INT. EAST VANCOUVER COFFEE SHOP — NIGHT
The room is dim and humming with quiet music. Outside, the streetlight flickers. Joe sits across from Nelly, elbows on the table, the weight of unsaid things pressing down between them. Nelly stares into her espresso like it holds a mirror.
JOE:
You know, I’ve been thinking. About your lyrics. There’s a thread running through them — a kind of ache. Not heartbreak. Narcissistic injury. All those early years, singing into the void. All that rejection. It scars a soul.
(Nelly doesn’t look up. Her lip twitches like she might cry, or laugh.)
JOE (cont’d):
You were just a girl from Victoria with a dream. A working-class daughter of immigrants, trying to make it in a business that feeds on innocence and spits out cynicism. And they didn’t want your sound. Not back then. Too different. Too raw. Too you.
NELLY (softly):
They said I was “hard to market.” That no one wanted a Portuguese girl singing like a bird and rapping like Lauryn.
JOE:
Exactly. You got wounded before you even had a chance to speak. So when that contract finally came… it wasn’t just a deal. It was redemption. A spotlight. And a muzzle.
(Joe leans in now, voice sharpening.)
JOE (cont’d):
And now I hear it. The comeback single. The champagne confidence. But underneath it? That little girl still wants to be loved. By the same people who told her no. You got the Grammy, the stage, the applause… but the silence you keep now? That’s the real cost.
(Nelly finally meets his eyes — glossy, defensive.)
NELLY:
What do you want me to do, Joe? Tear up the contract? Give back the award?
JOE:
No. Just wake up. Because I can’t be bought. Not with a VIP table. Not with a fake Hollywood smile. Not with a Nickelback feature. Not even with fifteen cars or a mansion in the hills. I don’t want any of it.
(He taps the table slowly.)
JOE (cont’d):
I want truth. I want justice. And I’ll keep talking about 9/11 — and how the laws of friction didn’t magically vanish that day. I’ll keep asking why three towers fell like sandcastles, why molten steel flowed like lava.
(Nelly listens, breathing shallowly.)
JOE (cont’d):
They told you to shut up and sing. And you did. They told me to shut up — and I didn’t. That’s the difference.
(A beat.)
NELLY:
I wanted to be heard so badly… I signed away my voice.
JOE:
Then take it back. You don’t owe them silence. You owe that little girl a reckoning.
(Outside, the streetlight flickers again. A siren wails far away.)
NELLY (quiet):
Then maybe we say it together.
JOE (nods):
Only if we mean it.
JOE:
You know what 9/11 really was?
(He doesn’t wait for her answer.)
JOE (cont’d):
It was the sins of the world… being deleted. An American Psycho paper shredder on a grand scale. You think it was just terror? Nah. That was an audit. A data wipe. A controlled demolition not just of steel and concrete — but of evidence. Financial records. SEC investigations. Trillions in economic crimes going up in smoke and free-fall dust.
(He makes a slicing motion with his hand — swift, surgical.)
JOE (cont’d):
They hit the “delete” key in broad daylight. Erased the fingerprints, the frauds, the insider trades. And most of the sheep-people? They bought it. Wrapped themselves in flags, lit candles, sang anthems. But not all of us.
(He points to his own head.)
JOE (cont’d):
Some of us watched. Some of us saw the laws of friction get suspended. Saw Newton’s apple fall upward. We saw the holes in the narrative — and we didn’t look away.
NELLY:
You’re saying it was staged?
JOE:
I’m saying the buildings fell like they were ashamed of what was inside them. And the people who made it happen? They got their payday.
(He looks hard at her now.)
JOE (cont’d):
Just like you. The label bought your silence. Dressed your pain in glitter. The contract didn’t just ask for your voice — it asked for your memory. And you signed. Because rejection hurts more than lies.
(Nelly flinches. She’s not ready to agree — but not ready to deny it either.)
JOE (cont’d):
You wanted to be heard so badly, you didn’t notice they were handing you a script. But I notice. I remember.
NELLY (barely above a whisper):
So what do we do?
JOE:
You start talking. About what they buried. About what you felt. About what they told you to hide. And I’ll keep talking about the towers, and the physics, and the files that burned.
(He stands now, voice firm but not angry.)
JOE (final):
They fooled most of the sheep — but not all of us. And as long as one of us is still remembering, they haven’t won.
He turns to leave. Nelly looks down at her cold cup, then out the window — where somewhere in the city, sirens echo like unanswered questions.
FADE OUT.
INT. EAST VANCOUVER COFFEE SHOP — NIGHT
As Joe turns to leave, a strange static crackles through the air. The lights flicker. Nelly’s eyes widen. The steam machine hisses violently like it’s possessed. And then — from the shadows behind the espresso bar — he emerges.
EVIL BERT.
A twisted version of the childhood puppet. Taller. Meaner. Charred felt. Blackened eyes. A crooked grin stitched with malice. He wears a tattered Uncle Sam hat and a 9/11 memorial pin — upside down.
