In the US, there is basically one party - the business party. It

Host: The bar was dimly lit, heavy with the smell of bourbon and cigarette smoke. A neon sign flickered outside the rain-streaked window, its red letters spelling Open — though it looked more like a warning than a welcome.

It was past midnight, the kind of hour when truths sneak out from under the weight of politeness. Jack sat at the counter, his tie loosened, his coat draped over the next stool. A half-empty glass of whiskey** glowed** under the amber light. Across from him, Jeeny sat upright, her fingers tracing the rim of her own untouched drink. The television behind the bar murmured with the sound of a political debate — polished smiles, applause tracks, hollow promises.

The bartender had stopped pretending to listen. The only sound now was the hum of a fridge and the soft drizzle outside, a rhythm as steady as disappointment.

Jeeny: “Noam Chomsky once said, ‘In the US, there is basically one party — the business party. It has two factions, called Democrats and Republicans, which are somewhat different but carry out variations on the same policies.’”
She took a slow breath, her eyes steady on the screen. “He said that decades ago. Funny how it still fits like a glove.”

Jack: He smirked, his grey eyes sharp under the low light. “Of course it fits. It’s stitched into the fabric. You don’t dismantle a machine by repainting its parts. Politics isn’t democracy anymore — it’s performance art for the rich.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound so hopeless.”

Jack: “It’s not hopeless. It’s just true. You can’t fight an illusion with optimism, Jeeny. The system isn’t broken — it’s working exactly as designed.”

Host: The bartender turned down the TV, perhaps tired of the noise. Silence expanded like smoke. Outside, a police siren wailed and faded into the distance — the perfect punctuation mark for disillusionment.

Jeeny: “You sound just like everyone who’s given up. You think being cynical makes you wise. But it doesn’t. It just means you’ve chosen comfort over courage.”

Jack: “Comfort?” He laughed, a harsh sound. “You think I find comfort in this? Watching lobbyists write laws while people argue about slogans? That’s not comfort — that’s clarity.”

Jeeny: “Clarity without compassion is just despair,” she said softly. “And despair is the tool of the same system you hate. They want you to stop believing change is possible. That’s how control survives — through resignation.”

Host: The rain outside began to pour, drumming hard against the window, making the neon light quiver on the glass like a heartbeat. Jack stared into his drink as if it held the last honest reflection in the world.

Jack: “Change?” he said. “You think you can change an empire that feeds on debt and distraction? You think a ballot can uproot what money has cemented? Every election’s the same circus — two rings, one tent, one owner.”

Jeeny: “You sound like Chomsky’s echo without his vision. He never said give up. He said see clearly. And once you see clearly, you act differently. The truth isn’t supposed to make you comfortable — it’s supposed to make you responsible.”

Jack: “Responsible for what? For a game that’s rigged before it starts?”

Jeeny: “For not being complicit in it,” she replied. “You say the system’s corrupt — fine. But you still live inside it. Every time you buy, vote, work, or speak, you choose. So maybe the real question isn’t whether the system’s broken, but whether we are.”

Host: Jack looked up. Her words hit harder than the whiskey. His eyes met hers — a flash of something raw, perhaps guilt, perhaps recognition.

Jack: “You really believe individuals can move a system built to absorb resistance? Every protest, every petition, every spark — it all gets swallowed, commercialized, sold back to us as ‘progress.’ The machine runs on rebellion. It feeds on it.”

Jeeny: “Only when rebellion forgets its purpose,” she said. “When it becomes a brand instead of a fight. Real change isn’t loud, Jack. It’s slow, stubborn, and invisible until it’s too late to stop.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked past one. The rain softened, but the air between them thickened. The neon sign outside blinked in and out, as if unsure whether to stay alive.

Jack: “You’re talking ideals, Jeeny. People can’t eat ideals. You can’t pay rent with justice or fill a gas tank with integrity.”

Jeeny: “And yet, somehow, the people who have nothing but ideals are the ones who’ve changed everything. Martin Luther King didn’t have power. He had truth. Gandhi didn’t have wealth. He had will. The system’s strong — but it’s not immortal.”

Jack: “Maybe not immortal,” he said, leaning forward. “But adaptable. It learns. Every revolution becomes a brand. Every rebel gets turned into merchandise. Look at Che on a T-shirt — capitalism wears its enemies as trophies.”

Jeeny: “You’re right,” she said, her voice lowering, almost a whisper. “But you’re missing something. Even if truth gets branded, it still leaves a mark. The system might absorb the image — but it can’t erase the idea.”

Host: Jack sat back, his shoulders relaxing slightly. The anger in his voice began to dissolve into something quieter, heavier — fatigue.

Jack: “You always believe there’s hope buried under the rubble.”

Jeeny: “Because there always is,” she said simply. “History isn’t written by the victors — not really. It’s written by survivors. By those who kept speaking truth when everyone else sold theirs.”

Host: The bar was almost empty now. The bartender wiped down the counter, pretending not to listen, but his eyes lingered — tired eyes that had heard too many versions of the same argument over too many years.

Jack: “So what? You want me to believe again? To vote, to campaign, to march — for what? Another promise?”

Jeeny: “Not for promises,” she said. “For possibility.”

Jack: “Possibility’s a currency I can’t afford.”

Jeeny: “You already pay for it,” she replied. “Every time you wake up and choose not to be silent.”

Host: The rain finally stopped. The city outside seemed to exhale. Through the window, the first faint mist of dawn began to creep over the skyline, washing the neon reds into pale gold.

Jeeny: “Chomsky didn’t say we were doomed, Jack. He said we were distracted — lulled into thinking we had choices when we really had options. But awareness is still a kind of freedom. Once you see the strings, you don’t dance the same way.”

Jack: “And what if the puppeteer doesn’t care if you see him?”

Jeeny: “Then you stop dancing anyway,” she said. “Because the act of refusing is still truth.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t cold — it was full. Like the space after thunder, when the storm’s weight begins to lift. Jack looked at her for a long time, then reached for his coat.

Jack: “You really think words matter that much?”

Jeeny: “Only when people stop fearing them.”

Host: He stood, nodded slowly, and for the first time that night, there was a flicker — a faint, reluctant smile, the kind that hides between cynicism and belief.

Jack dropped a few bills on the counter, grabbed his coat, and turned toward the door.

Jeeny: “Where are you going?”

Jack: “To write something that gets me fired,” he said, and left.

Host: Jeeny smiled to herself, the kind of smile that carries equal parts sadness and victory. The camera would linger now — the bar empty except for her and the faint echo of purpose left behind.

Outside, the rain had stopped completely. The streets shimmered like mirrors of change — reflecting a new light, not from the city, but from the stubborn belief that truth, even when ignored, still breathes.

And as dawn broke over the skyline, Chomsky’s words settled into silence — not as despair, but as defiance:
That when all parties become one, truth itself must become the opposition.