The Bible was a consolation to a fellow alone in the old cell.

Host: The night was bruised with rain, a fine mist of silver dusting the streets outside the bar. The neon sign flickered in weary rhythm, casting an uneasy glow across the cracked windowpanes. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of beer, cigarette smoke, and that peculiar kind of sadness that only gathers where the lost come to remember.

Jack sat in the corner booth, his hands wrapped around a chipped glass of whiskey, the ice half-melted. His grey eyes were heavy — the kind of eyes that have seen too much and stopped pretending they haven’t. Jeeny sat opposite, her hair damp from the rain, her coat folded beside her. She stirred her coffee slowly, as if she were trying to delay the start of something inevitable.

Host: The old jukebox in the corner hummed low, an ancient song by The Dubliners crackling through static. Jack glanced at the lyrics scrawled on a napkin between them — words from Brendan Behan, raw and defiant:

“The Bible was a consolation to a fellow alone in the old cell. The lovely thin paper with a bit of mattress stuffing in it, if you could get a match, was as good a smoke as I ever tasted.”

Jack: He let out a small, rough laugh. “Now that’s religion I can understand. Not sermons, not salvation — just survival. A man finding comfort in whatever’s left.”

Jeeny: Her brow softened. “Or maybe it’s about the strange beauty of desperation. Even holiness becomes human when you’re locked away.”

Jack: “Holiness?” He scoffed, taking a slow sip. “There’s nothing holy about burning the Bible for a smoke, Jeeny. That’s blasphemy wrapped in irony.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s honesty. Behan wasn’t mocking faith — he was reminding us that when you’ve got nothing, even the sacred becomes ordinary. And maybe that’s where it belongs — among the ordinary.”

Host: The rain outside drummed harder now, a soft percussion against the glass, as though the night itself were keeping rhythm with their words. The barlight flickered, catching the shine in Jeeny’s eyes — eyes that carried both empathy and defiance.

Jack: “You always see poetry in suffering, don’t you? But Behan wasn’t trying to be poetic. He was just telling the truth — prison doesn’t leave room for metaphors. You find comfort where you can, even if it’s in something you’re supposed to revere.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point? The Bible — or anything sacred — only means something if it survives in a place like that. It’s easy to worship in a cathedral. It’s harder to find meaning in a cell.”

Jack: He leaned back, eyes narrowing. “You think Behan found meaning? He found nicotine. That’s not redemption — that’s habit.”

Jeeny: “Habit is redemption when you’ve lost everything else.” Her tone sharpened slightly, but her voice remained soft. “You can’t separate faith from need, Jack. Even a man lighting a cigarette in a cell is performing a kind of prayer — a small act of defiance against despair.”

Host: The bartender passed by, setting down a fresh drink. The faint smell of tobacco and spilled whiskey mingled with the sound of thunder outside. Jack’s jaw tightened; Jeeny’s hands trembled slightly as she brought her cup to her lips.

Jack: “Prayer, huh? You think Behan was praying when he torched the Word of God? That’s not defiance — that’s the end of belief.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s the beginning. Maybe faith isn’t about keeping something perfect, but about keeping something alive. Even when it burns.”

Host: Her words seemed to hang in the smoky air, hovering like a ghost over the table. Jack’s eyes softened for a moment, then grew distant — the kind of distance that only appears when someone remembers too much.

Jack: “You know, I met a guy once — old Irish laborer. Worked docks his whole life. He kept a little pocket Bible in his shirt — not for God, but because he said it reminded him of his mother. One day I saw him rolling cigarettes with the pages. He just looked at me and said, ‘She’d want me to have peace, not pages.’”

Jeeny: Her voice caught slightly. “Exactly. That’s what I mean. Faith isn’t a monument. It’s something that bends. That breathes.”

Jack: “Or it’s something that breaks.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe it has to.”

Host: The rain eased into a drizzle. The bar was nearly empty now — only a few silhouettes remained, hunched over glasses, their faces half-lit by neon, half-lost in shadow. A waitress hummed under her breath, an old Irish tune — haunting, soft, alive.

Jack: He turned the glass in his hand, staring at the amber reflection. “You know what I think, Jeeny? I think Behan wasn’t writing about faith or irony or rebellion. He was writing about being alone. That’s what gets you in a cell — not the walls, not the hunger. The silence.”

Jeeny: Her eyes lowered. “And maybe that’s why he smoked the Bible. To fill that silence with something — even if it was only smoke.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe.” He smiled faintly, a sad smile. “We’re all just burning our own scriptures, aren’t we? Trying to make the emptiness smell like something familiar.”

Host: A pause. The sound of rainwater dripping from the ceiling into a tin bucket. The faint hum of the jukebox winding down.

Jeeny: “But isn’t there a strange grace in that? In finding comfort where no comfort should exist? Even if it’s just smoke, it’s still warmth. Still light.”

Jack: “Grace, huh? I don’t know if I’d call it that. More like... stubbornness. Humanity refusing to go quietly.”

Jeeny: “That’s all grace ever was, Jack. Refusal.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked past midnight. The bar owner turned down the lights. Outside, the street gleamed — wet, glistening, empty. Jack reached into his pocket, pulling out a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes. He turned one over thoughtfully.

Jeeny: Watching him. “You think Behan felt guilty for it?”

Jack: “No.” He struck a match, flame flaring briefly in the dimness. “I think he felt alive.”

Host: The smoke curled upward — soft, lazy, almost holy in the way it rose toward the dark ceiling. Jeeny watched the curl of it fade, her eyes following its slow, graceful vanishing.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the irony, then. That even in burning something sacred, he created something sacred.”

Jack: Exhaled slowly, his voice quiet. “Maybe holiness isn’t in the pages after all. Maybe it’s in the hunger.”

Host: The camera would have lingered there — two silhouettes framed by smoke and neon light, the ghost of laughter from the street outside, the rain whispering against the glass.

Host: And as the match died, the last wisp of smoke rose like a prayer neither of them would claim but both somehow understood.

Host: Brendan Behan’s words seemed to echo softly across the empty bar — a reminder that faith, like fire, has many forms:

“The holy is not in the untouched — it’s in the burning, in the survival, in the smoke we breathe to stay human.”