One thing I hope I'll never be is drunk with my own power. And

Host: The rain had stopped an hour ago, leaving the city wrapped in a thin mist that curled like smoke through the narrow streets. Neon lights trembled in puddles; a half-lit billboard blinked with the face of a smiling actor, his eyes too bright, his teeth too white. Inside a dim bar tucked between two forgotten theaters, the air smelled of whiskey and old wood — that kind of smell that carries memories of ambition, failure, and late-night confessions.

Jack sat at the corner booth, sleeves rolled up, his grey eyes glinting in the half-light like sharpened steel. Jeeny sat opposite him, tracing the rim of her glass absentmindedly, her hair loose and still damp from the rain. The flickering light from a dusty neon “OPEN” sign carved their faces into fragments — one half in shadow, the other in truth.

Jeeny: “Jim Carrey once said — ‘One thing I hope I’ll never be is drunk with my own power. And anybody who says I am will never work in this town again.’”
She smiled faintly. “Funny how honesty can hide inside a joke.”

Jack: (chuckles) “Or maybe the joke is the honesty. That line — it’s brilliant. A paradox. A confession dressed up as comedy.”

Host: The bartender wiped a glass at the counter, pretending not to listen, but his ears tilted slightly toward them. Outside, the rainwater ran in small currents, carrying cigarette butts and fragments of light down the gutter.

Jeeny: “You think he meant it seriously?”

Jack: “Of course he did. Power’s like alcohol — you start by tasting it, and before you know it, it’s tasting you. He just had the guts to admit he’s afraid of the hangover.”

Jeeny: (leans forward) “You sound like you’ve had one yourself.”

Jack: (smirks) “Maybe. Power’s not always political, Jeeny. Sometimes it’s emotional. Sometimes it’s the power to be admired, to be followed, to control the story — even for the right reasons. That kind of power gets under your skin. It changes people.”

Host: The light above their table flickered once, then steadied. Jeeny’s eyes held Jack’s — steady, dark, unflinching.

Jeeny: “I don’t think it’s power that changes people. It’s insecurity. The ones who chase power are the ones who can’t stand being invisible. They confuse being seen with being respected.”

Jack: “Easy to say when you’ve never held it.”

Jeeny: “I’ve seen enough of it to know what it does. You start believing your reflection more than your reflection of others. You start mistaking fear for loyalty.”

Host: The bar door creaked open; a gust of cold wind slipped in, carrying the sound of distant sirens. A drunk stumbled in, muttered something about the rain, and found a seat by the jukebox. A slow blues track began to play — low, sad, deliberate.

Jack: “But come on, Jeeny. You can’t tell me power’s all bad. Without it, nothing changes. No revolutions, no reform, no leadership. Even Jim Carrey — he used his fame as a weapon. He spoke truth, but people listened because he was powerful.”

Jeeny: “That’s the irony, isn’t it? You need power to challenge power. But the more you fight it, the more you risk becoming it.”

Host: Her voice softened, her fingers brushing against the wet ring left by her drink. The music deepened, filling the room like a slow confession.

Jeeny: “Look at history. Every revolution starts with purity — freedom, justice, equality. And then someone decides they’re the chosen one to carry the torch. Before long, the torch becomes a throne.”

Jack: “So what do you want — a world without leaders? Without ambition?”

Jeeny: “No. A world where power remembers it’s a burden, not a privilege.”

Host: Jack laughed quietly, but there was no joy in it. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling where the paint had begun to peel in lazy flakes.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But people need someone in charge. Without power, there’s chaos. Every system — political, artistic, even spiritual — runs on hierarchy. You can’t run a world on humility.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can’t sustain one on arrogance either.”

Host: The jukebox clicked; another song began — older, rawer. The bartender lit a cigarette behind the counter, the smoke curling upward like a prayer that never left the room.

Jeeny: “Power is like fire, Jack. Hold it carefully, and it gives warmth. Hold it carelessly, and it burns you — and everyone else around you.”

Jack: “You think Jim Carrey understood that when he said it?”

Jeeny: “Of course. He’s lived in both worlds — adored and condemned, applauded and forgotten. He’s tasted fame’s nectar and felt its poison. You can only joke about power like that when you’ve been drunk on it and woken up with the guilt.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened; the flicker of sarcasm slipped away. For a moment, the hardened logic in his voice gave way to something quieter — something like regret.

Jack: “I used to work under a CEO who said, ‘Power doesn’t corrupt — it reveals.’ I didn’t believe him then. I do now.”

Jeeny: (whispers) “What did it reveal?”

Jack: (after a pause) “That I liked it. Too much. The authority, the control, the way people waited for me to speak before they’d move. It’s intoxicating — being needed, being feared. But then one day, I realized no one was honest with me anymore. I’d built a kingdom out of silence.”

Host: Jeeny watched him — her expression neither pity nor pride, but something in between. The music hummed in the background, its rhythm slow and forgiving.

Jeeny: “Then you know what Carrey meant. The second half of his quote wasn’t just a joke — it was a mirror. The threat — ‘anybody who says I am will never work in this town again’ — that’s the reflex of fear. It’s him mocking the monster that lives in all of us.”

Jack: “The one that bites when someone questions our crown.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: A brief silence settled between them. The rain began again, tapping softly on the window. Jeeny turned her face toward it, her eyes glowing faintly in the neon spill from outside.

Jeeny: “We all get drunk on something, Jack. Power, love, success, validation. The trick isn’t to stay sober — it’s to know when you’ve had enough.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “And when do you know?”

Jeeny: “When you start thinking you’re untouchable.”

Host: Jack’s gaze dropped to his half-empty glass. He swirled it once, watching the amber liquid catch the light — the way power does, alluring, harmless, until it isn’t.

Jack: “You know what scares me most? It’s not losing power. It’s realizing how easily it seduces even good people.”

Jeeny: “That’s why the best ones fear it. Power should make you tremble, not gloat.”

Host: Outside, a police siren wailed and faded into the distance. The bar lights flickered again, briefly plunging the room into half-darkness. When the light returned, both of them sat still — older, quieter, perhaps wiser.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the only safeguard — humility born from fear.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s love. The kind that refuses to own people or crush them. Power built on fear lasts a lifetime; power built on love can outlive it.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly. He reached for his coat, his movements deliberate, thoughtful.

Jack: “You ever think comedians like Carrey understand truth better than philosophers?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Of course. Because they make you laugh before you realize you’ve been cut open.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back now — through the smoky air, past the neon lights and the puddles outside. Jack and Jeeny sat in the half-lit bar, their faces quiet but alive, the rain’s reflection dancing across the window like the faint tremor of conscience itself.

As they stood to leave, the jukebox changed tracks again — this time, an old jazz song humming softly, like a lullaby for the sleepless.

Jack: (murmuring as he buttons his coat) “Maybe Carrey was right. Maybe the real test isn’t whether we gain power… but whether we can stay human after we do.”

Jeeny: “Then may we never drink too deep.”

Host: Outside, the streetlight flickered as they stepped into the rain, two shadows merging into the pulse of the city — still laughing quietly, but beneath that laughter, a vow echoed between them like thunder at the edge of the night:
that the most dangerous intoxication
is not from what we consume,
but from what we command.