There is nothing that so much gratifies an ill tongue as when it

Host: The bar was nearly empty, the neon lights outside blinking in slow exhaustion, casting a blue haze over the tables and the smoke that hung like ghosts in the air. The night rain tapped against the windows, steady, patient, as if the sky itself were listening.

Host: At the far end, Jack sat alone, a glass of whiskey before him, the amber liquid catching the faint light like a dying ember. His shirt sleeves were rolled, his tie loosened, his expression that of a man who had been arguing with the world too long.

Host: Jeeny entered quietly, her coat damp, her eyes soft, but her voice steady when she spoke.

Jeeny: “Thomas Fuller once said, ‘There is nothing that so much gratifies an ill tongue as when it finds an angry heart.’ You’re feeding someone’s feast, Jack.”

Jack: (without looking up) “If you’re here to talk in riddles, I’ve had enough sermons for the night.”

Jeeny: “Not a sermon. Just truth. You’ve been angry all week. And every word that’s come back to you has been sharpened by it.”

Host: Jack’s fingers drummed the table, his jaw tightening. The bartender moved in the background, a silent witness polishing glasses that no one would touch again tonight.

Jack: “You think my anger’s the problem? Maybe it’s the people who keep giving me reasons to have one.”

Jeeny: “That’s how they win, Jack. They don’t have to break you—they just have to make you angry.”

Jack: (snapping) “You think I don’t know that?”

Jeeny: “Then why do you keep letting them?”

Host: The room fell into stillness, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound between them. Jeeny stepped closer, the light from the window catching the rain in her hair, turning it to silver threads.

Jack: “You ever had someone twist your words? Take your silence for weakness? Smile while stabbing you in the back? You tell me not to be angry, Jeeny—but you haven’t lived in my skin.”

Jeeny: “I’m not asking you not to feel it. I’m asking you not to serve it.”

Jack: “Serve it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every time you raise your voice, every time you let that fury run loose, the ones who wronged you smile. Because now you’re not the wounded man—you’re the fool who proves them right.”

Host: The ice in his glass had melted, the liquid now flat and golden, like a memory gone stale. Jack’s hand tightened around it until his knuckles whitened.

Jack: “You want me to play saint? To smile while they spit on my name?”

Jeeny: “No. Just don’t hand them your soul wrapped in your temper.”

Jack: “You make it sound like anger’s a gift I can just return.”

Jeeny: “It is. The moment you stop giving it away, it stops owning you.”

Host: The bar light flickered, and for a brief second, the reflection of Jack’s face in the mirror behind the counter looked like a stranger—a man haunted, not by others, but by his own reaction to them.

Jeeny: “You know how gossip works, right? It doesn’t thrive on truth. It feeds on fury. One angry heart, and a thousand tongues feast. That’s what Fuller meant.”

Jack: (dryly) “So I’m the buffet now?”

Jeeny: “You always were, Jack. You just never noticed how much of yourself you were letting them eat.”

Host: A pause, heavy as smoke. Jeeny moved closer, her voice low, but each word sharp as steel.

Jeeny: “Every rumor, every whisper—they only stick when they find someone loud enough to echo them. You’re giving your enemies an orchestra.”

Jack: “Maybe I’m just tired of swallowing everything. I spent years holding it in, and what did that get me? Ulcers and sleepless nights.”

Jeeny: “And this will get you what—vindication? You think rage will make them believe you’re right? No. It’ll make them certain you’re broken.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, sheets of water washing the window, distorting the neon sign into blurred letters that read like an omen.

Jack: “You ever notice how the world respects anger in men but fears it in women? You get to talk about peace, and they call you wise. I talk about justice, and they call me dangerous.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t give them the show they expect. They’ve already written the script—you just keep reading it.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “So what, I play quiet while they tear everything down?”

Jeeny: “No. You rebuild quietly. That’s how you starve their tongues.”

Host: The tension was palpable, electric, like a storm trapped inside four walls. Jack’s breath was uneven, but the anger in his eyes was beginning to shift, softening into something else—exhaustion, maybe even recognition.

Jeeny: “You remember Socrates? They mocked him. They slandered him. But he never shouted back. His calm drove them mad because they couldn’t feed on it.”

Jack: “And they killed him anyway.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But they couldn’t kill his truth.”

Host: The rain’s rhythm slowed. The clock above the bar ticked, the sound suddenly too loud, marking the space between their words.

Jack: “You think that’s what truth looks like now? Silence?”

Jeeny: “No. It looks like control. Silence isn’t surrender—it’s strategy.”

Jack: “Then why does it feel like losing?”

Jeeny: “Because you’ve mistaken noise for power.”

Host: The bartender turned off the radio, leaving only the sound of rain dripping from the roof. The world felt smaller, quieter, more honest.

Jack: (after a long silence) “You know… there’s something rotten in me when I get like this. Like I can feel it—boiling. It’s not just anger. It’s hunger.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s what they want—to make you hungry for their approval. Every time you lash out, you feed them.”

Jack: “And when I don’t?”

Jeeny: “You starve their gossip to death.”

Host: A thin smile crossed Jack’s lips, though it was sad, more confession than relief.

Jack: “You make it sound like peace is revenge.”

Jeeny: “It is. The kind that lasts.”

Host: The lights dimmed, and the bar seemed to exhale. Jeeny reached for her coat, her eyes meeting his, steady and unflinching.

Jeeny: “You’ll never control what they say about you, Jack. But you can control how much of yourself you hand them. Stop giving your anger away like charity.”

Jack: (softly) “You really think I can stop?”

Jeeny: “Not tonight. But maybe tomorrow. When you realize silence isn’t weakness—it’s strength measured.”

Host: The rain stopped. The city lights bled back into clarity, reflections sharp again in the window glass. Jack watched them, the whiskey untouched now, the fire in his chest no longer raging, just glowing faintly—contained, alive, but no longer in command.

Jack: “Funny thing, Jeeny. The quieter it gets, the more honest I feel.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “That’s because honesty doesn’t shout, Jack. It stands still and waits for the echo to die.”

Host: The neon sign outside flickered once more, its light painting both their faces in blue calm. And for the first time, the silence between them didn’t feel like distance—it felt like truce.

Host: Beyond the bar’s door, the world kept murmuring, but in that small, fragile space, an angry heart had finally gone quiet, leaving the ill tongues of the world to starve in their own noise.