s what I mean. Decades old, and still someone cared enough to make it. To reach out. Even if it’s bait, it still catches something real.”

Jack: “Maybe.” He paused. “But don’t forget who owns the hook.”

Host: The rain outside turned to a slow drizzle. The city’s noise softened. The studio hummed — endless screens, endless selling.

Jeeny stood, gathering her bag. “Maybe it’s not about ownership anymore. Maybe it’s about awareness. If people know they’re the product, they might stop being such easy prey.”

Jack: (quietly) “Or maybe they’ll just start bidding for a better price.”

Host: She smiled — sad, but not defeated. “Maybe. But faith begins where cynicism gets tired.”

Jack: “Faith in what?”

Jeeny: “In the idea that even the bait can wake the fish.”

Host: The camera pulled back as she walked toward the exit, her silhouette framed against the glow of flickering screens. Jack stayed behind, staring into the endless images — faces, colors, slogans, promises.

For a moment, one screen glitched — and his own reflection stared back, hollow-eyed, wordless.

He whispered, almost to himself, “People are the merchandise.”

Then, more softly — “But maybe they don’t have to be.”

Host: Outside, the city kept shimmering, each sign and screen shouting for attention. Yet somewhere beneath the static, a quieter current moved — the beginning of awareness.

And as the scene faded, Les Brown’s words hung like a spectral truth above the skyline:

“People are the merchandise. The shows are merely the bait.”

But tonight — for the first time — someone had seen the hook.