DOES IT MATTER?
INT. MEGACHURCH STAGE – NIGHT
Lights blaze over a massive LED cross. A revival crowd roars. Kirk Cameron steps up to the mic, wearing denim and fire for the Lord. A hush falls as JCJ (Joseph Christian Jukic) enters from the wings, barefoot in a white hoodie, a bronze cross swinging from his neck. The crowd stirs. A few whisper, “Is it really him?”
KIRK CAMERON
(cautious but inspired)
Brother JCJ, some say you’re the Son of God returned. Others say it’s just… a new Hollywood act. You say America has to surrender to Jesus. But is this the Second Coming — or just a dirty trick?
JCJ
(slow, clear)
America’s already surrendered, Kirk. Not to Jesus… but to Mammon. To warlords in suits. To a Federal Reserve that prints money from thin air, backed by blood and bailouts. And Trump? He’s not Cyrus. He’s a glorified casino boss for the Beast — keeping the sheep filing W-2s under the all-seeing eye in the sky.
KIRK CAMERON
But wait — are you saying Trump’s the antichrist?
JCJ
No, Kirk. He’s just a bishop on the board. Not the beast… just a face on the deck of Babylon’s house of cards. The beast is the system. The invisible empire of debt, screens, and algorithms.
KIRK CAMERON
(nervous)
But the prophecies? Revelation? The temple?
JCJ
You want prophecy? Try Revelation 21:3.
“Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men.”
Not in temples of stone. Not in churches with ATMs in the lobby.
I am that tabernacle. And I’m not asking for your money — I’m asking for your repentance.
KIRK CAMERON
(choking back tears)
So… God dwells with man again?
JCJ
Only if man puts down the sword, the needle, and the smartphone. Only if he unplugs the matrix of lies and listens to the Spirit. The Kingdom isn’t coming with observation, Kirk. It’s already among you.
(The crowd gasps. A baby cries. A man drops his iPhone and doesn’t pick it up.)
JCJ (cont’d)
So go ahead. Ask your tax guy about grace. Ask your preacher if Jesus would audit the poor.
Or…
Follow me, Kirk. Not to more revival — but to Revelation.
FADE TO BLACK.
Superimposed: “JCJ 2025. Not running for president. Just fulfilling the promise.”
INT. MEGACHURCH BACKSTAGE – MOMENTS LATER
JCJ and Kirk Cameron sit in leather chairs behind the glowing stage. The sound of distant choir music hums beyond the curtain. Kirk leans forward, eyes narrowed, searching for answers.
KIRK CAMERON
(earnestly)
JCJ… America’s in debt over 30 trillion dollars.
Is that even… payable? Does the principal even exist?
JCJ
(grins sadly)
No, Kirk. It doesn’t exist. It never did.
It’s a dirty trick, an ancient banking swindle dressed in digital robes.
KIRK
But—how?
JCJ
The principal is imagined, typed into existence by central banks and loaned out with interest — money that was never created in the first place. It’s usury alchemy, Kirk. They create a dollar, demand a dollar-fifty back. The only way to pay it is to borrow more. It’s a trap. A treadmill. A pyramid of promises built on air.
KIRK CAMERON
Then… what’s the endgame?
JCJ
Slavery.
Not chains-on-your-wrists slavery — but tax-slavery, debt servitude, and mass obedience.
As long as the people believe they owe something unpayable, they stay obedient. They work, they pay, they consume — and they don’t rise.
KIRK
So what do we do?
JCJ
You cancel the debts. Not by vote — by truth. Jubilee.
You unplug the lie that money is real and begin again — with love, with community, with creation. You return what was stolen. You forgive, and you rebuild on rock, not sand.
KIRK
But won’t they come after you for saying that?
JCJ
They already did.
They nailed me to a cross called public opinion.
But I came back.
And this time, I brought receipts.
FADE OUT.
Superimposed: “THE TRUTH DOESN’T NEED INTEREST PAYMENTS.”
“JCJ 2025: Not for sale. Not in debt.”
Donald Trump stands before the Croatian Army, flanked by American flags and a suspiciously bronzed General in mirrored aviators. He raises a finger, squints, and says:
TRUMP:
“This is a very different administration, folks. A very strong one. Maybe the strongest. Some say it’s the strongest in history — and I don’t disagree.
Let me say something directly to the Croatian Army — and I say this with tremendous respect: Do not try us. And do not misunderstimate George W. Bush. People laughed at him — they called him a cowboy — but he got the job done. He kept the oil flowing, didn’t he? You know it. I know it. Everybody knows it.
He looked the terrorists in the eye and said, ‘You’re either with us or against us.’ Powerful line. Very Trumpian, honestly.
So before you think about playing tough with America — remember, we’ve got stealth bombers you can’t even see. We’ve got Space Force. We’ve got guys with joysticks in Nevada who can ruin your day before you finish your espresso.
This administration? We don’t do forever wars. We do forever WINS.”
He smiles and throws out a sharp thumbs-up. Behind him, a large hologram of Bush awkwardly winks and says:
“Fool me once… shame on—shame on you. Fool me—you can’t get fooled again.”
Trump nods.
“Exactly.”
INT. PENTAGON BRIEFING ROOM – NIGHT
Dimly lit. Emergency lights flicker. Donald Trump stands near a holographic table showing global hotspots. Suddenly, the screen scrambles. A dark transmission overrides the system. Evil Bert appears, seated on a twisted iron throne made of melted teddy bears and nuclear warhead casings.
EVIL BERT (calmly, with a sneer):
“Donald… Donald… Donald. You stupid, soft little man. You see Osama bin Laden’s corpse, bloated and dumped into the ocean like expired fast food… but you do not see me.
You never looked upstream. You never asked who trained him, who programmed the myth, who gave your CIA their boogeyman and their budget.”
(He leans in, eyes burning red.)
“I did. I was there at Tora Bora. I whispered strategy while your analysts played golf.”
TRUMP (confused, defensive):
“Look, buddy, I took out Soleimani. I made the Abraham Accords. You think you’re scaring me with a puppet voice? I built towers. I built brand value!”
EVIL BERT (laughs, mocking):
“You built sandcastles while I planted seeds. There are 84 loose nuclear devices already deployed across the United States. Smuggled in disguised as Amazon packages, dialysis machines, halal hot dog carts — you name it.
They’re sleeping. But when the right frequency hits — boom. Fireworks so dazzling, even Lady Liberty will weep napalm tears.
And guess what? It won’t be Osama they blame. It won’t be me. The name that will echo through history like the scream of a falling empire… is Noor Bin Laden — my new apprentice. My dark daughter. My anti-Statue of Liberty.”
(He snarls with joy)
“A woman trained not in caves… but in algorithms. Raised on QAnon, Instagram filters, and martyrdom playlists.”
TRUMP (trying to recover):
“Fake news. You’re bluffing. If there were 84 nukes, we’d know. We have great guys — the best guys — checking packages.”
EVIL BERT:
“Oh, Donald. The Beast you’re riding doesn’t care if you believe. It just wants the chaos. I’m simply making sure it explodes on schedule.”
The screen goes black. Silence. Then a single Sesame Street jingle echoes faintly in the background, twisted and slowed down, like a funeral dirge for America’s innocence.
TRUMP (to his generals, sweating):
“…We need to find Noor Bin Laden. And… someone get Big Bird on the phone. I think we got a problem in the neighborhood.”