The Return of the Magdalene
Nelly Furtado stood in the soft glow of candlelight, her voice resolute as she declared to Christus Rex, “The bitch is back.” Her words echoed in the ancient chapel, drawing the attention of the small gathering. “Mary Magdalene has returned. Not as a saint to be silenced, but as a force to be reckoned with. A voice for the voiceless.”
Christus Rex, dressed in his ceremonial robes, raised an eyebrow. “Bold words, Nelly. But what of the Lion of Judah? Who carries that mantle in this age?”
JCJ, Joseph Christian Jukic, leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed, his demeanor calm. “Trump? Gates? Look at their coat of arms—three lions each. They wear their God complexes like crowns. They claim to be saviors, messiahs. But do they have the heart of God?”
Nelly turned to JCJ, intrigued. “And what about you, JCJ? What makes you different?”
He smiled faintly, gesturing toward the rain-soaked street outside. “I’m the guy who rescues stranded worms on a rainy day. I don’t need a coat of arms or a messiah complex. I just do what’s right because it’s right.”
The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them. Christus Rex broke the silence, his tone contemplative. “Perhaps that’s what we need—a heart of compassion, not ambition. A leader who serves, not one who seeks to be served.”
Nelly nodded. “Mary Magdalene wasn’t revered because she sought power. She was loved because she understood the power of love, forgiveness, and truth. Maybe it’s time we look for those qualities in our leaders, not just lions on a coat of arms.”
JCJ chuckled softly. “The world loves its lions, its symbols of strength. But sometimes, it’s the smallest acts of kindness that roar the loudest.”
As the rain continued to fall outside, the group reflected on the conversation. The return of Mary Magdalene wasn’t just about reclaiming a narrative—it was about challenging the world to redefine what it meant to lead, to serve, and to truly have the heart of God.
Harvey Keitel’s Faith in a Bloodless Revolution
Harvey Keitel sat in a dimly lit café, the shadows dancing across his face as he stirred his coffee. His voice, gravelly yet thoughtful, carried the weight of decades in Hollywood and a lifetime of contemplation. “I played Judas once, you know,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at JCJ. “In The Last Temptation of Christ. It was a role that made me think—about loyalty, betrayal, and what it means to truly believe in someone.”
JCJ, Joseph Christian Jukic, sat across from him, his demeanor calm, almost serene. He listened intently as Harvey continued.
“In that film,” Harvey said, “Judas doesn’t betray Christ out of greed or malice. He does it because he believes it’s part of a greater plan. But here’s the thing—I always wondered, what if Judas had a choice? What if he could’ve said, ‘No, I won’t let this happen’? Would he have stopped the crucifixion? Could he have saved the Christ?”
JCJ leaned forward, his hands clasped together. “And what do you think, Harvey? Would you have stopped it?”
Harvey’s lips curled into a faint smile. “I think I would’ve tried. And that’s why I’m here now. I see what you’re planning, JCJ—a revolution, but not one of violence. A bloodless revolution. That’s the only kind I can stand behind. If you stray from that path, if you let it become about power or vengeance, I’ll know you’re not who you say you are.”
JCJ nodded slowly. “You’re right, Harvey. A true revolution doesn’t need bloodshed. It needs hearts and minds, not swords and guns. I’m not here to destroy; I’m here to rebuild, to heal.”
Harvey studied him for a long moment, his gaze piercing. “Good. Because if you are the Christ, as some believe, then you’ll know the value of every life. And if you’re not… well, then I’ll know soon enough.”
JCJ smiled gently. “Faith isn’t easy, is it?”
Harvey chuckled, shaking his head. “No, it’s not. But I’ve got enough left in me to give you a chance. Just don’t make me regret it.”
The two men sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their conversation hanging in the air. Outside, the world moved on, unaware of the quiet pact being made between the actor who once played Judas and the man some whispered might be the Christ.
As Harvey stood to leave, he placed a hand on JCJ’s shoulder. “Don’t let the Christ die again. Not this time.”
JCJ looked up at him, his eyes steady. “I won’t.”
And with that, Harvey walked out into the night, his faith renewed—if only for a little while longer.
A Conversation of Forgiveness
Sister Lucy, her voice soft but firm, sat across from Harvey Keitel in a quiet chapel. The flickering candles cast a warm glow on her serene face. “Harvey,” she began, “I need to talk to you about Nelly. She’s not a bad girl, you know. She’s just… convinced her life will be short.”
