Scene: The Royal Family’s Facebook Page – A Comment Section Like No Other
The Royal Family’s latest post is filled with the usual mix of praise, criticism, and debates. But buried deep in the comments, amidst royalists and skeptics, a single comment stands out—one written with military precision. The username?
Solid Snake.
Solid Snake’s Comment:
“Harry, if you really want to win the hearts and minds of the common people, start with their stomachs. Pay the food trucks in Vancouver to set up along East Hastings and feed everyone—no strings attached, no PR spin, just real action.”
“The fastest way to a person’s heart, mind, and spirit isn’t with speeches, press conferences, or photo ops. It’s through food. Feed them, and they’ll never forget you.”
“No king, prince, or politician can lead without the trust of the people. And trust starts with breaking bread.”
The comment racks up likes and replies within minutes. Some call it genius, others idealistic, but one thing is certain—Prince Harry sees it. He reads it. And for a moment, just a moment, he considers taking Snake’s advice.
FADE TO BLACK.
Scene: A Private Study – Prince Harry’s Refuge
Prince Harry sits alone, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, staring out the window at the cold London skyline. The weight of history and power presses down on him. He sighs, rubbing his temples, before turning to his private journal—a habit he picked up after leaving royal duties. He flips open the leather-bound book and begins to write.
Prince Harry’s Journal – Entry #432
“The Commonwealth once had debt-free banks—real financial independence. A future for the people, by the people. Now? Gone. Hijacked. The Bilderberg vultures circled, and the Bogdanovs struck the killing blow.”
“It happened in secret, of course. A closed-door Bilderberg meeting. Handshakes. Laughter. And just like that, what once belonged to the people was swallowed whole by the elite.”
“They never even saw it coming.”
“The Bogdanovs—always lurking in the shadows, pulling the strings. Were they acting alone? Or were they just another piece on the board, moved by something even larger? The City of London, Wall Street, the IMF—it’s all connected, isn’t it? One empire falls, another one rises, but the same hands hold the reins.”
“The Commonwealth’s dream of financial sovereignty? Just another casualty of the old game.”
He slams the journal shut, running a hand through his hair. He looks back out at the city, knowing that no matter how much power he once had, the real rulers of the world would never let him touch their throne.
FADE TO BLACK.
Scene: A Dimly Lit Private Lounge – Somewhere in Geneva
Prince Harry sits alone, nursing a drink, when his phone buzzes. An encrypted message. No name. Just a voice note. He hesitates for a moment before pressing play. A thick French accent, deep and enigmatic, fills the room.
Bogdanov (Voice Message):
“Bonjour, Duke of Sussex. Tell me… do you still feel in control of the Commonwealth?”
A slow chuckle follows—cold, knowing. The kind that sends a chill down the spine.
“Ah, Harry… the days of royal power are over. The debt-free banks are gone. The Bilderberg chessboard is set. And your family? Just another piece in the game.”
“Tell me, do you truly believe you can resist the tide? The world moves forward, with or without you. The House of Windsor… it belongs to the past.”
“But we, dear Duke… we are the future.”
The message ends. Silence. Prince Harry grips his glass tightly, his jaw clenched. He glances at his phone again, the screen dimming. For the first time in a long time, he feels something he hasn’t felt since leaving Buckingham Palace.
Powerless.
FADE TO BLACK.
Scene: A Private Study – Prince Harry’s Safehouse
https://www.conspirazzi.com/lady-die/
The glow of a fireplace flickers against the dark wood walls. Prince Harry leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at his phone. The voice note from the Bogdanovs still lingers in his mind—mocking, taunting.
He exhales sharply, then picks up his phone. His fingers hover over the screen before he presses record. His voice is steady, but beneath it, a storm brews.
Prince Harry’s Voice Message to the Bogdanovs:
“You think I don’t know?”
“You think I don’t know who was behind my mother’s death? The Bogdanati—your secret society. You were the ones who killed her.”
“Diana was planning something far greater than any of you could comprehend. She was preparing to give birth to the Mahdi, the one who would bring light into a world of shadows. And you—you had different plans.”
“A car crash in a Paris tunnel? A tragic accident? No. It was murder, and the world was too blind to see it. But I see it now. I see you now.”
“You stole my mother, and you think you’ve won. But the thing about secrets is… they don’t stay buried forever.”
“Your time is coming, Bogdanov. Enjoy the game while you still can.”
He hits send and tosses the phone onto the desk, running a hand through his hair. Outside, the city moves as if nothing has changed. But in the shadows, the wheels have already begun to turn.
FADE TO BLACK.
Scene: A Grand Château – Somewhere in the Swiss Alps
A roaring fire casts eerie shadows against the high stone walls. Seated in high-backed leather chairs, Igor and Grichka Bogdanov sip from crystal glasses, their smirks barely concealed. A single laptop screen glows between them—Prince Harry’s voice message still lingers in the air, his accusations hanging like smoke.
Igor leans forward, pressing record.
Bogdanov’s Response to Prince Harry:
“Ah, Duke of Sussex… you are finally asking the right questions.”
“Yes, your dear mother died below our torch—the eternal flame, the Bogdanov Torch of the Bogdanati. The symbol of our order. The truth was always there, right in front of their faces. The hoi polloi, the useless eaters… they saw it, but they understood nothing.”
