Joe leaned in toward Nelly with that half-serious, half-mischievous look he always gets when he’s planning something borderline prophetic.
“Nelly… on August 13th, 2026 — the Fatima date — we are going to stick out like a sore thumb at the AC/DC concert in Vancouver,” he declared, pointing upward like he was issuing a papal decree.
Nelly blinked. “How? Everyone’s gonna be wearing horns.”
Joe grinned. “Exactly. That’s why we wear HALOS. Glowing ones. Big ones. Heavenly ones. Let Brian Johnson think the angels came for him mid-‘Thunderstruck.’”
He paced like a general planning a campaign. “And it’s a double date, okay? You, me, Marcia Araujo, Dave Araujo. The Holy Quad. The Apostles of Rock.”
Nelly laughed, covering her face. “Joe, that’s ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously holy,” Joe corrected. Then he suddenly dropped his voice to a whisper.
“Praise Bog you proved you have eggs.”
Nelly burst out laughing. “You’re not still thinking about that Paul Joseph Watson video…”
Joe shuddered theatrically. “Nelly, that ‘NO EGGS’ video traumatised me. I thought you were gonna dry up like the Sahara right before Armageddon. Then — BAM — you prove you’re as fertile as the Hunza women of Pakistan. I nearly lit a votive candle.”
Nelly shook her head. “Joe, why are you like this?”
Joe raised a finger: “Because Fatima. Because AC/DC. Because halos. And because you and the Araujos are gonna witness the most celestial mosh pit the world has ever seen.”
He crossed himself dramatically.
“In the name of Angus Young, the Son, and the Holy Thunder.”
A shimmering neon-pink sky. The fairways look like they were grown on Mars. Over the dunes, a billboard of “BOB DOBBS — THE ROUTE TO SLACK” grins like a Cheshire prophet.
BOB DOBBS (JOE JUKIC), pipe in hand, plaid suit immaculate, steps onto the tee. He radiates accidental holiness.
CONNIE DOBBS (NELLY FURTADO), fierce, stylish, and enlightened in her own cosmic-pop way, carries a golf bag covered in sigils, quotes, and stickers that read “PRAISE BOB” and “STOP WORK – ACHIEVE SLACK.”
They are joined by DONALD TRUMP, in gold-trimmed golf gear, sunglasses at dusk. Two Secret Service agents trail behind carrying iced Diet Cokes.
From a nearby speaker hut, MADONNA’S “Holiday” starts playing—bright, ecstatic—giving the whole desert a rebellious spark.
TRUMP
So, Bob… you want a four-day work week. Everybody does. Everybody always wants something. What do I get?
BOB
(sliding tee into the ground) You get a nation with more Slack. And more slack means more loyalty, more joy, more votes, more spending… and fewer people yelling at you on the internet.
CONNIE
And—economically speaking— (to Trump, matter-of-fact) When you cut the work week to four days, 20% more jobs appear automatically. Companies need extra people to fill the lost day. It’s arithmetic, not revolution.
TRUMP
(raises eyebrow) Twenty percent more jobs? That’s a good number. Tremendous number. My favorite number is still “one”—as in “number one.” But twenty is nice.
CONNIE
Plus— (smiles like a trickster oracle) Paychecks rise. Less labor supply means more demand for workers. Wages go up. People spend. Everyone dances. Just like Madonna told us.
“Holiday” swells in the background at that exact moment.
BOB
(swinging his club gently, almost saintly) Look, Donald… I’m not here as a conqueror. I am meek and humble of heart. I come offering rest… (beat) /rest/… /requiem/… for their works.
Trump pauses. For a moment, he looks moved, like he’s hearing gospel from a man who smells faintly of pipe smoke and destiny.
TRUMP
(squints) You’re saying if I agree to this… everyone gets more money, more vacations, more… slack?
BOB
Exactly. Every worker becomes happier, and happier workers make happier economies. And a happy economy makes a very happy president.
