Politicians are masters of the art of deception.

Host:
The parliament building loomed in the distance like a colossal shadow, all glass and granite, shimmering with the illusion of transparency. The evening sky burned a dull orange, and the city below pulsed with the heartbeat of traffic — hurried, restless, distracted.

Inside a small rooftop bar, overlooking that hive of power, Jack sat nursing a glass of whiskey, his reflection flickering in the dark window like a second, more cynical version of himself. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on the table, her fingers tracing the condensation on her glass.

The lights of the skyline flickered behind them — billboards, offices, promises. The kind of light that hides more than it reveals.

Between them lay a single folded newspaper, the headline bold and brutal:
“TRUTH UNDER FIRE.”

Jeeny: (reading slowly) “Politicians are masters of the art of deception. — Martin L. Gross.”

Jack: (dryly) “Masters, indeed. Deception’s the only art form they’ve kept alive since the Renaissance.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you admire them.”

Jack: “In a way, I do. Takes talent to lie so beautifully that even the liar starts to believe it.”

Jeeny: “That’s not talent, Jack. That’s tragedy.”

Host:
The rain began to fall, light but deliberate — a thousand tiny pinpricks against the windowpane. The city blurred behind it, like truth melting into suggestion.

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. You really think politics was ever about honesty? It’s theatre. The speeches, the smiles, the tears on cue — it’s performance art for the masses.”

Jeeny: “But theatre has purpose. It reveals truth through illusion. Politics hides truth beneath illusion.”

Jack: “So you’d prefer the raw version? No masks, no diplomacy, just chaos?”

Jeeny: “No. I’d prefer integrity — the courage to admit imperfection without disguising it as virtue.”

Host:
A waiter passed by, leaving behind the scent of citrus and wood smoke. Jack’s reflection shimmered again — a man at war with belief, with the faintest flicker of bitterness behind his composure.

Jack: “You know, Gross was right. Politicians are the true artists of our age. They paint hope with words, sculpt fear with laws, compose trust out of nothing. Their medium isn’t canvas — it’s conscience.”

Jeeny: “And what’s the cost of that art?”

Jack: “Public faith.”

Jeeny: (shaking her head) “Faith isn’t theirs to take. It’s ours to give — and ours to reclaim.”

Jack: (scoffing) “You still think truth has a chance in the marketplace of lies?”

Jeeny: “Always. Even the best deception cracks under the weight of time. Look at Watergate. Look at Nixon. Even the greatest mask slips eventually.”

Jack: “Yeah, and look how many more put them back on after him. History doesn’t teach, it rehearses.”

Host:
Lightning flashed briefly, illuminating the room. The reflections of skyscrapers shimmered on Jeeny’s face, turning her calm expression into something fierce, resolute.

Jeeny: “Maybe the problem isn’t that they deceive us. Maybe it’s that we let them. People crave comfort more than truth. Deception thrives on our consent.”

Jack: “So we’re accomplices?”

Jeeny: “Worse. We’re addicts. Addicted to the illusion that someone else can save us.”

Jack: “Now you sound like a revolutionary.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “No, just a realist with hope.”

Host:
The wind picked up, rattling the umbrellas on the terrace below. Jack leaned closer, his voice low, almost confessional.

Jack: “You ever wonder if the truth’s even worth it? If tearing down illusion just leaves you standing in rubble?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But rubble is where rebuilding starts.”

Jack: “You always have an answer.”

Jeeny: “No. I just refuse to stop asking questions.”

Host:
The rain turned heavier, a soft percussion that underscored their conversation like a score from an unseen orchestra. The city below blurred into abstraction — lights bleeding into water, sound into silence.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe in change. Thought maybe one honest man in office could make a difference. Then I realized honesty isn’t a political currency — it’s a liability.”

Jeeny: “Then why do people like you still vote?”

Jack: “Habit. Hope. Masochism.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe because even liars sometimes stumble into doing good. Even a false promise can lead to a real act.”

Jack: “You’re turning deceit into destiny now.”

Jeeny: “I’m saying deception doesn’t erase humanity — it reveals it. The lies they tell show us what we wish were true.”

Host:
Jack stared at her, silent. The line between her reflection and her real face blurred in the glass. Behind her, the government building still gleamed — a monument to both ambition and arrogance.

Jack: (softly) “So maybe the truth about deception is that it needs believers to survive.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The liar and the listener — both are dancers in the same choreography.”

Jack: “And who leads?”

Jeeny: “Always the one who believes they’re not being led.”

Host:
For a moment, the air grew heavy — not with tension, but with recognition. The kind of silence where both sides see the same truth from opposite corners of the room.

Jack broke it first, voice rough, weary.

Jack: “Maybe we need deception. Maybe it keeps us sane — makes the world’s cruelty easier to swallow.”

Jeeny: “That’s not sanity, Jack. That’s sedation.”

Jack: “You really think the truth could fix everything?”

Jeeny: “No. But it could wake everything.”

Host:
The rain slowed, tapering into quiet. The music from inside the bar softened — a low piano riff echoing like distant memory.

Jack: “You think Gross was angry or just amused when he said it?”

Jeeny: “Both. Anger comes from disappointment. Amusement comes from surviving it.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe that’s the art he meant — the art of making lies sound like leadership.”

Jeeny: “And the counter-art,” she said, finishing her drink, “is learning to see beauty in the truth, even when it hurts.”

Host:
She stood, pulling her coat tight as the door opened to the cool, post-rain air. Jack watched her for a moment before following, the city lights reflecting in his eyes like broken promises.

They stepped into the night — the smell of ozone and wet concrete filling the air. Below, the parliament dome gleamed, proud and hollow.

And in that fragile silence, Martin L. Gross’s words seemed to hum beneath the storm’s dying breath:

That deception may be the politician’s art,
but recognition is the citizen’s rebellion.

That truth will never be loud,
but it will always outlast applause.

Host:
Jeeny looked up at the glowing skyline.
Jack lit another cigarette, his expression softening — not in surrender, but in understanding.

Jeeny: “They deceive, Jack. But only because we let them write the story.”

Jack: “Then maybe it’s time we pick up the pen.”

Host:
The night deepened.
The city exhaled.

And somewhere between the lies of power and the quiet of rain,
two souls decided — not to stop believing —
but to start seeing.