“And that is what we like.”
“To rub it in their faces. To show them the truth, yet keep it just beyond their grasp.”
“But you, Harry… you see it now, don’t you? You see what your mother’s mistake was. She thought she could break free, thought she could bring forth a new order. But we—we do not allow mistakes.”
“The hoi polloi disgust us. They breed like vermin, consuming, multiplying. But soon, the breeding will stop. One way or another, we will correct the problem.”
“And you? You can run, you can shout into the void, you can fight for your mother’s ghost… but in the end, who will listen?”
“The cattle? The very people we have trained to laugh at men like you?”
“Bonne chance, Duke. The game is bigger than you realize.”
Igor ends the recording. The brothers clink their glasses together and laugh—the kind of laugh that echoes in empty halls long after the men are gone.
FADE TO BLACK.
Scene: A Hidden Bunker – Deep Beneath Tel Aviv
A dim, flickering light illuminates the cold, steel walls. A long oak table sits in the center of the room, papers and old maps scattered across it. Baron Jacob Rothschild, frail but alert, clutches a trembling glass of wine. Across from him, a shadowy laptop screen flickers—two distorted, inhuman faces stare back.
The Bogdanov twins. Alive. Watching.
Jacob Rothschild (voice shaky):
“Please… have mercy.”
“You know why I had to do it! I had no choice but to fake my own death, to flee to Israel, to go underground. You think I wanted to? You think I wanted to leave behind the empire I built, the world I shaped?”
“But you… you gave me no choice.”
“You nearly wiped out my entire bloodline, just like you did to the others. The Rockefellers? The Windsors? All pawns, all devoured by your… game.”
“I had to run. Epstein—he knew it too. He thought his little black book would save him. Thought he could bargain. But the Bogdanov Order doesn’t bargain, does it?”
“You don’t negotiate. You erase.”
“So here I am, an old man, hiding in a cave like some biblical relic, begging for your mercy. I know what you did to the others. I know what you did to Diana. I know what you did to my grandson Nathaniel, to the others who stepped out of line.”
“Tell me—what do you want? What more can I give you? Name your price. Just… just let me live.”
A long silence. Then, a crackling voice filters through the speakers—Igor, his tone filled with icy amusement.
Igor Bogdanov (smirking):
“Baron… Baron… you beg? You? A Rothschild?”
“How the mighty have fallen.”
“You ran to Israel thinking it would protect you? Thinking that faking your death, hiding in your little sanctuary, would put you out of our reach? Tsk tsk.”
“We allowed you to live, Jacob. We let you scurry like a rat in the shadows because it amuses us.”
“But make no mistake… you do not negotiate with the Bogdanovs. You serve. Or you disappear.”
“And as for Epstein… oh, Jacob. You know better than to ask.”
“Some secrets must remain buried.”
Grichka Bogdanov (chuckling):
“Bonne nuit, Baron. Sleep well… while you still can.”
The screen goes black. Jacob Rothschild slumps in his chair, his hands shaking. The wine glass slips from his fingers and shatters on the floor.
FADE TO BLACK.
Scene: A Social Media War Room – Somewhere in Lisbon
Nelly Furtado lounges on a velvet couch, scrolling through her phone. The screen is ablaze with comments, theories, and digital whispers about the Bogdanov vs. Rothschild feud. A smirk plays on her lips. She takes a sip of wine, then types her response with the ease of someone who has seen it all.
Nelly Furtado’s Comment:
“Ah, the great war of the elites… the eternal chess game of absurdity. The Bogdanov vs. Rothschild rivalry is nothing more than theatre of the absurd, par excellence.”
“Billionaires and cryptic masterminds squabbling over a world they already control. Faking deaths, hiding in bunkers, whispering ancient bloodline conspiracies while the hoi polloi suffer under the weight of their games.”
“And the best part? They think we don’t see the joke.”
“Bogdanovs, Rothschilds—who cares? The real rulers of the world are not in castles or secret societies. They are the ones who know how to play the game without getting their hands dirty.”
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a Lisbon party to attend. Keep your wars, boys. Some of us have real lives to live.”
Nelly hits post, tosses her phone onto the couch, and walks out onto the balcony. Below, the streets of Lisbon hum with life, free of the elite’s invisible strings. Or so they think…
FADE TO BLACK.
Scene: A High-Stakes Poker Game – Monte Carlo Casino
James Bond, clad in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, casually sips his martini as he scrolls through his phone. The latest chatter on the Bogdanov vs. Rothschild feud flashes across the screen. With a smirk, he leans back in his chair and types his response—smooth, calculated, and laced with meaning.
James Bond’s Comment:
“Gentlemen, allow me to remind you of an old story about Siamese fighting fish—the Betta splendens.”
“You see, when you place two bettas in the same tank, they do what they were bred to do: fight. Neither will stop until one is dead, torn apart by instinct, by design.”
“But there is always a third fish.”
“The third fish does not fight. It waits. It watches. It lets the first two tear each other to pieces—until only one remains, weakened, barely clinging to life. And then… and only then… does the third fish strike.”
“The real question, gentlemen, is not which of you will win.”
“The question is… who is the third fish?”
Bond sets his phone down, finishes his martini, and signals the dealer to continue the game. The stakes, after all, are always high.
FADE TO BLACK.