We don't get the greatest tools to deal with anger. It's like

Host: The night was quiet, but not peaceful — the kind of stillness that buzzed with tension beneath its skin. A distant freeway hummed like a restless heartbeat, and a streetlamp flickered, casting nervous light across the rooftop where Jack and Jeeny stood.

Below them, the city murmured — a sea of windows, voices, and regrets. The air smelled of rain, smoke, and the faint metallic tang of storm.

Jack leaned against the railing, his jaw tight, a half-smoked cigarette glowing between his fingers. His eyes were hard, focused on the skyline like he was trying to set it on fire with thought alone.

Jeeny stood a few steps behind, her arms crossed, hair moving in the wind, her expression caught between sympathy and defiance.

Jack: “Woody Harrelson once said, ‘We don't get the greatest tools to deal with anger. It's like, “Hey, count to 10.” When someone really upsets me, how do I respond? I don't usually start counting to 10 and breathing deeply.’”

(He takes a long drag, then exhales the smoke into the cold air.)
Jack: “And he’s right. Counting doesn’t fix rage, Jeeny. It just delays the explosion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point, Jack. Delaying gives you a choice. It’s not about suppressing anger — it’s about transforming it.”

Jack: “Transforming? Into what? Patience? Politeness? Anger is the only honest emotion we’ve got left. It’s the raw nerve of being human.”

Host: The wind picked up, snatching the smoke from his lips. The city lights blinked, and the rumble of thunder rolled somewhere in the distance, like the echo of his unspoken fury.

Jeeny: “Honesty doesn’t have to be destruction, Jack. You can be angry and still be awake. Anger is a signal, not a weapon.”

Jack: “Tell that to the people who’ve been pushed, lied to, humiliated. You think they need a signal, or a sword?”

Jeeny: “Both. But if you only ever swing, you never heal. Anger can ignite, but it can also consume. Look at history — it’s full of people who burned the world because they couldn’t cool their own hearts.”

Jack: “And just as full of people who changed it because they refused to. Martin Luther King was angry. Malcolm X was angry. Every revolution began with rage.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but they tempered it. They shaped it into justice, not revenge. There’s a difference between fire that lights and fire that devours.”

Host: A flash of lightning split the sky, throwing their faces into harsh contrast — Jack’s sharpened by cynicism, Jeeny’s illuminated by conviction. The rain started — a soft, steady fall like breath against stone.

Jack: “That sounds like a nice story, Jeeny. But in the real world, people don’t have time to be philosophers when they’re furious. You think a guy getting fired, or a mother who’s just lost her child, should sit down and count to ten?”

Jeeny: “No. I think they should feel it. But not live in it. Because if you build your home in anger, Jack, you’ll burn in your own fireplace.”

Jack: “And what’s the alternative? To swallow it? To pretend the world doesn’t hurt? That’s not peace, Jeeny — that’s numbness.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about pretending. It’s about channeling. You think Buddha never got angry? He just learned to see what was beneath it — fear, loss, love. Anger is a veil over something deeper.”

Jack: “Spare me the zen poetry. When someone betrays you, when someone uses you — there’s no depth, Jeeny. Just rage. Clean, pure, and righteous.”

Host: A crash of thunder rattled the metal railing, and for a moment, their voices were lost in the roar of the storm. The rain fell harder now, soaking through clothes, hair, words.

Jeeny: (raising her voice) “Righteous? That’s the word people use to justify violence. You think your anger makes you strong — but it’s controlling you, Jack. It’s not power. It’s a prison.”

Jack: (shouting back) “And you think your forgiveness makes you free? It’s just fear in disguise! You’re afraid to feel what’s real — afraid of the fire because you might get burned.”

Host: For a moment, there was only the rain, hammering against the roof, drumming like a thousand heartbeats. Jeeny stared, breathing hard, her eyes glossed with anger and pain, but not defeat.

Jeeny: “Maybe I am afraid. But I’d rather be scared and awake than angry and blind.”

Jack: “And I’d rather be angry than asleep.”

Host: The lightning faded, leaving a silence that felt almost holy. Jack dropped his cigarette, watched it sizzle out in the rainwater. His shoulders relaxed, the fight in his voice softening.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, when I was a kid, my father used to tell me to count to ten when I got mad. Once, he made me count while he was yelling at me. I got to seven before I snapped. I never forgave him. Not for the anger — but for making me feel like I had to hide it.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe he didn’t teach you wrong, Jack. Maybe he just didn’t teach you what comes after ten.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “And what’s that?”

Jeeny: “You breathe. You see. You choose. You turn the anger into something that doesn’t kill you.”

Host: The storm began to ease, the rain now a whisper, the city lights blurred behind a curtain of mist. Jack looked at her — really looked — and for the first time, his expression cracked, revealing a hint of vulnerability.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s possible. Maybe that’s all we’ve got — the chance to turn anger into understanding, not ash.”

Host: The wind stilled, the thunder rolled away into memory. The moon broke through the clouds, a pale, trembling light that fell across their faces.

Jeeny reached out, touching his hand, a small, quiet gesture that felt like forgiveness without words.

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe next time, I’ll try to make it to ten.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And if not — at least try to make it past seven.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the two figures on the rooftop, drenched, breathing, alive. The storm gone, but its echo still lingering — in the sky, in their eyes, in the quiet understanding that anger isn’t the enemy, but the teacher.

And as the rain faded, the city glowed beneath them — imperfect, restless, but forgiven.