Over grown military establishments are under any form of

Host: The wind was sharp that night — the kind that howls through columns, whips around monuments, and tastes faintly of iron and memory. The Capitol dome loomed in the distance, its white curve glowing like the ghost of an idea — freedom, power, or perhaps the illusion of both.

Jack and Jeeny stood at the edge of the Potomac, their reflections shivering in the black water, the city lights fractured on the surface like a broken oath.

Jeeny held a small book — leather-bound, edges worn — a copy of Washington’s Farewell Address. Her voice was soft but carried the weight of conviction as she read aloud:

Jeeny: “‘Overgrown military establishments are under any form of government inauspicious to liberty, and are to be regarded as particularly hostile to republican liberty.’ — George Washington.”

She closed the book slowly, the echo of the words hanging in the air between them like the last bell of conscience.

Jeeny: “He saw it coming, Jack. Even then — before tanks, before bombs, before global empires — he knew that armies, once too large, stop protecting freedom and start guarding power.”

Jack: “That’s poetic,” he said, his eyes on the dark river. “But naive. Washington lived in a world of muskets and militias. He couldn’t imagine drones, nukes, or cyberwarfare. The threats changed. Liberty doesn’t survive disarmament — it survives deterrence.”

Host: The fog began to rise from the river, curling around their feet like the breath of history itself. In the distance, the faint rumble of helicopters cut across the night — a reminder that Washington’s warning had become prophecy.

Jeeny: “Deterrence,” she repeated quietly. “That’s the word everyone uses — as if fear is the noblest form of safety. But every empire that worshipped its armies believed it was defending peace, right up until the moment it forgot what peace looked like.”

Jack: “And every civilization that abandoned its armies was erased from the map. Rome didn’t fall because of its legions — it fell because it forgot to fund them.”

Jeeny: “Rome fell because its legions started serving their generals instead of their people. Because power stopped answering to principle.”

Host: A gust of wind whipped through the trees, rattling the branches like distant muskets. Jack turned, meeting her gaze, his grey eyes cold, calculating — yet something inside them trembled, as if her words had brushed against an old wound.

Jack: “You really think we can have liberty without force? Without the threat of it?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think we can have force without worship. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Tell that to the next country that decides it wants what’s ours.”

Jeeny: “And tell me — who decides what’s ours, Jack? The soldier? Or the senator who sends him?”

Host: The river glimmered, the city’s reflection trembling on its surface. A siren wailed in the distance, rising and fading, like an anthem forgotten mid-song.

Jeeny: “Washington warned us because he’d lived it. He knew what armies do to governments. They start as instruments — and end as idols. You can’t have a republic that fears its own generals.”

Jack: “And you can’t have one that fears its enemies more.”

Jeeny: “But what if they become the same thing?”

Host: The silence that followed was deep — the kind of silence that doesn’t come from absence, but from reckoning. Jack tossed a pebble into the river, the ripples spreading outward like consequence.

Jack: “You think the Founders wanted us weak?”

Jeeny: “No. They wanted us wise.”

Jack: “Wisdom doesn’t stop bullets.”

Jeeny: “But arrogance fires them.”

Host: The moonlight slipped through the clouds, casting a cold silver glow over the scene. The city — that grand, restless monument to democracy — stared back across the water, its monuments gleaming like old swords polished for show.

Jeeny sat on the railing, her voice low, measured, almost like prayer.

Jeeny: “You know, Washington didn’t just warn against standing armies. He warned against the ambition that feeds them — the idea that safety is worth any price. But liberty has a cost too. And once you trade it for comfort, you’ll never get it back.”

Jack: “So what? We disarm? Leave ourselves open? Invite chaos?”

Jeeny: “No. We remember who the guns are supposed to serve.”

Host: The helicopter sound had faded, replaced by the faint buzz of streetlights and the rhythmic pulse of the river. Jack lit a cigarette, the flame reflecting briefly in his eyes, and for a moment, he looked less like a skeptic and more like a man tired of pretending certainty was wisdom.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my father worked at a defense plant. He used to say, ‘Peace is built on profit.’ I didn’t understand what he meant until I realized the economy runs better when the world’s a little afraid.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly what Washington feared — fear as policy, profit as principle. When war becomes routine, liberty becomes decorative.”

Jack: “Maybe liberty’s just a story we tell to make the war sound noble.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe war’s the lie we tell to hide how fragile liberty really is.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the distant echo of a marching band — some late-night rehearsal for a parade. The rhythm was steady, proud, martial. Jeeny looked toward the sound, her eyes distant, thoughtful.

Jeeny: “Funny, isn’t it? We still march. We still salute. But we’ve forgotten why Washington refused a crown. He could’ve ruled, Jack. But he walked away — because he knew liberty can’t survive worship. Not of kings, and not of armies.”

Jack: “And yet, here we are, worshipping both — power and pride, wrapped in the flag.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the flag’s still worth saving. But not with bigger guns. With better memory.”

Host: The river stilled, as if the world itself were holding its breath. The Capitol lights flickered faintly, their glow mirrored in the water — two reflections, perfect, yet trembling.

Jack: “You think Washington would recognize this place?”

Jeeny: “I think he’d recognize the struggle. Every generation faces the same question: Will we guard liberty — or will we guard the guards?”

Host: The rain began again — slow, cleansing, deliberate. Jack and Jeeny stood, the droplets running down their faces, indistinguishable from tears or truth.

Jack: “Maybe we’ve already crossed the line.”

Jeeny: “Then all that’s left is to walk it back.”

Host: They walked along the riverbank, side by side, their shadows merging beneath the streetlight’s pale glow. Above them, the monuments of power stood silent, watching — proud, haunted, and half-forgotten.

In the distance, thunder rumbled, low and ominous — the voice of an old republic, restless in its sleep.

And somewhere in that rumble, carried faintly by the wind, was the echo of Washington’s warning — not as history, but as heartbeat:
that liberty, once guarded by armies, may someday need guarding from them.