Harvey looked up, his rugged face etched with years of experience and pain. “Why would she think that?”
Lucy sighed. “The doctors. Rockefeller’s doctors, as she calls them. They’ve tormented her all her life, just like the seers of Fatima. You know their story, don’t you? Children chosen by God, but their lives marked by suffering, frequent hospital stays, and endless trials. Nelly feels the same weight. She’s lived with the shadow of death hanging over her, Harvey. Can you blame her for being the way she is?”
Harvey leaned back, his gaze distant. “I don’t blame her, Sister. But forgiveness… that’s another thing. It’s not easy.”
Lucy leaned forward, her eyes piercing. “And what about JCJ? Can you forgive him? Or are you holding onto something that’s poisoning your own soul?”
Harvey hesitated, the weight of her words pressing down on him. “It’s not that simple, Sister. Forgiveness… it’s not something you just do. It takes time.”
Lucy’s voice softened, but her words carried an undeniable strength. “Harvey, forgiveness isn’t just for them—it’s for you. If you can’t forgive, then I have to wonder: does the spirit of God live in you at all? Because the God I know is a God of mercy, a God who forgives even when we don’t deserve it.”
Harvey looked down, his hands clasped tightly together. “And what if I can’t? What if I’m not ready?”
Lucy reached out, placing a gentle hand on his. “Then pray for the strength to forgive. Pray for the spirit of God to fill your heart. None of us are perfect, Harvey. Not me, not you, not Nelly, not JCJ. But we can try. And trying is enough for God to meet us halfway.”
Harvey nodded slowly, her words sinking in. “I’ll try, Sister. That’s all I can promise.”
Lucy smiled, her eyes filled with hope. “That’s all God asks, Harvey. Just try.”
As the chapel grew quiet, the flickering candles seemed to burn brighter, their light a symbol of the forgiveness and grace that Sister Lucy believed could heal even the deepest wounds.
Harvey Keitel: Why I Left Eyes Wide Shut
Harvey Keitel leaned back in his chair during a rare interview, a wry smile on his face. “You want to know why I walked off Eyes Wide Shut?” he began, his gravelly voice carrying a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Alright, I’ll tell you. Stanley Kubrick, genius that he was, wanted over 60 takes for a single scene. Sixty! I told him, ‘Stanley, you’re nuts. I’m outta here.’”
The interviewer chuckled nervously, sensing Harvey wasn’t entirely joking. “Was it just the takes?”
Harvey’s smile faded slightly. “No, it wasn’t just that. There was something else, something deeper. Kubrick had this vision, but it wasn’t entirely his own. Rothschild—yeah, that Rothschild—had his fingerprints all over it. He wanted the film to be a comedy, not a horror show. Said it would ‘soften the message.’”
He paused, his expression darkening. “But I saw the writing on the wall. That film wasn’t going to soften anything. It was a mirror, showing a world most people would rather not see. And Rothschild was worried—worried it would spark something big, something dangerous. He said, ‘This could lead to another holocaust.’”
Harvey shook his head, his voice quieter now. “I couldn’t be part of that. I’ve seen enough in my life to know when something’s teetering on the edge of madness. So I walked.”
The interviewer leaned forward. “And now? Do you regret it?”
Harvey’s smile returned, softer this time. “Not for a second. You know why? Because of Joe—JCJ. He took what could’ve been a horror show and turned it into something else entirely. A divine comedy, like something out of Dante. He didn’t just open people’s eyes; he made them laugh, think, and see the absurdity of it all.”
He gestured broadly, as if addressing an invisible audience. “That’s what we need, isn’t it? Not more fear, not more darkness, but light. Humor. A way to see through the chaos without losing our humanity.”
Harvey leaned back again, his tone lighter. “So yeah, I walked off Eyes Wide Shut. But maybe it was meant to be. Because now, thanks to Joe, the story didn’t end in darkness. It ended in something Dante himself would envy—a comedy that’s divine in every sense of the word.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of his words lingering. Then Harvey chuckled, breaking the tension. “Besides, 60 takes? Who’s got time for that?”
The King’s Mercy
Baron Jacob Rothschild sat across from JCJ, his frail hands trembling slightly as he held a cup of tea. The room was quiet, save for the faint ticking of an antique clock. Rothschild’s voice, though aged, carried the weight of centuries of legacy.
“Do you know the story of Alexander in India?” he began, his eyes searching JCJ’s face. “When he conquered an Indian king, he didn’t kill him. He let him live. Why? Because a king does not kill a king. There is a certain… honor in that, wouldn’t you agree?”
