Author: Joe Blondie

Plot – Joe is a lone gunman who arrives at San Miguel, a town on Mexico border, where two families, the Rojo's and the Morales', are fighting each other to lead the alcohol and weapons' smuggling. In a complicated tangle of accusations, blitz and surveys, Joe pushes one family against the other, hoping they will eliminate each other. Discovered by one member of the Rojo's, Joe is tortured mercilessly. He manages to escape, but he promises to return to San Miguel to take his ruthless revenge.
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The Conversion of Russia

Scene: Inside a private chamber of the Kremlin, late evening. The Tesla tower outside glows faintly in the distance.

Putin: (quiet, heavy)
You ask me to fire it up. To give Moscow light without chains. But if I turn on the tower, the oil men will kill me the next day. The Bushes, the Rockefellers, the Saudis… they are not men, they are dynasties of knives.

Joe: (leaning forward)
Dynasties fall, Vlad. Rome fell, the British Empire fell. The oil barons will fall too. But someone has to make the first move.

Nelly: (soft, but steady)
We’re not asking you to make war with them, only to set your people free. Energy that flows like water—Nikola Tesla dreamed it for everyone, not for kings of crude.

Putin: (bitter smile)
You think I fear war? No. I fear betrayal. My own men could be bought. The OILAGARCHS don’t forgive. If I light up Moscow with free power, I won’t see another sunrise.

Nelly: (placing her hand on the table)
That’s why I’ll sing. Not just for you, but for Russia. There is a promise from Fatima—that the Virgin’s mantle protects this land. If I give that promise voice, no bullet, no assassin, no shadow can cross it.

Joe:
She’s right. Songs outlive bullets. When the world hears it, the oil men will look small, desperate, like tyrants grasping smoke.

Putin: (studying Nelly)
A song stronger than the oligarchs? Stronger than Rockefeller’s money, Bush’s armies, Saudi oil?

Nelly: (nodding)
Yes. A prayer set to music. Turn on the Light. That’s what I’ll call it. It will carry the protection of millions of voices.

Putin: (after a long silence)
If the song protects me—if I feel Russia shielded—then I will turn the tower on. I will give Moscow her light. But understand: this is no game. This is life and death.

Joe: (grinning)
Life and light, Vlad. That’s the future. The oil age is ending. Don’t be the last man defending a burning torch when the world could shine.

Nelly: (softly, like a vow)
Then let me sing for you. Let me sing for Russia. The Lady of Fatima will keep her word.

Putin: (finally, with resolve)
Then sing. And if the Virgin protects me, the lights of Moscow will blaze brighter than ever before.

Turn On the Light

(by Nelly Furtado)

Verse 1
In the shadow of the towers, where the black gold flows,
Men of power write their secrets, but the whole world knows.
They chain the earth with fire, they sell the night as day,
But the Virgin whispers softly, there’s another way.

Pre-Chorus
No bullet, no crown, no kingdom of lies,
Can silence the prayer that burns in the skies.

Chorus
Turn on the light, let it shine through the dark,
Over Red Square, through every heart.
Mother of Fatima, guard this land tonight,
Hold back the oil men—let Russia see the light.

Verse 2
They fear the free river, they fear the free wind,
They fear a Moscow rising they can’t cage within.
But the promise of the Lady, wrapped in holy fire,
Says the children of the future will lift the wires higher.

Pre-Chorus
No Bush, no crown, no oil-soaked throne,
Can stand against a song carved into stone.

Chorus
Turn on the light, let it shine through the dark,
Over Red Square, through every heart.
Mother of Fatima, guard this land tonight,
Hold back the oil men—let Russia see the light.

Bridge
From Lisbon to the Kremlin, her mantle unfolds,
Protecting the dream no empire controls.
And if they come hunting with shadows of fear,
The song will surround you—our voices are here.

Final Chorus
Turn on the light, let the free power rise,
Break every chain, unmask the disguise.
Mother of Fatima, guard this land tonight,
Turn on the light, let the world see it bright.

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Mashiach Ben David Rockefeller

The ice in my glass had melted, watering down the good Scotch. I didn’t care. This wasn’t a story for sipping; it was a story for telling. Nelly had asked about the song, and now she was going to get the history lesson they never teach you.

“1973,” I said, my voice cutting through the bar’s chatter. “You have to understand what that year felt like for a man like David Rockefeller. It’s the key to everything.”

Nelly swiveled on her stool, all ears.

“Downtown, his life’s work was literally touching the sky. The Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. Finished that year. And people in the know, they had a nickname for them. They didn’t call them North and South. They called them ‘David and Nelson.’ After the brothers. He didn’t just build skyscrapers; he built his own legacy in steel and glass, a permanent monument to the Rockefeller name. He looked at that skyline and he didn’t see New York. He saw his kingdom.”

