Yugo Joe – Page 9

March 9, 2026March 9, 2026

Our Lady’ s Home

Story Scene: “Oh Freedom, Where Do I Begin?”

In a quiet café in Vancouver, the rain taps softly against the windows.
Nelly Furtado stares down at her tea like she’s searching for an answer inside the steam.

“Sometimes,” she says, “I feel like every step of my life is being examined by doctors and experts. Charts, diagnoses, interviews… it never ends.”

Across from her sits Joe Jukic, flipping through a small Bible.

Nelly sighs and half-laughs. “You know that line from my song Party? I keep hearing it in my head lately.”

She looks up and quotes her own lyric:

“Oh freedom… where do I begin?”

Joe nods slowly and turns the page toward her.

“Maybe here,” he says, pointing.

He reads aloud from Psalm 91:

“Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.”

Joe closes the book gently.

“That’s security,” he says. “Not committees. Not psychiatric interrogations. Just faith and a quiet life. If someone needs to confess something, they go to a priest—not a panel.”

Nelly leans back, thinking.

Joe continues, half-smiling.

“And if you want greener pastures… we’ve got friends. Even warriors.”

He gestures jokingly like a bodyguard arriving.

“Marko Perković Thompson will protect us.”

Nelly laughs at the absurd image.

Joe shrugs.

“I’m serious about one thing though. People act like we’re trapped. But we’re not.”

He points out the window toward the gray Vancouver skyline.

“We’re not living behind the Berlin Wall.”

He spreads his hands.

“We can pack a bag, get on a plane, and go somewhere peaceful if we want. Nobody’s stopping us.”

Nelly looks out at the rain again.

“Freedom,” she murmurs.

Then she smiles faintly.

“Maybe that’s where the party actually starts.” 🎶

February 8, 2026February 8, 2026

Tourists in Rome

Joe Jukic had expected the Vatican to feel like a museum—quiet, roped-off, politely dead.
Instead, on their honeymoon in 2028, it felt alive.

The morning sun spilled over St. Peter’s Square like honey, warming the stone and the crowds. Rome hummed the way it had for two thousand years, indifferent to trends, immune to algorithms. Joe squeezed Nelly Furtado’s hand as they crossed the square together, wedding bands still new enough to catch the light and demand attention.

“Not bad for a honeymoon stop,” Joe said, looking up at the dome.
Nelly smiled. “We could’ve done a beach.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “But this has better ghosts.”

They passed through the Vatican corridors slowly, unhurried in that newly-married way, where time feels generous. Frescoes folded into one another like centuries arguing politely. The air cooled as they approached the Sistine Chapel, and without anyone saying a word, their voices dropped to whispers—as if the walls themselves had asked.

Then they saw it.

The ceiling first, of course—Creation blazing overhead, God rushing toward humanity with terrifying energy. Joe leaned back, almost dizzy.

“Imagine painting this,” he murmured.
Nelly tilted her head. “Imagine trusting it to last forever.”

But it was Michelangelo’s Last Judgment that held them.

The wall was alive with motion—bodies rising, falling, twisting, clinging. No tidy heaven. No cartoon hell. Just truth, muscle-bound and unavoidable. Christ stood at the center, not gentle, not cruel—decisive.

Joe felt it hit him in the chest. “That’s not a guy you argue with.”

Nelly laughed quietly. “Nope. That’s a guy who’s already heard all the excuses.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder, newly married, watching humanity stripped of rank and costume. Saints were naked. Kings were naked. Sinners too. Everyone equal under the same impossible gaze.

“What gets me,” Joe said, “is there’s nowhere to hide. No money. No fame. No legacy hacks.”

Nelly nodded. “Just what you loved. What you did with your time.”

They traced the upward movement—the saved helping one another rise, hands gripping wrists with effort and urgency. It wasn’t effortless grace. It looked like work.

“That part,” Nelly said softly, “that’s marriage.”
Joe smiled without looking at her. “Yeah. Lifting each other when gravity kicks in.”

A guard hushed a nearby group. Silence settled again.

Joe glanced at Christ, then at the damned spiraling downward. “Wild honeymoon activity, huh? Judgment Day in fresco form.”

Nelly squeezed his hand. “Better than pretending life’s all sunsets.”

When they finally stepped back into the Roman sun, the noise rushed in—tourists, scooters, laughter, life in full motion. Joe felt lighter and heavier at the same time.

“So,” he said, grinning, “espresso?”
Nelly laughed. “Absolutely. Judgment first. Caffeine second.”

They walked away from the Vatican together, honeymooners in 2028, carrying something older than Rome itself between them:
the quiet knowledge that love is a daily choice,
time is finite,
and every life—every marriage—
is a masterpiece still drying on the wall.

January 27, 2026January 27, 2026

Adriatique

Joe leans on the stone balustrade, the Adriatic breathing blue below them.

Joe:
“Nelly… how come you’ve never sung in Croatia? Never let your voice drift over the blue Adriatic—the same blue as your eyes. It would wreck people, in the best way.”

She smiles, half-shy, half-curious.

Nelly:
“I don’t know. Life just… pulled me elsewhere.”

Joe:
“They love you there. Truly. You remind them of Gospa—not the marble kind, the living kind. Gentle. Protective. Like a presence that shows up when the sea is calm and when it’s rough.”

She looks out at the water, sunlight flickering like notes on a staff.

Nelly:
“That’s a heavy thing to say.”

Joe:
“Only because it’s true. You’d sing once, and they’d swear the coast remembered you. Like you’d always been part of it.”

The wind carries salt and promise. She doesn’t answer—just lets the blue look back at her.