Why does man kill? He kills for food. And not only food:

Host: The bar was half-empty, lit in a soft haze of amber and smoke, the kind of place where the stools creaked like old memories and the jukebox only played songs that sounded like sighs. The rain outside made slow rivers down the windows, each droplet reflecting fragments of the neon sign that buzzed faintly: “THE BLUE MIRROR.”

Jack sat at the counter, shoulders hunched, a glass of whiskey in front of him — half full, or half gone, depending on your level of optimism. His grey eyes were distant, locked somewhere between thought and fatigue. Jeeny sat beside him, stirring her gin with a cocktail straw, the ice clinking like small arguments in glass.

The bartender, a man with the kind of face that had seen too many years and too few tips, wiped down the counter while pretending not to listen. Behind the bar, a small chalkboard read, in crooked handwriting:

“Why does man kill? He kills for food. And not only food: frequently there must be a beverage.”
— Woody Allen

Jeeny looked at it, smiled, and took a slow sip.

Jeeny: “Dark humor — the only philosophy that fits in a shot glass.”

Jack: “Yeah. Woody Allen had a way of making tragedy sound polite.”

Host: The rain picked up again outside, its rhythm syncing with the low jazz track drifting from an unseen speaker. Jeeny tilted her head, eyes following the words on the chalkboard.

Jeeny: “You know, the joke works because it’s absurd — but it’s also honest. Everything man does starts with hunger. For food, for power, for attention, for something to fill the space.”

Jack: “And when he can’t fill it, he destroys it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Consumption and destruction — the same muscle, just flexed differently.”

Host: Jack turned the glass slowly between his fingers, the light catching the gold liquid like fire tamed in glass.

Jack: “So we kill for hunger. And we drink for what? To forget it?”

Jeeny: “To remember it hurts less than emptiness.”

Host: The bartender gave a soft chuckle — the sound of someone who’d seen too much of both. Jeeny ignored it, her gaze still fixed on the quote.

Jeeny: “You know, when Allen said that line, he wasn’t talking about murder. He was talking about absurdity — the way humans make excuses for their instincts. We like to think we’re civilized, but under the right light, we’re all just animals with better vocabulary.”

Jack: “And better bars.”

Jeeny: “And worse self-awareness.”

Host: A car horn blared outside, distant and impatient, breaking the rhythm for just a moment. Then the world settled again, the hum of rain swallowing everything.

Jack: “You ever notice that every act of violence starts with a simple need? A resource, a wound, a belief. But then we dress it up in ideology to make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “That’s because guilt needs a costume.”

Jack: “And humor’s the only thing that sees through it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why Allen made jokes about morality — because it’s the only way to look at human absurdity without losing your mind.”

Host: She leaned forward, her chin resting lightly on her hand. The light from the bar lamp framed her in soft gold, the rest of the room fading into gentle shadow.

Jeeny: “We call it civilization, but really, it’s just creative appetite. We devour differently now. Instead of meat, we consume attention. Instead of conquest, we seek validation. The instinct’s the same — just better marketed.”

Jack: “So, what you’re saying is we’re all still killers — just more polite about it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Emotional cannibals with Wi-Fi.”

Host: Jack laughed quietly, a short, genuine sound that startled even him. He raised his glass slightly, like a salute.

Jack: “To the modern killers — may we always find better beverages.”

Jeeny: “And better excuses.”

Host: The bartender smirked and poured another round without being asked. The new whiskey glowed in the glass like liquid philosophy.

Jack: “You ever think humor’s the only way to tell the truth anymore? People can’t take sincerity. It’s too raw. Too close.”

Jeeny: “Humor’s anesthesia. It lets you say what you mean without bleeding out.”

Jack: “Then Allen was a surgeon.”

Jeeny: “A very neurotic surgeon, yes.”

Host: The rain slowed, and a soft mist began to gather outside. Jack’s reflection flickered in the window — a man mid-thought, half-shadow, half-memory.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that quote? It’s disguised philosophy. Beneath the joke, he’s saying — man kills because he can’t stop wanting. There’s no end to desire. You can feed it, drown it, toast to it — it never dies.”

Jack: “And the beverage?”

Jeeny: “A symbol. A confession. The little indulgence we use to justify the big one.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, staring into his glass as though it might offer an answer.

Jack: “So, in the end, we kill to live, and drink to forget living.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe we drink to survive the irony.”

Host: A soft smile flickered at her lips. She took another sip, eyes half-closed, as if savoring both the burn and the truth beneath it.

Jeeny: “That’s the genius of dark humor. It takes everything unbearable and gives it rhythm. We laugh not because it’s funny — but because if we didn’t, we’d scream.”

Jack: “You ever think that maybe laughter’s our last form of innocence?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s our most elegant surrender.”

Host: The jukebox switched songs — a low, sultry blues track. The sound filled the space like a slow heartbeat.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe Allen was saying that man kills because he can’t handle being hungry and sober at the same time.”

Jack: “And maybe the tragedy is, that’s exactly what makes him human.”

Host: For a while, neither spoke. The bar fell into that beautiful kind of silence that feels earned — the silence that happens when truth has already been said.

Jeeny finally broke it, softly.

Jeeny: “You know, I think I envy that quote a little.”

Jack: “Why?”

Jeeny: “Because it laughs at despair and gets away with it.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what art is, Jeeny. The courage to tell the truth — and pour yourself a drink right after.”

Host: She smiled, tired but warm. Outside, the rain had stopped completely, leaving the streetlights shimmering on wet pavement like little constellations of reflection.

The bartender flipped the sign on the door to Closed. Jack and Jeeny stayed seated, their glasses nearly empty, the quiet stretching comfortably between them.

Host: And as the last note of the blues faded into silence, Woody Allen’s words lingered in the smoky air — dry, absurd, profound:

that humor is humanity’s last confession,
that beneath every joke lies a truth too sharp to face directly,
and that sometimes, to survive our own hunger,
we must laugh —
and raise a glass to the madness of it all.