Politics is show business for ugly people.

Host: The city was drained of color, a grey evening falling over glass towers and flickering billboards that sold smiles no one believed in. The rain had just ended, leaving the streets slick, shiny, mirroring the neon like liquid lies.

Inside a dim, smoky bar, the air was thick with cheap jazz and the odor of politicians’ promises — that peculiar mix of cologne, whiskey, and guilt.

Jack sat in the corner booth, his grey eyes fixed on a TV screen above the counter, where a smiling senator was waving to a crowd. The sound was muted, but his mouth moved like a well-rehearsed actor.

Jeeny slid into the seat across from him, dripping umbrella in one hand, a half-skeptical, half-tired smile on her lips.

Jack: “Paul Begala once said, ‘Politics is show business for ugly people.’ And he wasn’t wrong. Look at that—” (he gestures to the screen) “—another performance, another script, another round of pretend.”

Jeeny: “You say that like cynicism is truth, Jack. Maybe it’s not show business — maybe it’s a mirror. Politics just reflects what people want to see, even when they hate it.”

Host: The bartender turned the volume up for a moment, and the senator’s voice cut through the smoke — promising, smiling, glowing with synthetic warmth. Then the sound was gone again, leaving only the buzz of lights and the clink of glasses.

Jack: “A mirror? No. A circus. With makeup, spotlights, and puppets who think they’re stars. Democracy turned into entertainment — votes traded like applause.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s new? Caesar had his arena, Jack. The crowd has always loved a performance. The only difference is that now the blood is digital and the daggers are tweets.”

Host: Jack smirked, a cold, bitter sound, the kind that tasted like truth twisted in sarcasm. He lifted his glass, watched the amber liquid catch the light.

Jack: “Yeah. And the actors get richer, while the audience gets angrier. You tell me where the art is in that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the art is in the deception. The way a speech can move a nation, even when the heart behind it is rotten. That’s the power of storytelling, isn’t it? Even the ugly can inspire.”

Jack: “So you’re saying manipulation is art now?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying influence is. Politics has always been performance, but that doesn’t make it meaningless. The stage doesn’t corrupt the message — the performers do.”

Host: A pause. The lights from the TV flickered over their faces — Jack’s hard, unforgiving, Jeeny’s alive, resisting his darkness.

Jack: “And yet, people keep buying tickets. They cheer, they boo, they vote — and nothing changes. The same faces, the same scripts, just a different costume designer.”

Jeeny: “But sometimes, Jack — sometimes — a performance wakes people up. Churchill, Mandela, even Zelenskyy — a literal actor who turned a joke into leadership. You call it show business, I call it courage on camera.”

Jack: “Zelenskyy’s faith in his people might’ve been real, but his image was still crafted — like a movie trailer for hope. The world just loves a good narrative.”

Jeeny: “Of course they do. Because truth needs story to survive. Without it, facts are just dust. Maybe we don’t want saints, Jack — maybe we just want someone who can make us believe, even for a moment.”

Host: The bartender switched the channel; a scandal now — photos, rumors, denials. The audience in the bar laughed, jeered, clapped — like a studio crowd cued by applause lights.

Jack: “There it is. The ugliness he was talking about. Not the faces, Jeeny — the souls. Every politician is a comedian playing to an audience that doesn’t even know it’s the punchline.”

Jeeny: “And yet we watch, don’t we? You, me, everyone. Because deep down, we still hope for a line that’s real, a moment that’s not scripted. Even ugly people can say beautiful things.”

Jack: “Hope is the drug, and the dealer wears a flag pin.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe hope is the only drug worth taking.”

Host: Jack’s laugh this time was soft, almost sincere. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the table, eyes narrowed, studying her.

Jack: “You really think politics can be redeemed?”

Jeeny: “Not redeemed — reclaimed. By the ones who see the performance, but still care about the plot. By people who don’t walk out when the show gets ugly.”

Jack: “That’s a nice dream, Jeeny. But dreams don’t win elections. Money does. Power does. The audience doesn’t choose the ending — the producers do.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to burn the script.”

Host: The music swelled from the corner, a slow, melancholic trumpet bleeding into the air. A waitress passed, her tray rattling with empty glasses, a reflection of all the conversations this city had heard and forgotten.

Jack: “You can’t burn what’s been rewritten a thousand times. You can only refuse to act.”

Jeeny: “Or you can write your own lines.”

Host: The clock ticked past midnight. The TV now showed an old film, the sound muted, black-and-white faces mouthing truths no one could hear.

Jack: “You really think the ugly can ever be beautiful again?”

Jeeny: “Not beautiful, Jack. But honest. And that’s better.”

Host: Outside, the rain started again, soft, persistent, cleansing the streets of their reflection. Jack stood, finished his drink, looked at the screen one last time.

Jack: “Maybe Begala was right — politics is show business for ugly people. But maybe, just maybe, the ugliest are the only ones still trying to be seen.”

Jeeny: “Then the rest of us should watch with open eyes, not closed hearts.”

Host: The lights dimmed, the bar hummed in a low, tired melody. Jack and Jeeny walked out into the rain, their shadows merging under the streetlight — two critics of a world that was still a stage, still pretending, still performing.

And as the storm fell, the city glimmered, ugly, alive, and somehow, beautifully true.