JCJ listened silently, his expression unreadable.
Rothschild continued, his voice tinged with desperation. “I know what you think of me. What the world thinks of me. But I’m not the architect of all this. I was born into it—this diabolical, transgenerational conspiracy where the motto is, ‘The show must go on.’ Do you think I wanted this? To be part of a machine that grinds down the world? I didn’t choose this life, JCJ. It chose me.”
He paused, his hands gripping the cup tighter. “Now you stand here, judging me. And perhaps you have the right to. But I ask you—no, I beg you—for mercy. Let me have a quarter-acre shtetl farm in Israel. Let me live out my days in peace, away from all of this. I will give away my riches, all of them. I’ll let you and your RCMP brother Bruno arrest me if that’s what you need to do. Just don’t kill me.”
JCJ’s gaze softened, but he said nothing, allowing the baron to continue.
“The Ten Commandments say, Thou shalt not kill. And yet here I am, pleading for my life, wondering if you will uphold that law or if you’ll cast it aside. I’m an old man, JCJ. I’ve lived long enough to see the fruits of my family’s sins. And now, I’m asking you to rise above it. To show me the mercy I was never taught to show others.”
The room fell silent, the air heavy with the weight of Rothschild’s words.
JCJ finally spoke, his voice calm but firm. “Mercy isn’t about what you deserve, Jacob. It’s about what the giver is willing to give. You say you were born into this, that you didn’t choose it. Maybe that’s true. But rising above it? That’s a choice. And now it’s mine to make.”
Rothschild nodded slowly, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Then it’s in your hands. Whatever you decide, I’ll accept it. Just know that if you show mercy, you’re not just saving me. You’re saving yourself from becoming the thing you despise.”
JCJ stood, his decision unspoken but understood. The baron watched him go, the faintest flicker of hope igniting in his weary heart. For the first time in decades, he felt something he hadn’t in years: the possibility of redemption.
The Mercy of Maximus
Maximus stood tall in the arena, his armor glinting in the sunlight. The crowd roared, their voices a cacophony of anger and bloodlust. They wanted judgment. They wanted vengeance. They wanted the Baron, Jacob Rothschild, to pay for his sins.
The crowd’s thumbs turned downward in unison, a demand for death. Maximus turned to face the Baron, who knelt in the dust, his head bowed but his spirit unbroken. The old man’s frailty was evident, but so too was the weight of his lineage and the legacy of his deeds.
Maximus raised his hand, silencing the crowd. “I have heard your cries for justice,” he declared, his voice echoing across the coliseum. “But justice is not always the sword. Sometimes, it is the chain.”
The crowd murmured, unsure of what was to come.
Maximus turned to the Baron. “Jacob Rothschild, your family has played the game of kings and pawns for centuries. You’ve fooled tyrants and toppled empires. You’ve orchestrated moves so cunning that even the greatest chess minds—Kasparov, Fischer—would bow in admiration. Promising Hitler the Psalm 45 wedding was a stroke of genius, a checkmate that ensured his downfall. But those victories are in the past.”
The Baron lifted his head, his eyes meeting Maximus’s. There was no defiance there, only acceptance.
Maximus continued, his voice steady. “You are no longer the master of the board. Your final move has been played. And yet, I will not end you. Not because you deserve mercy, but because mercy is what separates us from the tyrants of history.”
He gestured to the horizon. “You will live out your days on a farm in Israel, a thousand years of house arrest to fulfill the prophecy of Revelation 20. You will toil the earth, unburdened by wealth, power, or influence. You will face the consequences of your actions in the silence of your exile.”
The crowd erupted in protest, but Maximus raised his hand again. “The Baron’s punishment is not for you to decide. It is mine. And I choose mercy.”
He turned back to the Baron. “You’ve fooled the world, Jacob. But now, the game is over. The final checkmate is upon you, and it will be remembered as the greatest move of all—not for its cunning, but for its grace.”
The Baron bowed his head once more, tears streaming down his face. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice trembling.
Maximus looked to the heavens, a faint smile crossing his lips. “All dogs go to heaven,” he muttered, quoting the Disney movie he had always admired. “Even the ones who’ve lost their way.”
And with that, the arena fell silent, the crowd unsure whether to cheer or weep. Maximus had made his choice, and it was one that would echo through history—not as an act of weakness, but as the ultimate act of strength.