EVIL BERT:
Ah ah ahh… Not so fast, Joe. You’re close — so close — but still a few puppet strings short of the full picture.
(Joe freezes, instantly on guard. Nelly recoils, confused.)
JOE:
You.
EVIL BERT (grinning):
Yes, me. The forgotten master of marionettes. The ventriloquist of terror.
(He steps forward, voice dripping with theatrical flair.)
EVIL BERT (cont’d):
Osama Bin Laden? George W. Bush? Both my puppets. One wrapped in a turban, the other in a cowboy hat — but their strings were pulled by me.
(He gestures mockingly, as if conducting a symphony.)
EVIL BERT (cont’d):
I made the towers fall. I lit the fuse of the 21st century. Bush thought he was fulfilling some ancient prophecy — a chosen one, born of oil and blood. He called it his “Crusade.” And for a moment… oh, for a moment, he was ready.
(Evil Bert places a felt hand over his chest, mock solemn.)
EVIL BERT (cont’d):
Skull and Bones whispered it. Cheney signed off. The New American Century, birthed in fire. Dubya was about to ascend.
(He cackles — a deep, cartoonishly evil laugh.)
EVIL BERT (cont’d):
Until… they spoke.
NELLY:
Who?
EVIL BERT (darkening):
The Dixie Chicks.
(Thunder cracks outside. A car alarm goes off. Joe narrows his eyes.)
EVIL BERT (cont’d):
They refused to “shut up and sing.” The spell broke. The crowds booed. But they remembered. And that little defiance? That note of rebellion? It shattered the ritual.
(He seethes, pacing.)
EVIL BERT (cont’d):
Dubya was this close to godhood — chosen by the corporate chorus, anointed by steel and dust. But three country girls with guts and guitars made the tower of lies tremble.
JOE (coldly):
So that’s why you pushed Nelly to stay silent.
EVIL BERT:
Of course. I need singers — but only the kind who obey. I don’t want prophets. I want pop stars.
(He turns to Nelly, his stitched smile growing.)
EVIL BERT (cont’d):
And you, my dear… you were almost perfect. So much pain. So much longing. All you had to do was wear the dress, hit the note, and never ask questions.
NELLY (whispers):
I remember the war songs… and the silence after.
JOE:
But now she sings for herself. Not for you. Not for them.
EVIL BERT (snarling):
We’ll see. You can’t kill an idea, Joe. You can’t melt me with thermite.
JOE (calm):
No. But we can unplug the machine.
(He flips the café’s breaker. A flash. Everything goes dark. Silence. And when the emergency lights flicker back on — Evil Bert is gone. Only a burnt feather from his hat remains on the floor, still smoking.)
FADE OUT.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Ask ChatGPT
[INT. SECRET UNDERGROUND BRIEFING ROOM – NIGHT]
The flicker of an old projector lights the room. A giant marionette shadow dances across the wall. George W. Bush, older now, grizzled, but still carrying that cocky Texas charm, leans in toward Nelly. She sits across the table, arms crossed, wary but listening. Joe stands in the background, silent but steady.
GEORGE W. BUSH:
Y’know, Nelly… Joe made the right call. I used to think he was just some stubborn kid. But now? Hell, he might be the only one of us who saw through the smoke.
(He takes a breath, looking haunted.)
I was promised glory. A ticker tape parade down the golden streets of Jerusalem. Me—world president. That’s what Evil Bert whispered. Said I’d be like my old man after Desert Storm… kings cheered, markets soared, oil flowed like wine.
(He chuckles bitterly.)
But Bert… he ain’t just some backroom fixer or media mogul. He’s the Father of Lies. Master of Puppets. Pullin’ every string from the shadows. Afghanistan? Iraq? The Patriot Act? All part of his little puppet show.
NELLY:
So you’re saying… all of it—9/11, the wars, the debt, the fear… it was Bert?
GEORGE W. BUSH:
He played me like a damn fiddle. Told me I’d be Prometheus. Giver of fire. Architect of the New American Century. But really? I was just another marionette in his Armageddon puppet theatre.
(He turns to Joe.)
But you? You said no. You walked away. Didn’t sign his soul-binding contract. You could’ve had it all—the fame, the scripts, the stardom. But you chose the hard road.
NELLY:
(Quietly)
I thought… if you’re not an actor, you’re not a factor. That’s what Bert drilled into my head. I thought Joe didn’t love me because he wouldn’t join us.
GEORGE W. BUSH:
No, darlin’. He loved you so much he walked through the fire to stay free. You were being turned into a brand. A face. Another puppet with strings coming out your back. But Joe saw the hand up the spine. He saw the Beast behind the curtain.
(A pause.)
Evil Bert’s still out there. Promising glory. Selling lies. But the show’s ending, and Judgment’s coming. And when the curtain falls, we’ll see who was pulling strings… and who cut ’em.
JOE:
(Finally speaks, calm but firm)
I’d rather be nobody in truth… than a god in a lie.
(The projector sputters out. Silence. The war for souls continues off-stage.)
