Puritanism. The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be

Host: The bar was dim and smoky, the kind of place where time itself seemed slightly drunk — the clock on the wall didn’t tick, it sighed. Outside, rain tapped against the cracked neon sign that flickered OPEN / OPE / N. Inside, a blues song hummed through the speakers, slow and sardonic, the sound of truth wrapped in irony.

At a corner booth, Jack sat with a half-empty glass of whiskey, his grey eyes tired but alive — the look of a man who'd seen too much hypocrisy to take moral sermons seriously anymore. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea with lazy precision, her face half-lit by the red glow of the jukebox.

Jeeny: smirking, quoting as if from memory
“H. L. Mencken once said, ‘Puritanism. The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.’”

Jack: snorting into his drink
“Ah, Mencken — America’s original troll.”

Jeeny: grinning “Or prophet, depending on your sense of humor.”

Jack: leaning back, his voice half amusement, half philosophy
“He wasn’t wrong. Some people look at joy like it’s contraband. They can’t stand the idea that someone out there might be dancing without permission.”

Jeeny: softly “Or sinning without shame.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, its rhythm blending with the slow pulse of the blues. Cigarette smoke curled through the air, ribbons of ghostly defiance winding toward the ceiling.

Jeeny: “Puritanism never really died, did it? It just learned how to rebrand — became political correctness, moral outrage, digital virtue.”

Jack: smiling grimly “Exactly. We used to burn heretics. Now we cancel them. Same fire, just fancier matches.”

Jeeny: tilting her head, thoughtful “You think it’s the same instinct — that deep human need to control joy?”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. Because joy is dangerous. It’s ungovernable. You can’t regulate laughter. You can’t legislate delight. It belongs to the free.”

Jeeny: quietly “And nothing terrifies the fearful more than freedom.”

Host: The bartender wiped down the counter, glancing over at them with that patient indifference unique to people who’ve overheard every kind of truth and lie. Outside, a siren wailed, faded, and died — like a sermon losing steam.

Jack: raising his glass “You know, I’ve always thought guilt was civilization’s most efficient leash.”

Jeeny: grinning “And pleasure, the act of rebellion.”

Jack: laughing softly “Exactly. Mencken would’ve loved you.”

Host: The jukebox changed songs, a gravelly voice filling the silence with a tune about whiskey and redemption — or maybe it was the same thing.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, though. Every age has its own version of puritans. They always claim moral high ground, but they’re just terrified someone’s enjoying life without their permission.”

Jack: quietly “Because deep down, they envy what they condemn.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “So the moralist’s hatred is just misplaced longing.”

Jack: nodding “Exactly. The ones who preach abstinence are always the most obsessed with temptation. It’s not holiness — it’s hunger denied.”

Host: The rain hammered harder now, the sound blending with laughter from a table nearby — the laughter of people who didn’t care who was listening. Jeeny’s eyes flickered toward them, her smile softening.

Jeeny: “You know what’s tragic? We mistake suffering for sincerity. We think if someone’s miserable, they must be moral.”

Jack: with quiet conviction “And if they’re happy, they must be guilty.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “That’s the haunting fear Mencken meant — that someone, somewhere, is joyful without earning it. That someone dared to smile without apology.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly, as if the bar itself was leaning closer to listen. The world outside blurred into a watercolor of neon and rain.

Jack: after a pause “You think there’s a cure for that? For this infection of moral envy?”

Jeeny: smiling wryly “Yes. Laughter.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “Laughter?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only honest heresy left. You can’t shame someone who’s laughing. You can’t dominate someone who refuses to take you seriously.”

Host: The jukebox sputtered, switching to a faster tune — something with swagger and bite. The energy in the room shifted; people leaned closer, voices rose, glasses clinked.

Jack: grinning now, eyes glinting with irony “So, laughter as rebellion. Mencken would drink to that.”

Jeeny: lifting her cup of tea in a mock toast “To all the sinners who smile too easily.”

Jack: raising his whiskey “And to the saints who can’t stand it.”

Host: The bartender chuckled, a low sound from behind the counter — proof that truth always finds its audience. The rain outside began to lighten, the rhythm easing as though the night itself had exhaled.

Jeeny: softly “You know, I think puritanism still haunts us because joy asks for courage. You have to be brave to be happy in a world that profits from shame.”

Jack: nodding slowly, voice quiet now “Happiness is an act of defiance.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And joy, the purest kind of blasphemy.”

Host: The lights flickered, catching the smoke in the air like captured halos. For a moment, the whole bar glowed — every face, every drink, every unrepentant laugh — suspended in that fragile, golden warmth that only comes from freedom disguised as pleasure.

And through that haze, H. L. Mencken’s words whispered like a taunt and a benediction all at once:

That moral purity is not virtue,
but fear dressed as piety.

That the real sin is not indulgence,
but the terror of joy —
the refusal to let the soul be unashamedly alive.

Jeeny: softly, with a small, knowing smile
“Maybe the most radical thing we can do, Jack — is to be happy. Loudly. Without guilt.”

Jack: grinning, finishing his drink
“And to never apologize for it.”

Host: The rain finally stopped, leaving the streets glistening like silver veins beneath the city lights. The door creaked open, letting in the cold night air, and for a moment — brief, shimmering, defiant — it felt like even the darkness outside was smiling back.