The best way to get a bad law repealed is to enforce it strictly.

Host: The night air was thick with the hum of distant sirens and the faint pulse of city traffic. A heavy fog rolled over the downtown district, wrapping the narrow streets in a kind of ghostly silence that only late hours can hold. Inside an old bar, tucked between two shuttered shops, the light was dim, flickering from a single neon sign that buzzed above the window — a tired red glow that read “Justice Tavern.”

Jack sat at the counter, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His grey eyes reflected the dull light of the bar mirror — cold, thoughtful, and tired of illusions. Jeeny sat beside him, her hands clasped around a half-empty glass of soda, her eyes bright even in the haze of smoke. The TV above them played a muted news broadcast — images of protesters, police, and a headline scrolling in silence: “Public Uproar Over New Curfew Law.”

Jeeny broke the silence first.

Jeeny: “Abraham Lincoln once said, ‘The best way to get a bad law repealed is to enforce it strictly.’”
She glanced at the TV, her brow furrowing. “It’s strange how true that feels tonight.”

Jack: “True?” He gave a small, sharp laugh. “I’d call it ironic. You don’t repeal bad laws by enforcing them — you just crush the people they’re meant to control.”

Host: The bartender wiped the counter silently, pretending not to listen. The rain tapped gently on the window, a soft percussion beneath the low hum of the fridge.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You expose the rot by showing its consequences. That’s what Lincoln meant. If injustice hides in hypocrisy, then truth must be forced into daylight. When a system tightens too much, it snaps.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing rebellion,” he muttered. “Strict enforcement doesn’t spark moral awakening; it breeds resentment — chaos. Look at history. When prohibition hit in the 1920s, they enforced it to the letter — and the result? Organized crime, bootlegging, corruption. You think that kind of ‘exposure’ helped anyone?”

Jeeny: “It did in the end,” she countered. “It showed that people wouldn’t obey a law that insulted common sense. The whole nation had to face its own hypocrisy — preaching morality while drinking in secret. The law died because it was too strictly alive. That’s what Lincoln meant — tyranny exposes itself when it’s too proud to bend.”

Host: Her voice softened, but the fire in her tone remained. She took a slow sip, her fingers trembling slightly as she set the glass down.

Jack: “You talk about exposure like it’s a cure. But you forget what happens in the meantime. People get arrested. Lives get destroyed. Real humans pay the price for these ‘lessons.’ You can’t justify collateral damage for moral satisfaction.”

Jeeny: “So what’s the alternative? Let bad laws linger quietly because they don’t hurt too loudly? That’s cowardice, Jack — the kind of silence that lets corruption grow roots.”

Host: The fog outside thickened, muffling the sound of passing cars. The bar’s neon glow smeared across the window like a bleeding wound. Jack exhaled smoke slowly, watching it spiral upward before vanishing into nothing.

Jack: “You think all enforcement leads to awakening, but some governments use that logic to justify oppression. Strict laws have crushed entire nations before. Look at Stalin’s purges — they were just ‘laws’ enforced to perfection. Do you think those victims were martyrs for progress, or casualties of arrogance?”

Jeeny: “That wasn’t law, Jack — that was cruelty in disguise. There’s a difference between enforcing justice and enforcing power. Lincoln wasn’t calling for tyranny — he was warning against it. When the machine runs too hard, people start to hear the gears breaking.”

Host: Her eyes glimmered, not from tears, but from conviction — a glow born of belief. The tension between them hung like a charged wire, alive and dangerous.

Jack: “You really believe people will rise up? That society will wake up just because someone enforces a stupid law too well?”

Jeeny: “They always do — eventually. People endure a lot, but there’s a breaking point. Think about Rosa Parks. The law said she had to give up her seat — and when they enforced that law strictly, the world finally saw how wrong it was. That one act of ‘obedience’ to an unjust law became the moment justice began to turn.”

Host: Her words struck the air like sparks. Jack’s cigarette burned low, forgotten between his fingers. Outside, a police car’s lights flickered red and blue through the fog, painting the bar in alternating colors of danger and truth.