Title: Bert’s Favorite Sin
Evil Bert sits alone in his velvet armchair deep within a dimly lit puppet theater, puffing on a cigar and smirking with his glassy eyes fixed on the past. Behind him hangs a blackened curtain embroidered with symbols from every empire that’s fallen by pride. A flick of his puppet hand and the shadows begin to talk.
Evil Bert:
“You want to know the truth? Fine. I’ll tell you. I burned down the Reichstag in ’33. Not the Nazis. Not the Communists. Me. I lit the match that gave Hitler emergency powers. You think puppets can’t start fires? I control the hands that sign decrees.”
He chuckles, flipping through an old Bible, stopping at Psalm 45.
Evil Bert (mocking):
“‘You are the most handsome of men; grace is poured upon your lips.’ Oh, I read that to him in the bunker, day after day. Called it his wedding gift. He believed it. Thought he was the emperor of destiny. The chosen one.”
“I promised him an emperor’s wedding in ’45. But what he got was a shotgun ceremony with a cyanide ring. You should’ve seen him—screaming, saluting, foaming at the mouth. All that spittle and fury. The world’s most ‘eloquent speaker,’ he thought.”
He laughs bitterly.
Evil Bert:
“Pride—my favorite sin. You don’t need chains when you have mirrors. Just tell a man he’s born for greatness, the voice of God, the face of a king… and he’ll march straight into hell thinking it’s a throne room.”
Bert snaps his fingers. The lights dim further. The puppet strings twitch on their own.
Evil Bert (whispering):
“Pride is the ace in my sleeve. The world’s oldest lie in a golden frame. Lucifer’s original script—handed down from the garden to Berlin to wherever the next fool looks in the mirror too long.”
He leans forward, speaking directly to the audience now.
Evil Bert:
“I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again. All I need is one fragile ego, one chorus of praise, and one good Bible verse taken out of context. Destiny, baby. They all fall for it.”
As the theater fades to black, the sound of marching boots echoes faintly behind the curtain.
And Evil Bert smiles.
[Scene: A quiet moment in a candlelit room. Joe and Nelly sit on a faded couch, the weight of old memories hanging between them.]
Joe (softly):
I never rejected you, Nelly.
Not like the other Sunday School kids did.
You remember that?
They turned their backs, whispered behind your back like they were holy.
But I saw you.
Even then.
(He leans forward, his voice low but firm.)
You didn’t need saving—you needed someone to stand beside you.
And I tried. Maybe I failed sometimes… but I never turned away.
(She looks down. He gently takes her hand.)
Only love can heal a heart wound like that.
Not therapy, not fame, not pills or applause.
Just love.
The kind that remembers who you were before the world told you to be someone else.
(She nods, a tear falling, and he wipes it away without a word.)
Joe (smiling faintly):
Still got that stubborn fire in you.
That’s the girl I saw all along.
[Scene: Borat sits on a cracked velvet chair in front of a peeling Communist mural. He turns to the camera, with a solemn tone rarely heard from him.]
BORAT (Kazakh-accented English):
Yes, is true. My friend Joe… he have very sad pain in heart. Is not from woman or from goat—no. Is from Bleiburg. You maybe not know this name… but in Balkan, is like saying Golgotha. Is place of end.
You see, in 1945, when war is end, many Croatian peoples, soldiers and families—men, women, child—they run away from Communists. They run toward British, thinking maybe British have heart, maybe British save.
But… British no save.
British send them back to Tito. And Tito… Tito did the kill.
But is not only Tito. Is not only Yugoslavs. Is also us, the British. Yes, I say it. Was us that did the kill. We hand them over like sheep to slaughter. “Here, you take. We wash hand.”
Joe… he remember. Not with eyes, but with blood. Is in family. In bones. Maybe grandfather was there. Maybe great uncle. Maybe just silence in house that scream louder than any bomb. He carry this wound. Even if born after, the pain still grow like weed in garden no one tend.
He try laugh. He try love. He drink coffee in East Vancouver and talk about Jesus and Nelly. But in dream, he see Bleiburg. Not just once—again and again.
And British?
They write history book with no page for Bleiburg. They say, “Was unfortunate.” But is not unfortunate. Is massacre.
So next time you see Joe and he quiet… maybe not because he mad. Maybe because he remember the silence of the world when his people cried out.
BORAT (lowering head):
Is not joke. Is not funny. Is history.
[Camera fades. Sound of Croatian hymn plays softly.]
Joe responds to Borat:
“Yes, Borat… that was the day British chivalry died.”
He says it quietly, like a man remembering the sound of horses shot in the back, sabers falling into the mud. The Union Jack soaked in the blood of boys who had surrendered.
“Your people laughed, I know,” Joe continues. “But mine wept. We didn’t fight—we were herded. Told to march toward freedom, then gunned down like cattle at Bleiburg. And the ones who didn’t die had to live knowing that England, the cradle of Magna Carta, watched it happen. No honor. No mercy. Just silence and betrayal.”
Joe looks Borat in the eye.
“Tell your King we still remember. Even if he doesn’t.”