Man will never be free until the last king is strangled with the

Host: The rain poured heavily upon the cobblestone streets, turning every puddle into a mirror of the dying city lights. It was past midnight in a forgotten quarter of Paris. The smell of wet iron, tobacco, and revolution hung thick in the air. Inside a crumbling café, the flame of a single candle struggled against the draft, its light trembling across the faces of two souls divided by faith and reason.

Jack sat motionless, his hands wrapped around a chipped coffee cup, eyes hard as steel, jawline sharp against the shadow. Jeeny faced him, her hair dark and damp, eyes burning with that peculiar sadness that only comes when the heart refuses to give up on the world.

The street outside was silent, save for the echo of distant footsteps — the ghosts of an old regime, still marching through the bones of history.

Jeeny: “You quoted Diderot earlier… ‘Man will never be free until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last priest.’”
(Her voice trembled, half horror, half curiosity.) “Do you truly believe that, Jack? That freedom can only come from destruction?”

Jack: “I believe that freedom has never been granted, Jeeny. It’s always been taken — with blood, with anger, with fire. Look around you. Every palace that fell, every church that lost its grip, fell only when people stopped praying and started fighting.”

Host: A gust of wind shook the windowpanes, scattering a few ash flakes from Jack’s cigarette. The smoke curled like ghostly ribbons, catching the faint light of the candle.

Jeeny: “But Diderot’s words— they’re vengeful. They don’t call for liberation, they call for hatred. If we strangle kings and priests, what makes us different from the tyrants we despise?”

Jack: “Difference? We call it justice, they call it order. The priests told men they were born sinners, and the kings told them they were born subjects. For centuries, Jeeny, that pair ruled like twin serpents, coiling around the minds of people. If that’s not enslavement, what is?”

Jeeny: “Still… you’re talking about murder, not freedom.”

Jack: “And you’re talking about forgiveness in a world that never forgave the hungry.”

Host: The rain outside began to lessen, a slow drizzle now, like the afterthought of a storm. A carriage wheel passed, splattering mud on the sidewalk, and for a moment, the two just listened — to the sound of a city breathing through wounds it never healed.

Jeeny: “You sound like you want to burn everything that came before us.”

Jack: “Not everything. Just the illusions that keep us bowing. The king’s crown and the priest’s robe are just two sides of the same coin — power sanctified by fear.”

Jeeny: “And what would replace them, Jack? Another king? Another god in human form?”

Jack: “Maybe none. Maybe for once, men can stand upright — answer only to reason, not to heaven.”

Jeeny: “You think reason alone can guide us? The French Revolution tried that, remember? They tore down the altars, crowned the Goddess of Reason, and still the guillotine didn’t stop.”

Jack: “Because they were still haunted by the ghosts of what they destroyed. They carried the chains in their minds, even after they cut them from their necks.”

Jeeny: “So what’s your answer then? To strangle both spirit and sovereign? To leave only logic — a cold, empty world without meaning?”

Jack: “Meaning isn’t given, Jeeny. It’s made. The moment we stop worshiping, we start creating.”

Host: The candlelight flickered wildly as if caught in their conflict, casting long shadows across the table. Jeeny’s hands tightened around her cup, and Jack’s voice grew low, almost a growl, but there was pain beneath it — the kind born from disillusionment, not cruelty.

Jeeny: “You talk like someone who’s been betrayed by faith.”

Jack: “Maybe I have. My father was a priest, remember? He spent his life telling people to trust in God’s will, while our own roof leaked, our table was empty, and my mother died believing her suffering was some divine test. No, Jeeny. I’ve had enough of kings in heaven and kings on earth.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “I didn’t know…”

Jack: “You wouldn’t. But I learned something then — obedience is the first chain they wrap around your neck. It’s soft at first — comforting — but it tightens the moment you question.”

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack… look at what happens when men have no faith at all. When belief dies, so does mercy. We’ve seen it — in wars, in ideologies that claimed to free us but only replaced one master with another. Stalin, Mao — they killed the priests, but built their own churches made of fear.”

Jack: “Then maybe the problem isn’t the absence of gods, but the need for them.”

Host: A silence fell, thick as the smoke lingering above them. Outside, the rain stopped entirely. The air grew still, as if the city itself was listening. Jack’s eyes softened for the first time — not in surrender, but in recognition.

Jeeny: “So what if Diderot was wrong? What if freedom doesn’t come from strangling, but from understanding? From learning why we still kneel, and choosing, one by one, to stand?”

Jack: “And what if that’s just another dream to keep us quiet while someone else builds the next throne?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I’d rather believe in the slow awakening of the heart than in the eruption of rage.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “You still think the heart can change the world?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the only thing that ever has.”

Host: The candle was nearly spent, its flame a fragile thread in the darkness. Jeeny’s voice was soft, but her words carried the weight of centuries. Jack stared, as though seeing the truth behind her tenderness for the first time.

Jack: “You know… maybe Diderot wasn’t calling for blood. Maybe he meant we must kill what they represent — not the men, but the symbols. The obedience, the fear, the blind faith.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To strangle the idea of tyranny, not the throats of its servants.”

Jack: “Then maybe I can drink to that.”

Jeeny: “To what?”

Jack: “To a world where men are free — not because they’ve killed their gods, but because they’ve stopped needing them.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, a small, tired curve of lips, but it was enough to soften the room. The candle finally died, leaving only the glow of the streetlamp outside — faint, uncertain, yet still burning.

The rain had stopped. The city, scarred and silent, seemed to breathe again.

And somewhere, between ashes and light, two souls — one of reason, one of faith — found a fragile truth they could both believe in:
that freedom is not the absence of kings or priests,
but the awakening of those who no longer need either.