The malfeasance and misjudgments by our corporate, financial and

Host: The night was restless, heavy with the hum of a city that had traded integrity for neon. From the rooftop of a downtown high-rise, the skyline looked like a cathedral of greed — towers of glass and light, glittering not with divinity, but with dividends. The wind carried the smell of asphalt, ozone, and ambition — the perfume of progress gone sour.

Below, the world moved mechanically: cars flowing like blood through the city’s steel arteries, advertisements flashing like false prophets promising wealth and belonging. Up here, under the indifferent gaze of the stars, Jack and Jeeny stood on opposite sides of a low concrete wall, two small silhouettes in a world built too large.

Jack leaned against the railing, his sharp features lit faintly by the red blink of a nearby antenna. Jeeny stood with her arms folded, the wind whipping her dark hair into her face, her expression measured, thoughtful, and alive with something that could only be called sorrow.

Jeeny: (softly) “John C. Bogle once said, ‘The malfeasance and misjudgments by our corporate, financial and government leaders, declining ethical standards, and the failure of our new agency society reflect a failure of capitalism.’”

Jack: (dryly, with a low chuckle) “Bogle — the father of index funds — calling out capitalism. That’s irony at its most poetic.”

Jeeny: (looking out over the skyline) “Not irony. Clarity. He built a system, then lived long enough to see it devour itself.”

Host: The wind rose, rattling a loose metal sheet nearby, its sound echoing like a hollow coin spinning endlessly. The night was cold — not from temperature, but from truth.

Jack: “Capitalism didn’t fail. People did. Systems don’t have morals. They just follow the hands that feed them.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when those hands forget they’re human?”

Jack: (pausing) “Then they build machines to do the forgetting for them.”

Jeeny: (turning to face him) “Exactly. That’s what Bogle meant. The system stopped serving people and started consuming them. Ethics became inefficiency. Greed became policy.”

Host: Her voice was calm but cut through the air like a blade — the kind of truth that doesn’t shout because it doesn’t have to. The lights from the skyscrapers reflected in her eyes — small, trembling constellations of human vanity.

Jack: “You talk like you want to tear the whole thing down.”

Jeeny: “No. I just want to remind it of its soul.”

Jack: (snorting) “Capitalism doesn’t have a soul. It has shareholders.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the problem. It was supposed to have citizens, not shareholders. Communities, not commodities.”

Host: The city’s sirens howled somewhere in the distance — the background music of a society that had grown used to its own emergencies. The wind carried a torn flyer past them — a politician’s face, smiling brightly, the word INTEGRITY still legible above the rip.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? Every time capitalism breaks, people act shocked. As if it wasn’t designed to reward the few at the expense of the rest.”

Jeeny: (firmly) “That’s not true. It was designed to reward effort, not exploitation. But we blurred the line until they became the same thing.”

Jack: “And now we’re surprised that the world’s full of hustlers instead of builders.”

Jeeny: “Because we made integrity optional. We turned morality into a market. Once you can price a virtue, it’s no longer a virtue — it’s a product.”

Host: The neon sign on a nearby building flickered, the word TRUST blinking on and off until it simply gave up. Below, the streetlights burned steadily — artificial stars for an artificial order.

Jack: (bitterly) “You sound like an idealist. The world runs on incentives, not ideals.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to reprice what we value. If success costs integrity, maybe the price is wrong.”

Jack: (smirking) “You think ethics can compete with profit?”

Jeeny: (quietly, fiercely) “No. But they can outlast it.”

Host: The wind howled louder, pulling at their coats, as if trying to sweep them into the truth they were both circling. The air between them felt charged — not with argument, but with something deeper: recognition.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe the market was self-correcting. That greed, when organized, somehow balanced itself out.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t balance — it metastasizes. It’s like a flame that eats not only the fuel but the house that holds it.”

Jack: “And yet, people keep believing. Keep buying. Keep borrowing.”

Jeeny: “Because hope is the one currency we can’t counterfeit. Even when the vault’s empty.”

Host: Silence fell. The city below them kept glowing, oblivious. From this height, the lights looked almost pure — as if the sins of those who built them had burned away with distance.

Jeeny: “Bogle didn’t condemn capitalism to destroy it. He warned it because he believed in what it could have been. A tool for stewardship, not plunder.”

Jack: “But stewardship doesn’t sell. Responsibility doesn’t trend.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the revolution isn’t in tearing the system down. Maybe it’s in remembering how to use it without losing ourselves.”

Host: The rain began, soft at first, then steady — a quiet cleansing that the city didn’t notice. Jeeny tilted her face upward, eyes closed, letting the drops find her. Jack watched her — for once, saying nothing.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent.

Jack: “You think redemption’s possible for something built on greed?”

Jeeny: (opening her eyes) “Only if it learns to share.”

Host: The camera of thought pulled back, revealing the vast sprawl of the city beneath them — every skyscraper a confession, every window a compromise. The rain shimmered in the air, falling over a world that had forgotten how to wash its own conscience.

And in that moment, John C. Bogle’s words resonated, no longer a critique, but a prophecy:

That capitalism, without conscience,
is not progress, but predation.

That when profit eclipses principle,
the system ceases to serve humanity —
and begins to consume it.

That every market correction means nothing
without a moral correction to match.

And that the true wealth of a nation
is not measured in currency or stock,
but in the character of those who lead
and the dignity of those who follow.

Host: The rain fell harder now, drumming against the concrete, washing away the dust, though not yet the guilt.

Jack looked at Jeeny — soaked, resolute, radiant in the storm’s half-light.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe the failure isn’t capitalism. Maybe it’s us.”

Jeeny: (nodding, softly) “And maybe that means the repair starts there too.”

Host: The city flickered, lightning cracked, and for a brief, breathtaking moment, the skyline looked pure — as if even greed could be forgiven under the right kind of rain.