We don't seem to be able to check crime, so why not legalize it

Host: The city glowed like a wound at midnight — too bright, too restless, too alive for its own good. The streets were slick from a passing rain, reflecting signs and sirens in streaks of red and blue. Above it all, the skyline pulsed like a heartbeat — steady, mechanical, indifferent.

At the corner of Main and 12th, a small diner clung to the edge of the night. Its neon sign buzzed, half-dead: OPEN 24 HOURS. Inside, the hum of fluorescent light mixed with the low crackle of an old radio. Coffee steamed. Time slowed.

Jack sat in a booth, coat draped over the seat beside him, a newspaper spread open on the table. Across from him, Jeeny sipped from a chipped mug, watching him over the rim. The world outside ran on chaos. The diner ran on caffeine and argument.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that headline for ten minutes. You gonna read it or wrestle it?”

Jack: “Both, maybe. City crime rate’s up again. Every election, someone promises to fix it, and every year, the numbers climb higher.”

Jeeny: “Because they’re fixing symptoms, not systems.”

Jack: “You sound like a campaign slogan.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a cynic with a subscription.”

Jack: “I’m just tired of people pretending the moral compass isn’t broken. Will Rogers said it best — ‘We don’t seem to be able to check crime, so why not legalize it and then tax it out of business?’ Maybe he was joking, but hell, he wasn’t wrong.”

Jeeny: “You really think crime’s that simple? Just legalize it, slap a tax on it, and call it innovation?”

Jack: “Look around, Jeeny. Half the things that used to be illegal are billion-dollar industries now — gambling, weed, debt. We didn’t fix human nature. We just found a way to bill it.”

Jeeny: “So your grand moral philosophy is capitalism as therapy?”

Jack: “Call it what you want. People don’t change through shame. They change through price tags.”

Host: The rain started again, whispering against the windows. The neon outside flickered, painting the diner in pink and gold, like some cheap imitation of heaven.

Jeeny: “You really think profit can replace conscience?”

Jack: “Conscience is subjective. Balance sheets aren’t.”

Jeeny: “That’s terrifying.”

Jack: “It’s reality. You can’t outlaw human hunger — only redirect it.”

Jeeny: “So you’d make vice a market?”

Jack: “Already is. People pay to lie, cheat, steal — they just call it branding, lobbying, or finance.”

Jeeny: “You’re equating greed with freedom.”

Jack: “No. I’m equating honesty with progress. At least the devil’s up front about what he’s selling.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re defending corruption.”

Jack: “I’m diagnosing it. Civilization’s just organized crime with better fonts.”

Host: The waitress came by, refilled their mugs, and walked off without a word — like someone who’d heard this conversation too many times in too many decades. Outside, a siren wailed, fading into the hum of tires on wet pavement.

Jeeny: “You ever get tired of being right and hopeless at the same time?”

Jack: “Every day.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem. We’ve accepted cynicism as intelligence.”

Jack: “And we’ve mistaken hope for naivety.”

Jeeny: “Hope’s not naïve, Jack. It’s revolutionary.”

Jack: “Tell that to the people cashing in on despair.”

Jeeny: “You think crime is inevitable?”

Jack: “Of course it is. Laws are just lines we draw to make order out of appetite. People cross them because appetite doesn’t negotiate.”

Jeeny: “Then why even bother?”

Jack: “Because pretending we’re better than we are is cheaper than admitting we’re not.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked past midnight. The radio played something soft — an old jazz tune, the kind that sounded like it was recorded underwater. The diner was nearly empty now.

Jeeny: “You know what’s worse than crime, Jack?”

Jack: “Surprise me.”

Jeeny: “A society that’s stopped being shocked by it. We read about murders like weather reports. Fraud like fiction. Corruption like clockwork. That’s the real sickness — not what people do, but how quickly we normalize it.”

Jack: “Maybe normalization’s the only way to survive the chaos.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s how we become complicit in it.”

Jack: “So what — you’d rather live angry?”

Jeeny: “I’d rather live awake.”

Jack: “Awareness is exhausting.”

Jeeny: “So is apathy — it just kills you slower.”

Host: A moment of silence settled between them. The kind that feels heavier than words. The neon outside blinked once, twice, then stayed dark — the sign finally surrendering to fatigue.

Jack: “You ever think Rogers was being serious?”

Jeeny: “He was being American. Humor’s the only way to speak truth without getting crucified for it.”

Jack: “He joked so people could laugh before they realized he was right.”

Jeeny: “That’s the art of it. Make people smile while you’re cutting into their conscience.”

Jack: “You think we could ever do that now?”

Jeeny: “Not in a world where outrage is currency. People don’t want wit anymore — they want war.”

Jack: “Then maybe the smartest crime is keeping your mouth shut.”

Jeeny: “No. The smartest crime is still telling the truth.”

Host: The door bell jingled faintly as a gust of wind entered the diner. For a second, the sound of rain was louder than everything else — purifying, relentless, almost holy.

Jack: “You ever think crime isn’t about breaking laws, but about breaking limits?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But there’s a difference between rebellion and rot.”

Jack: “And who decides the difference?”

Jeeny: “The ones who can live with their reflection.”

Jack: “Then we’re all guilty.”

Jeeny: “No. Just human.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Jeeny: “Not yet.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back — the diner glowing faintly in the endless city night, a fragile outpost of conversation in a world addicted to noise. The rain blurred everything outside the glass — the streets, the faces, even the horizon.

Host: Because Will Rogers was right — we don’t seem to be able to check crime.
We build laws to contain it,
we build systems to excuse it,
and when both fail,
we build economies around it.

Maybe the answer isn’t punishment or profit,
but humility —
the courage to admit that vice is just virtue without restraint,
that darkness isn’t outside the city,
but written in its blueprints.

And as Jack and Jeeny sat in that flickering light,
two tired souls talking over coffee and thunder,
the truth hung between them like neon:

Maybe the only way to tax crime out of business
is to stop pretending
it doesn’t pay.