You could be a corrupt doctor, but at least you have to go to the

Host:
The rain fell in long, cold sheets across the city skyline, washing the light from the glass towers into shimmering rivers that wound down the streets. The air was thick with the scent of wet asphalt and cigarette smoke, the kind of night where truth hides behind tired laughter.

Inside a dim bar, tucked between a law firm and a closed pharmacy, two figures sat across from each other at a scratched mahogany counter. The neon sign outside flickered—“OPEN”—though the place felt like it had forgotten what that word meant.

Jack sat hunched over a glass of bourbon, his tie loosened, the kind of exhaustion clinging to him that no sleep could fix. Jeeny leaned against the bar, her coat still dripping from the rain, her fingers circling the rim of her untouched drink. Between them lay a torn magazine clipping, the ink running slightly from the damp, bearing one sharp, cynical sentence:

“You could be a corrupt doctor, but at least you have to go to medical school first. Right?” – David Fahrenthold

Jeeny:
(reading the quote aloud, tone halfway between humor and despair)
“You could be a corrupt doctor, but at least you have to go to medical school first.”
(glances up at him)
He wasn’t wrong.

Jack:
(half-smiling, dryly)
No. Just painfully right. It’s funny, isn’t it? We built a world where corruption requires credentials.

Host:
The bartender passed behind them, silent as habit, leaving two napkins and the soft clink of refilled glasses. The neon glow painted their faces in alternating hues of red and blue—like sinners caught in police lights, or philosophers caught between cynicism and truth.

Jeeny:
(leans in slightly)
He was talking about politics, wasn’t he? How anyone can run for power—no training, no ethics, no proof of skill.

Jack:
(nodding, staring into his drink)
Exactly. Doctors study anatomy before they cut. Pilots train before they fly. But politicians? They just talk until we hand them the scalpel.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
And somehow, we call that democracy.

Jack:
Democracy’s beautiful in theory. In practice, it’s open-mic night for ambition.

Host:
The rain intensified, hammering against the windowpane, blurring the city lights into a watercolor of movement and decay. The air between them felt heavier now—weighted by the kind of silence that comes when cynicism starts to sound like truth.

Jeeny:
You sound like you’ve stopped believing in people.

Jack:
(sighs, rubbing his temple)
Not in people. Just in the systems they build. Systems that reward loudness over learning.

Jeeny:
(softly)
Maybe that’s what Fahrenthold meant. That we hold the wrong professions to the highest standards. We demand competence from the powerless and charisma from the powerful.

Jack:
(laughs bitterly)
Yeah. The world would rather be inspired than informed.

Jeeny:
(gently)
You sound angry.

Jack:
(shakes his head)
I’m tired. Angry would mean I still expect better.

Host:
A long pause stretched between them. The clock above the bar ticked, steady and indifferent. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed—a thin cry swallowed by the rain.

Jeeny:
(after a beat)
But you’re still here. Still talking about it. That’s something.

Jack:
(looks up, faint smile)
Talking’s all anyone does now. It’s the only free education left.

Jeeny:
(leans back, thoughtful)
You know, corruption’s the easy target in that quote. But I think Fahrenthold’s talking about responsibility. About how some professions force you to confront what you don’t know before you’re allowed to act.

Jack:
(raising an eyebrow)
And others reward you for pretending you already know everything.

Jeeny:
(nodding)
Exactly. The world’s full of self-taught experts who’ve never learned humility.

Host:
The bartender turned up the volume on a small TV above the bar. The evening news flickered to life—headlines of scandal, campaign donations, accusations dressed in polite smiles. Jack and Jeeny both looked up, the irony so thick it almost felt theatrical.

Jack:
(grimly)
See? Proof. No curriculum for conscience.

Jeeny:
(quietly)
Maybe conscience can’t be taught.

Jack:
Then it should at least be required.

Host:
The rain softened, but its rhythm lingered like a metronome for their thoughts. Jeeny’s gaze moved from the screen to the condensation sliding down her glass.

Jeeny:
I think people forget that corruption isn’t just theft—it’s indifference. It’s cutting corners when no one’s watching.

Jack:
(nods slowly)
Yeah. The disease isn’t greed. It’s the absence of self-respect.

Jeeny:
(after a pause)
You think the world could ever run on self-respect again?

Jack:
(looks up, voice quiet but steady)
Only if we start valuing integrity as much as intelligence.

Host:
The neon sign outside flickered again, bathing them briefly in a flash of blue before fading into shadow.

Jeeny:
(with a half-smile)
You’d make a good politician, Jack.

Jack:
(laughs, low and tired)
No, I’d make an honest one. And those never last long.

Jeeny:
(softly, smiling)
Maybe that’s why we need them anyway.

Jack:
(finishing his drink)
Maybe. But honesty doesn’t sell tickets. It doesn’t trend.

Jeeny:
No. But it heals.

Host:
The bar fell quiet again, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the heartbeat of rain against the roof. Outside, the city pulsed on—ambition and apathy sharing the same bloodstream.

Jeeny:
(looking toward the door)
You know, Fahrenthold’s line—it’s not cynical. It’s a dare.

Jack:
(turns toward her)
A dare?

Jeeny:
To earn what you demand. To know enough before you lead, to study before you decide, to deserve your influence.

Jack:
(softly, after a pause)
“Go to medical school first.”

Jeeny:
Exactly. You can’t heal what you haven’t studied.

Host:
They rose from their seats. Jack dropped a few bills on the counter, and the bartender nodded silently, his eyes tired but kind. The door creaked as they stepped into the cool night air.

The rain had stopped, but the streets glistened, reflecting the lights above like some vast, fragile mirror.

Jeeny:
(walking beside him)
Maybe the world’s just one big patient—bleeding, coughing, still pretending it’s fine.

Jack:
(hands in pockets, voice low)
Then maybe it’s time we stopped letting amateurs do the surgery.

Host:
They walked on, the sound of their footsteps mingling with the city’s quiet hum—two silhouettes moving through a world still learning what responsibility truly costs.

Above them, the sky cleared just enough for a few stars to appear—small, defiant points of light over a civilization too distracted to look up.

And somewhere, faintly echoing in the air like a challenge that refused to fade,
David Fahrenthold’s words remained:

That authority without education is chaos,
and that before you claim the power to heal—or to lead—
you must first have the courage
to learn.