We submit to the majority because we have to. But we are not

Host: The city council chamber was nearly empty now. The meeting had ended hours ago, but the air still vibrated with argument — the echoes of raised voices, the dry rattle of paper, the hollow applause of forced consensus. Outside, through the tall windows, the neon glow of the metropolis flickered, distorted by rain streaks on glass. Inside, beneath the faint hum of the fluorescent lights, Jack and Jeeny sat at the long wooden table that had witnessed compromise after compromise — the kind that looked like victory on paper but felt like surrender in the heart.

Jack loosened his tie, his expression sharp but tired. Jeeny leaned back in her chair, one hand tracing the rim of her empty coffee cup, her gaze distant but simmering.

Jeeny: quietly, but firm “Ambrose Bierce once said, ‘We submit to the majority because we have to. But we are not compelled to call our attitude of subjection a posture of respect.’”

Jack: half-laughing, without joy “That’s the most elegant way I’ve ever heard someone say, ‘I’m surrounded by idiots.’”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Or maybe it’s the most honest way to admit that democracy isn’t always dignified.”

Host: The rain tapped insistently against the glass — not a storm, but a steady reminder of time passing, of pressure building. The chamber’s microphones still glowed red, silent now, but ready to amplify the next polite lie.

Jack: leaning forward, his voice lower “You know, I love Bierce for this. He stripped the poetry out of politics. He understood that obedience isn’t the same as respect — it’s survival.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Yes. We follow the rules not because they’re right, but because breaking them costs too much. We call that civility.”

Jack: smirking bitterly “And we dress it up as maturity. As if moral surrender were a sign of sophistication.”

Host: The light from the streetlamps cast long shadows across their faces, stretching the lines of fatigue into something that looked almost like resignation. But in Jeeny’s eyes, a quiet fire burned — not anger, but conscience refusing to dim.

Jeeny: softly “Do you ever think the majority is just a polite mob? A crowd too comfortable to ask if it’s right?”

Jack: after a pause “Every day. Majority rule keeps the peace, but it doesn’t guarantee justice. You can count votes all you want — truth never needed permission.”

Jeeny: leaning forward now “That’s what Bierce meant. He wasn’t rejecting democracy — he was warning it. Submission may be required, but reverence is optional. You can obey without believing.”

Jack: with a wry smile “So cynicism becomes the last refuge of integrity.”

Jeeny: meeting his eyes “No, honesty does. Cynicism’s just the bruise honesty leaves behind.”

Host: The rain outside deepened, blurring the lights of the passing cars into streaks of color. The sound was hypnotic, rhythmic, like a heartbeat wrapped in static. Jack rose and walked to the window, hands in his pockets, his reflection staring back — fractured by raindrops and glass.

Jack: softly “I sat through that whole vote tonight knowing the outcome before it began. Every speech was rehearsed, every conscience pre-cleared. And when the gavel fell, we all applauded like actors hitting their marks.”

Jeeny: quietly, without looking up “Because that’s what institutions do — they rehearse agreement.”

Jack: turning back to her “And call it order.”

Jeeny: standing too “And if you question it, you’re branded difficult. Or disloyal. Or naïve.”

Jack: smiling bitterly “Respect, in this town, means silence dressed in diplomacy.”

Jeeny: softly “But silence is how the majority stays comfortable. Bierce understood that comfort is the enemy of courage.”

Host: The chamber lights dimmed automatically, leaving only the glow from the exit sign. The room felt heavier now — not from darkness, but from truth that refused to leave quietly.

Jack: leaning on the table, his voice lower now “You ever wonder how much of what we call civilization is just controlled submission? People learning how to lose gracefully.”

Jeeny: walking slowly toward him “Maybe that’s why respect feels so hollow these days. Because it’s been redefined as compliance. You don’t have to admire the system — you just have to not resist it.”

Jack: after a pause “And the moment you stop pretending, you’re dangerous.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “Because truth doesn’t fit on a ballot.”

Host: A flash of lightning lit the room, reflecting in the glass behind them — two silhouettes caught between obedience and defiance, between structure and conscience.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? Bierce called it subjection. But what he really meant was awareness — the clarity to follow without being fooled.”

Jack: nodding “Submission without reverence. Obedience with open eyes.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The quiet rebellion of the thinking mind.”

Host: The thunder rumbled faintly, long and low. Outside, the rain softened, becoming more like a whisper than a warning.

Jack: with a tired smile “You think that kind of awareness changes anything? Or just makes the weight of it heavier?”

Jeeny: gently “Awareness always hurts. But it’s the only thing that makes resistance possible. You can’t stand up to the system if you don’t first see through it.”

Jack: sighing, glancing toward the exit “And once you see through it, you can’t unsee it.”

Jeeny: quietly “That’s the price of honesty — clarity without comfort.”

Host: The last of the rain tapered off, leaving the air outside fresh, reflective, trembling with new silence. The city beyond the glass flickered like a constellation built on contradiction — dazzling, fragile, unrepentant.

Jack: after a pause “Maybe Bierce wasn’t cynical after all. Maybe he was just immune to illusion.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Maybe. Or maybe he just knew that real respect isn’t submission — it’s discernment.”

Jack: quietly “To see the flaw and still fight for the frame.”

Jeeny: “That’s it. The sacred paradox — to serve without worship, to follow without blindness.”

Host: The clock on the wall struck midnight, its chime soft, echoing through the empty room. The two of them stood in silence, the sound fading like the end of a prayer not meant for heaven but for history.

And in that silence, Ambrose Bierce’s words hovered in the air, precise and unyielding:

That obedience may be required,
but respect must be earned.

That submission is not agreement,
and that the majority may rule,
but conscience — conscience must remain free.

Jeeny looked toward the rain-washed city, her voice a whisper that trembled like the last flicker of the storm:

“Maybe the point isn’t to reject the majority.
Maybe it’s just to remember that truth has never needed one.”

Host: The lights flickered once more,
and in that brief pulse of brightness,
their reflections — clear, defiant, and alive —
stared back from the glass.

Outside, the city resumed its rhythm,
and the night — uneasy, but honest — carried on.