Nelly: “JCJ, why are you wearing all black today? It’s kind of… striking.”
Christus Rex, JCJ: “I wear black today to mark the passing of Johnny Cash. It’s a tribute to a great, troubled soul who sang the truth.”
Nelly: “Oh. I didn’t realize. Are you going to a funeral?”
Christus Rex, JCJ: “Yes, Nelly. I am. I’m attending the funeral of Planet Earth.”
Nelly: (Confused) “The funeral of…? What are you talking about?”
Christus Rex, JCJ: “I’m talking about the death we are ushering in if these few men—Musk, Thiel, and the ancient dynasties like the Rothschilds and Rockefellers—are allowed to continue their relentless, unchecked pursuit of wealth. They are raping and polluting our mother, Earth, and their funeral for her is already scheduled. I’m just wearing the appropriate attire.”
Joe sat at the dimly lit bar, his eyes scanning the room as he nursed a whiskey. The world outside was blind to the real war, the one being fought in the shadows. Joey had seen it firsthand. Epstein Island? That was just the tip of the Rothschild iceberg. The real game was much deeper, stretching across continents, through centuries of manipulation.
Nelly Furtado slid into the seat next to him, her face half-hidden under a wide-brimmed hat. She had questions—she always did. “So, what’s the play, Joe?” she asked, voice hushed but steady.
Joe took a slow sip, letting the burn settle before answering. “You got three choices, Nelly. Lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way.”
She scoffed, leaning back. “Sounds like a slogan.”
“It’s the truth,” Joe said. “We’re up against something bigger than you can imagine. The Epstein stuff? That was a sacrifice play. They let people focus on him so they don’t look deeper. Rothschild money is older than America, older than most empires. They own nations, rewrite history. The real war isn’t fought with bullets, it’s fought with information, leverage, and control.”
Nelly’s fingers tapped against her glass. “And where do you fit in?”
Joey smirked. “I fight my war. My way.”
She sighed, shaking her head. “And you want me to do what? Sing a song about it?”
“I want you to wake up,” Joe said, his voice low but firm. “You’ve got reach, influence. But if you’re not gonna lead, if you’re not gonna help, then step aside. Because I’m not stopping.”
Nelly stared at him for a long moment. Then, with a slow nod, she signaled the bartender for another drink.
I know, Zayin is harmless and so is GIGI. The truth is that in Hollywood there is an inner red carpet only the MK ultra stars see. They want to know who is behind the masks. Only the red cloaks’ golden mask matters, because that is the head of the snake that Mary will put in jail for a thousand years. EVERYONE GETS ETERNAL LIFE
all dogs go to heaven, but some need CORRECTIONS from Joe Gilmore, Marshal Law.