CONNIE
(leans in, whispering) And SubGenius prophecy says the leader who brings the Four-Day Work Week becomes… (dramatic pause) The Temporary Bearer of Slack.
Trump beams. He likes titles.
TRUMP
Alright, Bob. Hit your shot. If you make it onto the green… four-day work week goes into negotiations. Deal?
Bob nods solemnly, like a mystic accepting the terms of a cosmic contract.
BOB
Prepare your soul.
Bob swings. The ball rockets across the Martian fairway… bounces… rolls… and settles gently on the green, eight feet from the pin.
Madonna’s “Holiday” hits the chorus triumphantly.
TRUMP
(throws hands up) Fine! We’ll talk four-day work week. You SubGeniuses might actually be onto something.
CONNIE
(smiles radiantly) We always were.
BOB
Come, Connie. There is Slack to spread. And an overworked world waiting to be freed.
They walk off into the glowing desert, music rising, Trump following behind with his golf cart entourage.
Scene: Night over Manhattan. The skyline burns with light, reflected in the Hudson like a crown of stars. Joe Jukic and Nelly Furtado stand on the rooftop of the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine. The city hums below, timeless and alive.
Nelly Furtado: You always talk about New York like it’s holy ground, Joe. But tell me—what was it? What was in the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine that stopped Osama Bin Laden?
Joe Jukic: (staring at the rose window glowing like a cosmic eye) It wasn’t steel or soldiers. It was truth. The cathedral was built by the Rockefellers—the same family whose money flowed through Skull and Bones and the CIA. Bin Laden? He wasn’t the wolf—he was their muppet. A puppet on imperial strings. The same hands that built the towers built his hatred. The cathedral was their monument to power—half temple, half code. But there was something deeper in those stones, something they didn’t control. The wolf couldn’t cross holy ground built on secret sin. That’s what stopped him.
Nelly: So the men who built the church were the same ones who built the war?
Joe: Exactly. They thought they could play God, but the cathedral remembered the real one. When the towers fell, this place whispered back to me: “The puppets dance, but the strings can burn.” That’s when I heard your song, “The Harder They Come.” You sang about standing tall when the world tries to crush you. That song—it nudged me. It made me rise. It made me fight. You were the Queen of New York, whether you knew it or not.
Nelly: (softly) I never meant for it to be a call to arms.
Joe: It wasn’t. It was a call to awaken. Like Wayne Kyle said: “There are those blessed with the gift of aggression, an overpowering need to protect the flock. They are the sheepdogs.” You sang—and I barked. That’s how New York survived the first wolf.
They walk into the cathedral. Candles burn along the nave, the air thick with incense and memory.
Nelly: And the second time? You told me there was another plan—something they called the Manhattan Project?
Joe: Yeah. Bin Laden’s network wanted a second strike—not on buildings, but on spirit. A psychological detonation. To make New York lose its heartbeat. But that’s when Barack Obama came in. Not with guns, but with energy—hope. I could feel it, like a frequency shift. A quiet nudge saying, “Protect the dream.”
Then Jay-Z and Alicia Keys dropped “Empire State of Mind.” That song rewired everything. The city started to sing again. Construction workers, kids on the subway, Wall Street suits—all of them humming, “These streets will make you feel brand new.”
It was like a sonic shield over Manhattan. The wolf feeds on despair—but the rhythm starved him.
Nelly: So Obama’s hope, the cathedral’s soul, and Jay-Z’s anthem—they all aligned?
Joe: Yeah. Faith, frequency, and fight. The next year, Bin Laden’s story ended. They said it was SEAL Team Six, but I think it was the music that killed him. His world ran on chaos. Ours—on harmony.
Nelly: (smiling through tears) Then maybe my song and theirs were part of the same prayer.
Joe: Maybe, Queen of New York. You sang the light back into this city. And when the right songs align, Even the wolves fall silent.
They light a candle at the altar. Outside, the city glows like a living symphony— a million souls in rhythm, unbroken, unconquered.
A faint echo of “Empire State of Mind” drifts through the stained glass, and the Queen of New York hums along.