Jack: “You’re using moral exceptions to defend a principle that doesn’t hold in the real world. Most people don’t revolt — they adapt. They complain online, they grumble, and then they obey.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But every society’s conscience has a tipping point. History proves that. The French Revolution started over bread. Gandhi started with salt. What begins as small compliance ends in moral exhaustion — and that’s when change comes.”

Jack: “Change comes when it’s profitable,” he muttered. “Revolutions aren’t built on conscience. They’re built on desperation and economics.”

Jeeny: “Desperation is conscience, Jack. It’s the voice that says, ‘I can’t live like this anymore.’ When a bad law is enforced to the point of suffocation, that voice becomes a roar. Lincoln understood that human beings won’t fight what they tolerate — only what they can no longer bear.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming softly against the windowpane. The TV switched to an image of the mayor speaking about “order,” “safety,” “civic obedience.” Jack turned his eyes away, his jaw tight.

Jack: “You really believe justice is born from pressure, not from wisdom?”

Jeeny: “Both,” she said simply. “But pressure wakes wisdom from sleep.”

Host: The air between them thickened — the smoke, the tension, the weight of unspoken memories. Jack leaned forward, elbows on the counter, his voice lower now, less sharp, more weary.

Jack: “I saw a law enforced once — to the letter. It was a housing code. My friend’s mother got evicted because her landlord filed a notice the city couldn’t ignore. The house was safe, but technically noncompliant. The officer said, ‘Sorry, ma’am, just doing my job.’ She slept on a park bench that night. The next month, they changed the code. Too late for her.”

Jeeny: “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Jack: “Don’t be. Just don’t tell me strict enforcement fixes anything. It punishes the poor before it educates the powerful.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point?” she said softly. “That pain makes the injustice visible? That bad law wasn’t repealed because of kindness — it changed because of her suffering. Because someone finally saw her.”

Host: Her voice trembled at the edge of emotion, and for the first time, Jack didn’t argue. He just looked down, his hand brushing the rim of his glass. The room felt smaller now, quieter, as if even the air was listening.

Jack: “You talk like suffering is a strategy.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said gently. “I talk like truth is born from it.”

Host: The rain slowed, then stopped. The bar was still. The TV flickered once more — this time showing footage of people gathered in the streets, holding signs, chanting into the night.

Jack watched silently. Jeeny smiled faintly, her reflection glinting against the glass.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Lincoln understood — that freedom isn’t learned through mercy, but through discomfort. Sometimes people need to feel the full weight of injustice to demand its end.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “Not noble — inevitable.”

Host: Outside, the fog began to lift, revealing faint outlines of the street — wet, gleaming, alive. The neon sign flickered once more, then steadied, its tired light casting long shadows across the bar.

Jack: “So what do we do, Jeeny? Just wait for the next bad law to collapse under its own arrogance?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, her eyes soft but fierce. “We hold it to its own standard. We make it face itself. If injustice wants to wear the mask of order, we force it to show its face.”

Host: He looked at her for a long moment — a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jack: “You’d make a dangerous lawyer.”

Jeeny: “Only to bad laws.”

Host: A quiet laugh escaped him — not loud, but real, breaking through the smoke and heaviness of the room. Outside, a new dawn hinted faintly through the clouds, the first light brushing the fog with a gentle silver hue.

Jeeny finished her drink, stood, and pulled her coat close.

Jeeny: “Bad laws fall the same way lies do — under the weight of their own truth.”

Jack: “And until then?”

Jeeny: “We keep enforcing the truth.”

Host: She walked out into the thinning fog, her silhouette fading beneath the streetlights. Jack stayed behind, staring at the TV as the protesters’ chants grew louder — distant, yet resonant. He smiled faintly, almost to himself.

Then, with quiet conviction, he whispered,

Jack: “Strictly.”

Host: And as the first sunlight broke through the fog, the city began to stir, unaware that somewhere in a small bar, two souls had just dissected the meaning of justice — and found, in its paradox, a fragile kind of hope.