What the media misses is the amount of anger that's out there.

Host: The bar was nearly empty — a Thursday night teetering on the edge of quiet despair. The television above the counter flickered between channels: a news panel arguing about the election, faces tense and pixelated under artificial light. Outside, rain streaked down the window glass, dragging the city’s neon reflections into long, trembling colors.

Jack sat at the far end, nursing a glass of whiskey, the ice melting into amber stillness. Jeeny joined him, a coat damp from the weather, her eyes sharp with that restless awareness that saw through more than it said.

The television blared briefly — Steve Bannon’s recorded voice echoed:
“What the media misses is the amount of anger that's out there. Trump didn't create that.”

The bartender turned it down, but the words lingered like smoke.

Jeeny: “Anger. That’s the one export America never runs out of.”

Host: Jack gave a low, humorless chuckle, the kind that came from somewhere beneath fatigue.

Jack: “Don’t pretend it’s just America. Every country’s full of people waiting to explode. We just televise it better.”

Jeeny: “And monetize it better.”

Host: Jack took a slow sip, the liquid warmth fading down his throat.

Jack: “You think Bannon’s wrong?”

Jeeny: “No. He’s right. Trump didn’t invent anger. He just found it. Like a miner who didn’t dig the gold, just knew where to dig.”

Jack: “You make it sound strategic.”

Jeeny: “It was. He didn’t create the fire; he learned how to sell the smoke.”

Host: Jack leaned back in his seat, his eyes catching the flickering TV light, his expression unreadable.

Jack: “And the media helped him. They always do. They think they’re reporting; they’re just reflecting. Anger loves a mirror.”

Jeeny: “No, anger loves an echo. That’s what we’ve become — a world of echo chambers screaming into each other’s silence.”

Host: The bar’s jukebox clicked softly to life, an old blues song drifting through the air — weary, haunting, human.

Jack: “You think all this rage came out of nowhere? Decades of ignored voices, shrinking paychecks, dying towns. Then someone finally says, ‘You’ve been cheated,’ and people listen — not because it’s true, but because it’s familiar.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Familiar pain is easier to believe than unfamiliar solutions. The media missed it because it doesn’t live there. Anger doesn’t exist in air-conditioned studios. It lives in houses where the heat bill can’t be paid.”

Jack: “You’re defending them now?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m explaining them. There’s a difference. The media treats anger like a symptom; I think it’s the diagnosis.”

Host: Jack’s fingers drummed against the glass, his voice quiet but cutting.

Jack: “Anger’s addictive. Once people taste it, they stop wanting justice — they want vengeance. It’s cleaner. Easier to sell.”

Jeeny: “But that’s because vengeance feels like power. Even if it’s borrowed.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, pounding softly against the windows, like applause for some invisible argument.

Jack: “You know what gets me, Jeeny? Everyone blames the media, or politicians, or billionaires — but nobody blames the silence that came before it. All those years people kept their mouths shut, swallowing humiliation. That’s the soil where rage grows.”

Jeeny: “And then someone comes along and waters it with attention. That’s all people really wanted — to be seen.”

Jack: “Seen? Or validated?”

Jeeny: “Both. It’s a thin line, Jack. People mistake attention for respect all the time.”

Host: Jack tilted his head, studying her.

Jack: “So what do we do? Start listening to every angry voice? Even the ones filled with hate?”

Jeeny: “Especially those. Because hate is often grief that never learned how to speak.”

Host: Jack’s brow furrowed, his tone sharp.

Jack: “You sound like a therapist for chaos. Some of that hate isn’t grief, Jeeny — it’s entitlement. It’s the rage of people who can’t stand losing privilege.”

Jeeny: “True. But even entitlement has a wound underneath it — fear of irrelevance. Fear of becoming invisible.”

Jack: “So we empathize with the oppressors now?”

Jeeny: “No. We understand them so we can disarm them. You can’t dismantle a system you refuse to look at.”

Host: The lights flickered once as thunder rolled in the distance, a low rumble like the sound of collective unrest.

Jack: “The media never really wanted to look, did they? Anger doesn’t fit the narrative. It doesn’t smile for the camera. It doesn’t conform to soundbites.”

Jeeny: “Because real anger isn’t performative. It’s quiet. It’s the pause before the scream. It’s the man who can’t feed his kids. The woman working three jobs who still can’t afford rent. Those people aren’t on talk shows. They’re invisible until they riot.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened — just slightly.

Jack: “You ever think we’re afraid to admit that anger makes sense? Because once you do, you have to fix something.”

Jeeny: “And fixing things doesn’t sell ads.”

Host: Jack laughed quietly — not joyfully, but like a man who’d finally accepted irony as his only comfort.

Jack: “You know what’s crazy? We built an entire industry on misunderstanding. The media pretends to decode anger, but all they do is monetize confusion.”

Jeeny: “Because confusion keeps people watching. Certainty ends the show.”

Host: The bartender walked by, wiped the counter, then disappeared into the back. The barroom was theirs now — a cathedral of quiet dissent.

Jeeny: “It’s easy to condemn anger when you don’t feel powerless. But anger’s the last language of the unseen.”

Jack: “And yet, once anger finds a stage, it stops being truth and starts being theater.”

Jeeny: “That’s only because the audience wants performance, not reckoning.”

Host: Jack looked at her, then at the TV again, where another panel of polished faces argued about “division” and “healing.”

Jack: “You know, Bannon was right. Trump didn’t create the anger. He just branded it. Like a logo you can wear.”

Jeeny: “And the media sold it back to us as fear. Fear sells better than hope — always has.”

Jack: “So where does that leave us? If anger’s real, and manipulation’s inevitable, what’s left?”

Jeeny: “Responsibility. To listen without liking. To see without agreeing. To recognize without excusing.”

Host: Jack’s jaw loosened, his voice quiet.

Jack: “That sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: “It is. But so is pretending the fire doesn’t exist while we breathe its smoke.”

Host: The rain softened, turning to a steady whisper against the glass. The TV volume dimmed further until the voices were only flickers of light on their faces.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange — we’re living in a time where people don’t want truth. They want validation.”

Jeeny: “Validation feels like truth because it’s warm. Truth’s colder. Harder to hold.”

Jack: “So what happens when anger becomes our warmth?”

Jeeny: “Then we freeze from the inside out.”

Host: Silence settled — heavy, dense, honest. The two sat there, each lost in the hum of their own reflection. Outside, the city pulsed with lights that looked like veins under glass — alive, restless, unsleeping.

Jack: “Maybe Bannon saw the anger. Maybe he even understood it. But he used it — and that’s the difference. Some people study fires. Others sell gasoline.”

Jeeny: “And some of us are still trying to build homes in the ashes.”

Host: The rain stopped completely. The neon reflections on the window steadied into calm lines of red and blue.

Jack raised his glass, his voice low but sincere.

Jack: “To anger — the only honest emotion left in politics.”

Jeeny: “No. To understanding it — before it consumes everything else.”

Host: Their glasses clinked softly — a quiet sound amid the silence of a world spinning faster than its conscience.

The camera lingered on the bar’s window — the blurred city beyond it, pulsing with unseen stories, unheard voices, and all the anger the media couldn’t quite translate.

Then, slowly, the light faded — leaving only the faint glow of the TV and the echo of rain that had already fallen.