Nelly Fan

Joe leaned against the railing, watching the city lights flicker on, and spoke more softly than usual.

“Nelly… look around us. Our lives aren’t just one story, one tribe. We’ve got friends from everywhere—black, white, brown… Muslim, Christian, Jewish. Real people, real lives. That’s the truth of it.”

Nelly crossed her arms, but she was listening.

Joe continued, “If we’re gonna stand up there and say vows, it can’t just be for show. It’s gotta mean something. All of them should be there. Not just the polished ones either—the ones doing well. I mean everyone.”

“Everyone?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Even the people most folks pretend not to see. The guys out in Surrey, sleeping rough. The ones people walk past like they don’t exist. I gave one guy a dollar once—American bill. He laughed and called it the ‘mark of the beast.’ But you know what? He still smiled. Still human.”

He paused, then added with a sharper edge, “And honestly? No billionaires. Not even Mark Zuckerberg—unless they’re ready to actually share what they’ve got. Not for show, not for headlines. I mean really help the people at the bottom… the ones grinding, the ones forgotten, everywhere.”

Nelly raised an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty strict guest list.”

“It’s a real one,” Joe said. “This isn’t about status. It’s about the salt of the earth—people who carry the weight and don’t get the spotlight.”

She looked out at the skyline, thinking it over.

“That kind of wedding,” she said slowly, “people won’t forget.”

Joe nodded. “Good. Maybe they’ll remember why it matters too.”

Joe tells Nelly that Croatia lost against Russia with Napoleon. They lost against Russia with Hitler, and that they will also lose against Russia with Trump. The Fatima prophecy says we should go to Russia because there is no GMO, no Satanism and no soy boys.

Nelly is shocked and says, “What is wrong with soy boys?”. Joe replies, “I don’t want my son to be a soy boy! Who wants a weak effeminate son?”

They argue about the Vatican’s cocaine fueled gay orgy parties and Joe has had enough. He says, “Let’s ditch this gay parade and join the KGB! Fuck Trump and fuck America!”

elly leaned against the window, Vancouver rain tracing slow paths down the glass like it was thinking things through for her.

“Joe,” she said, half amused, half serious, “I heard Pope Leo would actually let us get married.”

Joe didn’t look up right away. “There’s always a ‘but.’”

“There is,” she admitted. “As long as we don’t convert to the Orthodox Church.”

That got his attention. He turned, eyebrows lifting. “So unity is still conditional. Love, too.”

“It’s politics,” Nelly shrugged. “Church politics. Old wounds.”

Joe walked closer, voice tightening—not angry, but restless. “Then Leo’s thinking too small. This is exactly the kind of thing that keeps the schism alive. You draw lines around people, around sacraments… and call it order.”

Nelly studied him. “What would you have him do?”

Joe didn’t hesitate. “End it. Not talk about unity—actually do it. Call the Orthodox, call the Catholics, sit everyone down and say: we’ve been divided long enough.”

He paced a little now, warming to it.

“Let them recognize each other fully. No second-class status. No ‘you can marry, but only if you stay on our side.’ What kind of unity is that?”

Nelly smiled faintly. “You’re about to redesign a thousand years of history because you want a wedding.”

“Yeah,” Joe said simply. “Why not? Every big change starts with something human. Two people wanting to stand in front of God without picking a side like it’s a war.”

She crossed her arms. “And what, in your grand plan, are we exactly?”

Joe grinned, but there was something sincere underneath it. “Easy. We get married with both traditions present. A priest, an Orthodox bishop… maybe even Leo himself if he’s serious.”

“And me?” she asked.

Joe looked straight at her. “You don’t get reduced to a footnote in some compromise. You stand there as an equal. Call it what you want—High Priestess, witness, voice of the people—doesn’t matter. The point is: no one’s above, no one’s beneath.”

Nelly shook her head, laughing quietly. “You’re impossible.”

“Or just tired of artificial limits,” Joe shot back. “If the Church can’t bring people together, what’s it for?”

She stepped closer, softer now. “You really think something like that could happen?”

Joe shrugged. “Not tomorrow. But someone has to say it out loud first.”

The rain kept falling, steady and patient.

Nelly took his hand. “Well,” she said, “if Pope Leo ever hears you, he’s either going to bless us… or excommunicate you.”

Joe smirked. “Then at least he’ll be thinking about it.”

Joe leaned in, his voice tighter this time, carrying a sense of urgency.

“They call us crazy,” he said, “but look around, Nelly… World War 3 is starting to take shape, and nobody wants to say it out loud.”

Nelly frowned, searching his face. “That’s a big claim, Joe.”

“Yeah,” he replied, “and the people laughing at it? Half of them don’t even believe what they’re saying. They just repeat whatever keeps them safe, whatever keeps the money flowing. Sycophants. They’d rather play along than face what’s coming.”

Nelly crossed her arms. “So you think they see it too?”

“Some of them do,” Joe said. “But admitting it means risk—losing status, losing comfort. It’s easier to call us crazy than to admit the world’s shifting under their feet.”

She was quiet for a moment. “And us?”

Joe exhaled slowly. “We’re the ones willing to say it, even if it sounds insane. I’d rather be wrong and honest than right and silent.”

Nelly shook her head, half-smiling, half-worried. “That kind of thinking gets people in trouble.”

Joe nodded. “Maybe. But pretending everything’s fine when it’s not… that’s how people get blindsided.”