A man sits across from power. His fingers tighten around the arms of his chair.
The bully makes no effort to mask his contempt. He sits rigidly, eyes burning with an unnatural intensity, fingers twitching on the armrest of his chair. When he speaks, it is not a conversation but an eruption—words spat like bullets, contempt laced through every syllable.
The outburst does not abate. It is not a speech but an assault, designed not to persuade but to disorient, to cow, to humiliate. The bully leans forward, slamming his fists against the table. His face reddens, his voice sharpens. He moves from insults to threats, from history to grandiosity. The great country he leads will no longer be mistreated, he says. Those days are over. The people have had enough. His words are not arguments—they’re sentences, verdicts, pronouncements of doom.
“You are nothing,” says the bully, not quite shouting. One of his lackeys smirks. “You think you are independent? You are a failure, a disgrace.” Behind him…
