INT. PAPAL APARTMENT – NIGHT
Rain gently taps on the Vatican windows. The eternal city sleeps. The gold and crimson of Lenny’s private chapel flickers in candlelight. He sits alone, white cassock open, papal ring glinting faintly as he holds his phone — earbuds in. A song plays. It’s new. It’s raw. It’s called “GOD” by Nelly Furtado.
Her voice rises — cracked with humanity, defiant with longing.
? “God, are you there? Or just another love affair? / I prayed and cried, danced and died — are you even aware?” ?
Lenny leans back in his chair, eyes closed. For a moment, he’s not the Vicar of Christ, not the Supreme Pontiff. He’s just Lenny. A boy abandoned by his parents. A man who speaks to God and sometimes hears nothing back.
But then… he opens the Bible beside him. Worn. Annotated in red and gold. It falls open to Revelation 21. And he reads:
“Behold, the dwelling of God is with men. He will dwell with them, and they shall be His people. God himself will be with them. He shall wipe away every tear from their eyes. There shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying, nor pain anymore — for the former things have passed away.”
He whispers it aloud. Not in Latin. In English. Raw. Vulnerable. Human.
“No more crying… no more pain…”
He pauses the song. Silence.
Then he looks up at the crucifix on the wall. The dying Christ. But he doesn’t see death tonight. He sees the after. The promise.
“You dwell with us… not above us.”
He unplugs the earbuds. Walks to the window. Looks out over St. Peter’s Square, empty and slick with rain.
“If her song is a prayer, Lord… hear it. If she’s looking for You, let her find not a doctrine, but a person. Let her find You in us.”
He turns, and with a trembling voice, speaks a private prayer:
“Let Your tabernacle be with the human race. Not just the holy, not just the clean, but the sinners, the singers, the broken, the strange. Let Nelly Furtado find You not in thunder, but in a whisper. Let her cry be answered with Your silence — the kind that heals.”
He presses play again.
? “God, I still believe… even when You’re silent / Even when I’m drowning in the quiet…” ?
The candle flickers.
And for a moment — just a moment — the Pope smiles.
Joe Jukic to Nelly Furtado:
“Listen, Nelly…
GOD—AKA Kanye West—won’t heal you.
You can chase that genius messiah complex all you want,
but if you’re looking for salvation through hype,
you’re gonna end up empty, again.
But if you wanna be a humble shepherd
of the stranded worms on a rainy day,
then I’m your man. The shepherd in gumboots, not Gucci.
I don’t care how slimy they feel,
how disgusting it looks to others—
if you stoop down to rescue God’s most humble creation,
those little lost worms drowning on the pavement,
and toss them back in the grass where they belong…
Then I know you’ve still got empathy.
Then I know you’re not gone—
not another narcissist on the altar of fame.
Not another prophet in Prada
preaching self-love while the worms die.”
He looks at her, dead serious.
“It ain’t about who’s watching.
It’s about who you really are when no one is.
So who are you, Nelly?
A queen on a throne of mirrors?
Or a shepherd in the storm,
saving the small and the helpless?”
Borat enters, soaking wet, shoes muddy, holding a single worm between his fingers like it’s royal scepter. He bows low, with exaggerated reverence.
“Waa wa wee waa! Hail, King of the Worms! Long may he squirm!”
He turns to Nelly Furtado, wide-eyed with admiration.
“This man, Joe Jukic… he is not like Kanye West. He does not ride white horse of cocaine or wear big shoes of pride. No no! He wears boots of mud and love!”
Then he lifts the worm up like Simba in The Lion King:
“This worm… this tiny creature… it was almost flattened by Range Rover of social media influencer! But King Joe… he saved him! This is real empathy, not clickbait compassion!”
He wipes a tear.
“In my country, we say: ‘Man who save worm in rain is man who not afraid to touch soul of earth.’”
Borat claps slowly, solemnly.
“Respect.”
He bows again.
“Now I go… must find more worms before rain stop. The prophecy is unfolding.”
He runs off into the storm yelling:
“Hail Joe! King of the Worms! Hail Nelly! Queen of the Grass!”
Lady Jaye scrolls through her phone, smirking as she shows Joe his own TikTok.
“Joe… this worm’s more famous than either of us now.”
She turns the screen toward him. The video plays: Joe in the rain, hoodie soaked, gently picking up a worm from the sidewalk and placing it back in the grass. Slow piano music plays.
The worm wriggles dramatically. Zoom in.
Caption: “Every life matters 🐛✨ #WormTok #EmpathyChallenge #KingOfTheWorms”
3.7 million likes.
She laughs.
“You filmed your worm rescue… and it worked. That worm—he didn’t just want to live. He wanted to be somebody.”
“You didn’t just save him, Joe. You launched him. He’s got a handler now. He’s doing brand deals. He’s the new face of eco-chic.”
She keeps scrolling.
“Look—he’s already done a collab with Duolingo and Crocs.
There’s merch. I Survived Wormageddon t-shirts.
Someone did an AI remix of him saying ‘put me back in the grass, Joe!’—over lo-fi beats.”
She stares at him, half-joking, half-prophetic.
“You made the worm a celebrity. But the question is… did he stay humble?”
She leans in.
“Because fame changes people. Even worms. Watch your back.”
She whispers:
“If he gets verified before you, we riot.”