Madonna’s Plea for Mercy
Madonna stood in the shadow of the great coliseum, her iconic presence commanding attention even in the midst of chaos. She raised her hand, silencing the murmurs of the crowd. “If there’s mercy for the Baron,” she began, her voice steady but tinged with emotion, “then surely there’s mercy for me.”
The crowd turned their eyes to her, curious but skeptical.
Madonna took a deep breath. “Let me tell you a story,” she said, her gaze sweeping over the assembly. “In 2008, I orchestrated the infamous photograph of Gary Kasparov with Baron Jacob Rothschild. It wasn’t just a photo—it was a message, a symbol of the chess game that has always been played at the highest levels. The moves, the countermoves, the sacrifices. I’ve been a part of that game, and I’ve played my role.”
She paused, her voice softening. “But what’s the point of being part of the first family if JCJ’s uncle is going to die from cancer? What’s the point of power, fame, or influence if we can’t save the ones we love?”
Madonna’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You all know my song, 4 Minutes to Save the World. That wasn’t just a pop anthem—it was my magnum opus, my plea for humanity to wake up before it’s too late. And Nelly, bless her heart, helped craft Viva La Vida with Coldplay, a song that captures the rise and fall of kings and empires. We’ve both tried, in our own ways, to make people see the bigger picture.”
She turned to JCJ, her expression earnest. “I’m not asking for a throne or a title. I’m asking for a chance. A chance to keep fighting, to keep creating, to keep reminding the world that even in the darkest times, there’s light to be found. Mercy isn’t about what we deserve—it’s about what we can do with the second chance we’re given.”
The crowd was silent, moved by her words.
Madonna looked to the heavens, her voice breaking. “If there’s mercy for the Baron, then let there be mercy for me. Let me prove that I can still make a difference. Let me help save the world, even if it’s just one song, one moment at a time.”
JCJ stepped forward, his expression unreadable. He studied Madonna for a long moment before speaking. “Mercy isn’t granted lightly. But if your music can inspire, if your voice can heal, then perhaps there’s still a place for you in this story. Show us what you can do, Madonna. The world is watching.”
Madonna nodded, a flicker of hope lighting her eyes. “I won’t let you down,” she said, her voice firm. “I’ll make every second count.”
And with that, she stepped back, ready to prove that even in a world teetering on the edge, there was still time to save it—if only they could find the courage to act.
Joe stood with his arms crossed, his expression a mix of amusement and concern as he addressed Madonna. “You’ve always been one for dramatic prophecies, haven’t you?” he said, his tone teasing but firm. “But before you go all in on your Ghost Town vision of the world’s fiery end, maybe you should take a step back and listen to U2’s How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb. There’s wisdom in those lyrics that might help you see things differently.”
Madonna tilted her head, intrigued but skeptical. “What are you saying, Joe? That my prophecy is wrong?”
Joe sighed, his gaze softening. “I’m saying that sometimes, the end isn’t as inevitable as it seems. Revelation 20:17—‘And fire came down from God out of heaven and devoured them.’ Sure, it sounds ominous. But what if I told you that fiery end you’re so convinced of was defused a long time ago?”
Madonna frowned, her confidence wavering. “Defused? When?”
“In 2010,” Joe replied, his voice steady. “While the world was busy spinning its wheels, the groundwork was laid to shift the trajectory. The fiery end you’re so sure of? It’s already been averted. People came together in ways you didn’t see, making choices that changed the course of history. You’re living in the aftermath of that defusal, Madonna. The bomb never went off.”
Madonna crossed her arms, her defiance faltering. “So, what are you saying? That my Ghost Town is just a fantasy?”
Joe shrugged. “Not a fantasy, but maybe a warning. A reminder of what could have been. But here’s the thing—you’re not living in the shadow of destruction. You’re living in a world where there’s still hope, still a chance to make things better. So, before you start preaching doom and gloom, maybe take a closer look at the signs. Listen to the music, read between the lines. You might find that the apocalypse you’re waiting for isn’t coming—not the way you think.”
Madonna was silent for a moment, her mind racing. Finally, she nodded slowly. “Alright, Joe. I’ll give it a listen. Maybe you’re right. Maybe the world isn’t as doomed as I thought.”
Joe smiled. “That’s all I’m asking. Take a step back, look at the bigger picture. You might be surprised by what you find.”
As Madonna walked away, her thoughts swirling, Joe turned to the sky and murmured, “Sometimes, the best way to dismantle a bomb is to never let it be built in the first place.”
