Propaganda is amazing. People can be led to believe anything.

Host: The television flickered in the dark, its light casting shifting patterns across the walls of the apartment—faces, flags, smiles too perfect to be real. Outside, the city murmured—sirens, horns, footsteps—the chorus of a world that never stopped selling itself.

A fan turned slowly in the ceiling, pushing the heat around like a memory you can’t escape.

Jack sat on the edge of the couch, a glass in his hand, eyes fixed on the screen. Jeeny stood behind him, arms crossed, her reflection floating in the television light, her expression half sorrow, half anger.

Jeeny: “Alice Walker said, ‘Propaganda is amazing. People can be led to believe anything.’”

Jack: “She wasn’t wrong. It’s the oldest trick in the book—make them feel, and they’ll stop thinking.”

Host: His voice was low, rough, heavy—like a man who’d seen too many truths dressed as lies, and too many lies dressed as truth.

Jeeny: “Or maybe people just need something to believe in, Jack. The truth is often unbearable without a little story to soften it.”

Jack: “You’re defending propaganda now?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying it works because we’re human. Because we want to be led, even when we don’t admit it.”

Host: A commercial flashed—a smiling soldier, a glorious sunrise, a voice promising peace, freedom, and security. The colors were bright, the music swelling, the emotion engineered to erase doubt.

Jack: “There. That’s what I mean. Sell them fear, wrap it in patriotism, and call it truth. Works every time.”

Jeeny: “But you watch it too.”

Jack: “To understand how it works.”

Jeeny: “Or because it’s easier than silence?”

Host: Jack turned, his eyes sharp, cutting through the dimness.

Jack: “Silence doesn’t change anything.”

Jeeny: “Neither does cynicism.”

Host: The room was filled with the hum of the TV, the sound of marching feet, and the uncomfortable echo of truths too close to home.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? Propaganda doesn’t just happen on screens. It happens in families, in schools, in conversations. Every time someone tells you who to hate, who to fear, what to think—you’re being rewritten.”

Jack: “Rewritten? Try erased.”

Jeeny: “No. Conditioned.”

Jack: “Same thing. You change enough words in someone’s story, you change who they are.”

Host: The television light shifted, showing a parade, banners, crowds cheering in synchronized rhythm. Jack’s face was still, expressionless, like a mirror that no longer trusted its reflection.

Jeeny: “But look at them—happy, united, full of meaning. Maybe propaganda isn’t always evil. Maybe it’s just the wrong kind of faith.”

Jack: “That’s exactly what makes it evil, Jeeny. It feels like faith.”

Jeeny: “But faith is what moves people.”

Jack: “And propaganda is what controls them.”

Host: The air between them crackled, a collision of conviction and wound. Jeeny moved closer, the television’s glow washing her face in cold blue light.

Jeeny: “You talk like you’re immune. But you’re not. None of us are. The clothes you wear, the phone you use, the news you read—they’re all propaganda, just quieter.”

Jack: “There’s a difference between influence and indoctrination.”

Jeeny: “Is there? When was the last time you had an opinion that didn’t already exist in someone else’s headlines?”

Host: The fan creaked, the room stilled, and for a moment, it felt as if the walls themselves were listening.

Jack: “You’re suggesting free will’s an illusion?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying free will’s the hardest propaganda to see through—because it tells you you’re not being manipulated.”

Host: Jack laughed softly, the kind of laugh that hurts more than it releases.

Jack: “You’d make a good revolutionary, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “I’d rather be awake.”

Jack: “Sometimes being awake just means you can’t sleep anymore.”

Host: The television flickered again, cutting to a news anchor, their tone urgent, their words crisp, measured, scripted.

Jeeny: “Do you know how propaganda wins, Jack? By making you believe you’re too smart to fall for it.”

Jack: “And how does truth win?”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t. It just waits for the lies to burn themselves out.”

Host: The rain started again, softly tapping against the window, like applause from the outside world. Jack stood, walked to the TV, and switched it off. The room was thrown into silence, only the sound of the rain remaining.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my grandfather told me about World War II propaganda. Posters that said ‘Your country needs you.’ He said the hardest part wasn’t believing it—it was realizing afterward how much it had believed for him.”

Jeeny: “Maybe belief isn’t the problem, Jack. Maybe it’s forgetting to question what you believe.”

Host: The light from the streetlamps bled through the curtains, painting thin lines of gold on their faces. Jeeny sat on the armrest, close enough for her voice to soften.

Jeeny: “You know what’s terrifying about Walker’s quote? It’s not that people can be led to believe anything—it’s that they want to be.”

Jack: “Because certainty is cheaper than truth.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain grew steadier, drowning out the last echo of the TV. The room felt cleaner now—quiet, bare, honest.

Jack: “So what do we do?”

Jeeny: “Keep asking questions. Even the ones that make us uncomfortable.”

Jack: “And when the answers are lies?”

Jeeny: “Then we keep asking until they aren’t.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, the lines of his face softening, the cynicism in his eyes melting into something closer to resolve.

He looked at the dark screen, his own reflection staring back—one man, one mind, still capable of doubt.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the only immunity we get.”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “To never stop wondering who wrote the story.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then—two silhouettes in a dim apartment, rain outside, quiet within, the world muted but alive.

Beyond the window, the city still flashed its messages, its ads, its promises.

And yet, inside that small room, for the first time all evening,
there was truth—
uncomfortable, fragile,
and finally, their own.