It's that evil twin part of me that always comes out at the

Host: The bar was dim, its air thick with smoke and the distant hum of city traffic. A single television above the counter played a political debate, the screen flickering with faces that smiled too hard and spoke too fast. Rain tapped against the windows, each drop like a pulse echoing through the half-empty room.

Host: Jack sat hunched over a glass of whiskey, the amber light catching the edge of his jawline. His tie was loosened, his eyes weary — the kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of sleep but from too much pretending. Jeeny sat beside him, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea, her posture composed yet restless, like someone waiting for a storm to end but knowing it never truly will.

Host: It was late. Too late for politics, too early for peace.

Jeeny: “Peter Navarro once said something that I can’t stop thinking about — about the ‘evil twin’ that comes out at the worst political moment. He called it arrogance, meanness, anger — traits that are lethal in politics.”

Jack: (snorts softly) “Yeah. I know that twin well. I think everyone who’s ever had to defend themselves in front of a crowd knows it.”

Jeeny: “Do you?”

Jack: “Sure. Every time someone pushes too far, mocks you, questions your integrity, that twin just — shows up. It’s instinct. It’s not evil. It’s human.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the tragedy of it, isn’t it? We build systems, governments, movements — all on the fragile ego of people trying not to let their twin take over.”

Host: The bartender wiped the counter, his reflection faint in the mirror. The television voice grew sharper, the debate heating up — words like truth, power, justice cutting through the static.

Jack: “You make it sound like politics should be pure. It’s not. It’s survival. You think Lincoln didn’t have a twin? Or Mandela? They just learned how to wear it better. Every leader’s got that side — the shadow that says, ‘I’m right, and everyone else is an idiot.’”

Jeeny: “But the moment you believe that, you lose the whole point of leadership. You stop listening. You start performing.”

Jack: “And if you don’t perform, you get eaten alive. Look around — the world doesn’t reward humility, it rewards dominance. The loudest voice wins.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the problem. We’ve confused volume with vision.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, not from anger, but from a deep sadness — the kind that comes from watching people destroy what they claim to love. Jack turned toward her, his expression unreadable, his eyes reflecting the flickering blue of the TV.

Jack: “Tell me, Jeeny, have you ever been in a fight for your reputation? Ever had a room full of people twist your words until they sound like poison? That’s when the twin shows up. When you realize reason doesn’t matter anymore. It’s about dominance, not truth.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But when that twin wins, we all lose.”

Jack: “Easy for you to say when you’re not in the ring.”

Jeeny: “I’ve been in the ring. Just not the kind with cameras.”

Host: There was a pause. A long, heavy pause filled only by the muffled rumble of thunder outside.

Jeeny: “You know what arrogance really is, Jack? It’s not thinking you’re better than others. It’s thinking others don’t matter as much as you do.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s… poetic. But the world doesn’t run on poetry.”

Jeeny: “It runs on people. And people are fragile things, Jack. When we let that twin take over — the one Navarro talked about — we start confusing leadership with domination, confidence with cruelty.”

Host: Jack shifted, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. His reflection in the bar mirror seemed older — harder — as if he was staring at someone else entirely.

Jack: “Maybe politics just brings it out. The twin, I mean. Maybe that’s the price of power — letting the darker version of yourself make the choices you’re too decent to make.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when the twin never leaves?”

Jack: “Then you win elections.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes flashed, the kind of hurt that turns into anger, but her voice remained soft.

Jeeny: “That’s not winning, Jack. That’s surrender.”

Jack: “You sound like you think you could do better.”

Jeeny: “No. I just think I could do different. There’s a difference between playing the game and becoming it.”

Host: The rain intensified, each drop drumming against the windowpane like impatient fingers. The light above them flickered, casting brief shadows across Jack’s face — one of them darker, sharper, almost like the reflection of that “evil twin” Navarro described.

Jack: “You think anyone can lead without becoming corrupted by it?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But corruption isn’t always about money or power. Sometimes it’s about losing empathy. Forgetting what it feels like to be wrong.”

Jack: “Empathy doesn’t win wars.”

Jeeny: “No. But it keeps us from starting them.”

Host: Silence. Only the sound of the television now — one politician’s voice rising, trembling with self-righteous fury. Jack glanced up at the screen, then back at Jeeny.

Jack: “You know what I hate? That I agree with Navarro. That there’s a part of me that enjoys that arrogance, that sharpness. It feels like power. Like clarity. It’s the only time I don’t feel small.”

Jeeny: “That’s the trick of the twin, Jack. It makes you feel bigger right before it makes you empty.”

Host: The clock ticked louder now, its rhythm cutting through the thick air.

Jack: “So what do we do with it? That part of us?”

Jeeny: “We don’t kill it. We name it. We learn its voice. The moment you deny your darkness, it drives the car.”

Jack: “And if you let it drive, it crashes the whole thing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling. His eyes softened — not in defeat, but in recognition. The bar light gleamed faintly on his half-empty glass.

Jack: “You ever think Navarro was just… confessing? Not warning?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe every confession is a warning to someone else.”

Host: The TV cut to static. The room grew quieter, the rain beginning to fade. Jeeny finished her tea; Jack took one last sip of whiskey and set it down with a soft clink.

Jack: “You know, I used to think politics was about fixing things. Now I think it’s just about managing who we become while we’re trying.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the real work isn’t outside us. Maybe it’s keeping that twin in check long enough to let our better selves speak.”

Host: The light dimmed. The last trace of blue glow from the TV screen danced across their faces — two people, both haunted, both honest.

Jack: “You think the twin ever really goes away?”

Jeeny: “No. But sometimes, if we listen closely enough… we can make it dance with us instead of against us.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped. A faint reflection shimmered in the puddles — city lights, broken but beautiful. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, the kind that no longer needed words.

Host: Because in that quiet, they both understood — the real battle wasn’t in the streets or the speeches, but in the soul. And the hardest kind of politics was the one waged inside yourself.