I let that image hang in the air for a moment. The ultimate vanity.

“And in his head, the prophecy was crystallizing. He was a man of immense, world-shaping power, a patron of science and order. In his mind, the chaos of the world—the overpopulation, the ‘useless eaters’ draining resources—needed a savior. A technocratic messiah to implement a controlled, sustainable future. He started to truly believe it. That he was the one. Mashiach ben David. The Messiah, son of David. His own name, David, must have felt like destiny.”

I could see Nelly was hooked, her skepticism momentarily suspended by the sheer audacity of the idea.

“He was at his peak. The apex of his power and his delusion. And then… it hit the airwaves.”

I leaned in, lowering my voice to a near whisper.

“Carly Simon’s ‘You’re So Vain.’ A song so viciously accurate, so perfectly aimed, it shattered the illusion. Think about it from his perspective. He’s in his office on the top of the ‘David’ tower, believing he’s a god-king, and this voice comes out of every radio, every record player in the city, singing directly to him.”

“‘You had one eye in the mirror’—his narcissism. ‘And the other on the eclipse’—his grand, gloomy vision for a depopulated planet. ‘You flew your Learjet up to Nova Scotia’—his obscene, untouchable wealth. And the apricot scarf? The ultimate insult. It wasn’t just about suppressing the Hunza cancer cure; it was a symbol of his clinical, calculated heart. He thought he was wearing a badge of honor. Carly Simon framed it as the accessory of a villain.”

I took a long drink, the waterish Scotch doing nothing to dampen the fire of the story.

“She eviscerated him. She took his god complex and packaged it into a three-minute pop song for the masses to sing along to. She reduced the self-proclaimed messiah to a punchline. The towers might have been named ‘David and Nelson,’ but thanks to her, every time he heard that song, he remembered his other nickname: the guy who was so vain, he probably thought the song was about him.”

I set my glass down with a final thud.

“He thought 1973 would be the year he was crowned a messiah. Instead, it was the year Carly Simon crowned him the king of vanity. She didn’t just write a hit song; she performed a public exorcism on his delusions of grandeur.”

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Snake Oil Salesmen

Joe stood on the wooden porch of the general store, staring at the slick-tongued salesman in the bowler hat. The man was hawking little brown bottles, each glistening in the sunlight like liquid gold. He called it “Rockefeller’s Remedy”—a cure for every ailment, from headaches to heartbreaks.

Joe shook his head. “That’s snake oil,” he muttered under his breath. “Pure fraud.”

Blondie leaned against the hitching post, hat tipped low, watching the crowd lap up the words. The salesman spoke of “science,” of “progress,” of “modern medicine” brought to the wild frontier. He spoke like a preacher with dollar signs in his eyes. Blondie smirked. “Funny thing about progress. Always comes in a bottle with someone else’s name on it.”

Clint Eastwood squinted, chewing on the end of a cigarillo. He had seen this before—the traveling peddlers who promised miracles in exchange for coins. But this one was different. Behind him stood men in suits, not gunslingers but lawyers and bankers. The kind that didn’t need bullets, because they owned the sheriff.

“Rockefeller,” Clint finally said, gravel in his voice. “Man doesn’t sell medicine. He sells dependency. First he’ll cure your fever, then he’ll own your town. Not much difference between a rattler’s venom and what’s in those bottles.”

The crowd cheered as the salesman tipped his hat, making promises of longer life and stronger bones. Mothers reached for their purses. Children begged their fathers for a taste.

Joe clenched his fists. “They don’t see it. They don’t see they’re trading their health for a lie.”

Blondie’s smirk faded into something harder. “People want hope, Joe. Even if it’s bottled lies. Question is—do we let ‘em drink, or do we smash the bottles?”

Clint struck a match, lit his cigarillo, and blew smoke into the hot desert air. His eyes narrowed on the crates stacked high with Rockefeller’s name stenciled bold across the wood.

“Hope’s one thing,” he said. “But when a man poisons a whole town for profit…” He let the words hang, heavy as the sun sinking over the frontier. Then he drew back his duster, revealing the glint of iron at his hip.

Joe felt the weight of the choice in his bones. Stand by and watch the town fall under Rockefeller’s medicine… or take a stand against a new kind of outlaw.

Blondie looked between them, that crooked smile returning. “Guess it’s time to decide. Do we let the Rockefellers of the world build their empire of sickness… or do we remind folks what real justice tastes like?”

The salesman kept shouting promises. The crowd kept buying. But three men on the edge of town knew the truth: the deadliest snake wasn’t in the desert. It was bottled, branded, and blessed by men in tall buildings back East.

And out there, justice wasn’t just quick—it was scarce.

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