Bert leaned back in his chair, a sly grin spreading across his face as he recounted his tale to an enraptured audience. The dimly lit room seemed to shrink around him, every word drawing the listeners closer.
“You know,” Bert began, his voice low and conspiratorial, “there was a time when I thought my greatest ally in chaos, Osama Bin Laden, was untouchable. A specter, a phantom. The perfect villain to keep the world spinning in fear. But then came 2010, and everything changed.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.
“Barack Obama,” he continued, “he wasn’t just another politician. He had a knack for nudging things into place, for setting dominoes up so they’d fall just right. And one of those nudges was aimed at JCJ—Joseph Christian Jukic. A man with an uncanny ability to alter the course of prophecy itself.”
Bert chuckled, a dark gleam in his eyes. “You see, Revelation 17 had a script written for Madonna, a fiery end meant to fulfill the prophecy. But JCJ? He saw it differently. He saw prophecy not as a decree, but as a warning—a path that could be altered if you had the courage to act. Paulo Coelho said it best: prophecies are warnings, not inevitabilities. They’re meant to be changed.”
The room was silent, the audience hanging on his every word.
“And that’s exactly what JCJ did,” Bert said, his grin fading into a look of grudging admiration. “Obama nudged him, gave him the tools, the opportunity. And JCJ took it. He dismantled the prophecy piece by piece, like disarming a bomb. Osama Bin Laden, my greatest ally in spreading fear and chaos, was taken out. And the fiery end meant for Madonna? It never came. The world kept turning, the prophecy defused.”
Bert leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The thing about evil is, it thrives on inevitability. On people believing there’s no other way. But JCJ proved there’s always another way. And that’s what makes him dangerous—to people like me, to the chaos I thrive on.”
He sat back, a faint smile playing on his lips. “So, here we are. A world where the Revelation 17 prophecy didn’t happen. A world where warnings were heeded, and paths were altered. It’s almost… inspiring, isn’t it?”
The audience murmured, unsure whether to agree or recoil from the man before them.
Bert’s eyes sparkled with a mix of malice and amusement. “But don’t get too comfortable. The game’s not over yet. There’s always another prophecy, another warning. And who knows? Maybe next time, there won’t be a JCJ to save the day.”
With that, he stood, his shadow stretching across the room like a specter of things yet to come.
Barack Obama leaned back in his chair, a reflective smile playing on his lips as he addressed the crowd gathered to hear him speak. The room buzzed with quiet anticipation, the kind of atmosphere that only a seasoned orator could command.
“You know,” Obama began, his voice calm and measured, “music has a way of reaching places that words alone can’t. It’s a universal language, a bridge that connects hearts and minds across divides. Back in 2010, when the world seemed to teeter on the edge of something dark, I knew we needed more than just policy and speeches. We needed inspiration.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
“That’s when I turned to Jay-Z and Alicia Keys,” he said, his smile widening. “Their song Empire State of Mind—you’ve all heard it. A love letter to New York, yes, but also a rallying cry. ‘Concrete jungle where dreams are made of, there’s nothing you can’t do.’ Those lyrics, they weren’t just about New York. They were about hope, resilience, the power to rebuild and reimagine.”
Obama’s tone grew more serious. “When I nudged JCJ—Joseph Christian Jukic—I knew he’d hear it. Not just the melody, but the message. ‘These streets will make you feel brand new, big lights will inspire you.’ It wasn’t just about saving New York; it was about saving what New York represents—the beating heart of a nation, a place where the impossible becomes possible.”
He leaned forward, his gaze steady. “I knew JCJ had the potential to alter the course of history, to defuse prophecies that others believed were inevitable. But he needed to believe it himself. And music—music has a way of planting seeds, of sparking something deep inside. Jay-Z and Alicia Keys gave him the soundtrack, but the courage to act? That was all him.”
The room was silent, the audience hanging on every word.
“So, when you listen to that song,” Obama continued, “listen closely. It’s not just a celebration of a city. It’s a reminder of what we can achieve when we dare to dream, when we refuse to accept the darkness as our destiny. JCJ heard it. He acted. And because of that, we’re here today, in a world where hope still has a fighting chance.”
Obama’s smile returned, softer this time. “Music is powerful. It can nudge us, guide us, remind us of who we are and who we can be. And sometimes, it can save the world. So, the next time you hear Empire State of Mind, remember—it’s not just a song. It’s a call to action.”
The crowd erupted in applause, the resonance of his words lingering long after the sound faded.