The truly powerful feed ideology to the masses like fast food

Host: The night was heavy with smog and truths unspoken. From the rooftop of a derelict high-rise, the city sprawled below like a circuit board of neon lies — streets pulsing with the dull glow of advertisements, screens flashing promises that tasted like sugar and burned like acid. The air smelled of rain, metal, and the faint scent of something burning.

Jack stood near the edge, a cigarette glowing between his fingers, the smoke curling upward like a confession lost to the wind. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the concrete, her laptop open beside her, the blue light flickering across her face like an electronic halo.

Jeeny: “Naomi Klein once said, ‘The truly powerful feed ideology to the masses like fast food while they dine on the most rarified delicacy of all: impunity.’” (She looked up at him.) “Doesn’t that sound like the world we’re living in right now?”

Jack: (without turning) “Sounds like the world we’ve always lived in. Only difference is, the menu’s digital now.”

Host: Below them, a billboard flickered — a smiling face holding a burger the size of a dream, beneath it the words: ‘Happiness, Just $2.99.’ The light strobed over Jack’s face, half-illuminating the cynicism in his eyes.

Jeeny: “But she’s right, Jack. Power doesn’t just oppress anymore — it seduces. It gives people illusions to chew on. It’s not about chains; it’s about distraction.”

Jack: (smirking) “Yeah. Bread and circuses. The Romans figured that out two thousand years ago. We just added Wi-Fi.”

Host: The wind picked up, scattering papers and the smell of wet asphalt. From somewhere below, a siren wailed — distant, constant, like the city’s mechanical heartbeat.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like it’s inevitable. Like the system can’t be changed.”

Jack: “Because it can’t — not when the people being manipulated think they’re the ones in control. You give them slogans to chant, hashtags to post, villains to hate — and they think they’re rebelling. Meanwhile, the real power just keeps eating, quietly, politely, with silver cutlery.”

Jeeny: (closing her laptop slowly) “That’s too bleak, even for you. I don’t think it’s hopeless. I think awareness still matters. Every truth exposed, every lie challenged — that’s a crack in the system.”

Jack: “Cracks don’t matter if the walls rebuild themselves overnight.”

Host: The rain began to fall — slow, deliberate, as if the sky itself were hesitant to commit. Drops slid down Jack’s jacket, catching the light from the city below. Jeeny stood, her hair darkening as it soaked through, but her eyes burned brighter.

Jeeny: “But look around you, Jack. People are waking up. Climate protests, labor strikes, whistleblowers, journalists risking their lives — that’s not compliance. That’s courage.”

Jack: “And yet, the billionaires keep flying their private jets, the politicians keep cashing their donors’ checks, and the world keeps turning toward profit like it’s the only sun we know.”

Jeeny: “Because cynicism is easy. But cynicism doesn’t feed the hungry. It doesn’t heal anything.”

Jack: (turning now, his voice sharp) “Neither does false hope. That’s the fast food she was talking about. Ideology — served hot and empty. Left or right, green or red — it’s all branding. The flavor changes, but the chef’s the same.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming on the metal rails, the sound like a thousand small truths knocking to be heard. Jeeny’s face was wet, but her expression held steady — defiance born not of anger, but compassion.

Jeeny: “You think everyone’s blind, Jack. But people feel when something’s wrong. That’s why movements happen. That’s why revolutions start — not because someone’s selling an idea, but because someone finally refuses to buy one.”

Jack: “And how long before that movement gets bought out, sponsored, sanitized? Look at every revolution — France, Russia, Egypt — the slogans change, the leaders change, but power just slips into new hands and keeps eating.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But every revolution still leaves a residue. It teaches, it burns, it evolves. Change doesn’t happen once, it happens in layers — like erosion. You can’t always see it, but it’s shaping the cliffs.”

Host: Lightning cracked across the horizon, revealing for a heartbeat the cityscape below — glittering, monstrous, breathtaking. The skyscrapers looked like altars to invisible gods, their windows filled with silent worshippers working overtime.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe in redemption — in systems, in people.”

Jeeny: “I believe in responsibility. That’s what Klein meant by impunity. The powerful keep dining because they’ve forgotten consequence. But consequence always comes — maybe not today, maybe not through justice, but through collapse. History doesn’t forget greed. It just waits for it to fall.”

Jack: “And who cleans up after the fall?”

Jeeny: “We do. The same ones who always have. The ones who were never invited to the table.”

Host: Her words lingered like smoke. The rain softened again, turning to mist. Jack’s cigarette was long gone, its ember drowned. He looked out at the skyline — not with the disdain of a cynic, but with the hollow recognition of a man who’s seen too much truth to feel anything simple.

Jack: (quietly) “You think the powerful ever feel guilty?”

Jeeny: “No. But guilt isn’t the only teacher. Fear works too. And one day, they’ll fear losing what they’ve hoarded. Because even impunity isn’t immortal.”

Host: The wind shifted. A single paper flyer from the street below caught the current and spiraled upward, brushing past them — a weathered poster for a protest long gone. On it, faded but legible, were the words: “We are more than what we’re sold.”

Jeeny reached out, caught the flyer, and pressed it gently against the railing to keep it from flying away.

Jeeny: “See? Even words can climb.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Or fall from higher places.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe that’s how truth survives — in the fall and the rise.”

Host: The lightning flared again, followed by a rolling thunder that shook the air. The city didn’t flinch. It kept glowing, kept moving, kept selling. But up on that roof, something shifted — something small, human, irreducible.

Jack and Jeeny stood in the rain, two silhouettes cut against a horizon of noise and illusion, holding a conversation that power would never hear — and never understand.

Jack: “So, what now?”

Jeeny: “Now we keep watching. Keep speaking. Keep choosing not to be fed.”

Host: The storm broke into a steady rhythm, cleansing the night. Below them, the billboards dimmed for a moment as the power grid flickered, plunging the skyline into brief, startling darkness.

For that one second, the city forgot its illusions. No advertisements. No glow. Just silence — and truth.

Then, as quickly as it had vanished, the light returned. The fast food of ideology resumed its feed. But something had changed — in them, in the air, in the unseen future.

Host: Because even in a world where the powerful feast on impunity, there remain those who refuse to eat lies — those who hunger for meaning, who choose awareness over appetite, who rise in quiet defiance, even on rooftops under rain.

And as the storm finally passed, the city below seemed to whisper its reluctant agreement:
that truth, however oblique, still belongs to those brave enough to taste hunger.