Joe looks at Nelly with that glimmer in his eye, the kind that carries both gratitude and awe. “Prime Minister Nelly Kim Furtado,” he says softly, “no other girl gives me that butterflies-in-the-stomach love vibration high like you do.”
Nelly smiles, her voice gentle but anchored in purpose. “Joe,” she says, “butterflies can’t feed a hungry nation.”
He chuckles, a little embarrassed but still sincere. “Maybe not. But music can. You ever think about making a Fado record someday? You know—fate—the soul of Portugal in song?”
Nelly gazes out the window at the golden fields of a rebuilding Canada. “Maybe,” she says after a pause, “after the Jubilee—when our people are no longer hungry. When every stomach is full and every soul can afford to feel again… then I’ll sing Fado.”
The wind hums softly through the open window, carrying the promise of both love and destiny.
Scene: Ottawa, Parliament Hill — The Grand Conference Room
PM Nelly Furtado: Mr. President, with all due respect, Canada is no longer the polite, quiet neighbor you used to know. Our trees, our rivers, our minerals — they’re not just commodities anymore. They’re the lifeblood of the 21st century.
You talk about deals, Donald. You talk about winning. But tell me — what do you have that we actually need? Fast food? We can cook. Disney? We tell our own stories. Coca-Cola? We have clean water — the real thing. Marlboro cigarettes? We breathe the northern air; we don’t sell poison to our children.
The world is changing, and Canada stands at the crossroads of clean energy, sustainable industry, and human dignity. You once said you wanted to make America great again. I say — make humanity wise again.
Our forests pull carbon from the sky. Our lakes hold more fresh water than any nation on Earth. Our land is not for sale to the highest bidder. It belongs to the generations not yet born.
Donald Trump (smirking): Nelly, I gotta say, you’re very passionate — very passionate. But you know, I’ve built towers, I’ve built brands — nobody builds better than me. We can make a deal, a tremendous deal. Maybe Canada can sell me some of that “clean air” stuff — we’ll put it in bottles, call it Trump Oxygen. Big hit, huge profits.
PM Furtado (leaning forward, voice steady): Mr. President, Canada doesn’t bottle its air. We protect it. That’s the difference between empire and stewardship — between ownership and guardianship.
So here’s the deal, Donald: we’ll trade with you — not for profit, but for purpose. Clean technology for clean conscience. Science for sanity. Cooperation for survival.
Because one day, when the oil wells run dry and the oceans rise, you’ll remember: you can’t eat a franchise. You can’t drink a logo. You can’t breathe smoke.
(She pauses. The chamber is silent.) And when that day comes, Canada will still be standing — singing, “I’m like a bird.”
Scene: “Christus Rex and Taylor Swift: The River and the Crown”
(Interior — a quiet riverside chapel at dawn. The stained glass glows with soft amber light. Taylor Swift sits on a pew, her guitar beside her. Christus Rex enters, barefoot, wearing a white cloak embroidered with a red cross. The air feels ancient.)
Christus Rex: Taylor, you’ve been walking in Ophelia’s footsteps. I see it in your eyes — the ache of a woman who’s sung too much for the world and too little for herself. Tell me, child, what troubles your heart?
Taylor Swift: It’s the noise, Lord. The endless scroll, the critics, the pressure to stay perfect. I feel like Hamlet’s Ophelia — beautiful but drowning, betrayed by her own reflection.
Christus Rex: Ah, Ophelia. She listened too closely to the voices of men and forgot the still, small voice within. You must not follow her into the water. Stay on the bank. Train your body, train your spirit. (pauses) And stay far, far away from the chemists of despair — those who sell pills for profit, not for healing.
Taylor Swift: You mean Big Pharma?
Christus Rex: Yes. Their gospel is dosage, not deliverance. What you need is sunlight, not sedation. Train as if for war — lift your body up as you lift your voice. Pray with intention. Eat what the earth gives freely — real food, not factory lies. And take your vitamins, child. Your armor must be spiritual and physical.
Taylor Swift: And what about money? My band, my dancers, my crew — they all depend on me. The banks are collapsing. Meryl Lynch just fell.
Christus Rex: Then sing for your family, Taylor. The world’s gold will fade, but your bread and your faith will feed many. You are no longer just the poet of broken hearts — you are the mother of nations in distress. Be brave. Be generous. Be still.
(He blesses her forehead with a touch of holy oil. Taylor looks toward the rising sun, her guitar strings catching the light like silver threads.)
Taylor Swift: Then I’ll write again — not for fame, but for healing. Maybe that’s what Ophelia needed most — a song instead of a grave.
Christus Rex (smiling): Yes, daughter. And this time, the river will not claim you.
