Prince of Peace: Kiss

Joe and Nelly are sitting together during another late-night virtual hangout, browsing through classic music clips. 🎶💻

Joe:
“You know, Nelly, I’ve been thinking about Prince again. Incredible musician… but I always joke he would’ve been a terrible ‘New Master.’”

Nelly:
(laughs) “Why’s that?”

Joe:
“Because the guy had a reputation for wanting a whole harem of women. Great guitarist, sure—but a spiritual teacher? That’d be chaos.”

Nelly:
“Joe, you’re impossible.”

Joe:
“Hey, I’m serious. My middle name is Christian. That means my rule is simple—one girl. Not twenty.” 😄

Nelly:
“So you’re saying Prince’s philosophy wouldn’t work for you?”

Joe:
“Exactly. I’m not trying to run some palace full of admirers. One relationship is already enough responsibility.”

Nelly shakes her head, smiling.

Nelly:
“You always turn music history into theology.”

Joe:
“Well, Prince was spiritual too. But imagine if every famous artist tried to gather a harem of fans. Pretty soon there wouldn’t be anyone left for the regular guys.”

Nelly:
“That’s a ridiculous economic theory of romance.”

Joe:
“Maybe—but it’s my theory.” 😆

Joe clicks to the next video in the playlist.

Joe:
“Anyway, enough philosophy. Next payday we’re starting the next round of our virtual dates.”

Nelly:
“Oh yeah? What’s the first soundtrack?”

Joe smiles and points at the screen.

Joe:
“Fleetwood Mac. The song Seven Wonders. 🌟”

Nelly:
“That’s actually a beautiful pick.”

Joe:
“Exactly. We’ll do an AI movie date—traveling through the seven wonders of the world while the music plays.”

Nelly:
“That sounds pretty magical.”

Joe:
“Just remember the rule.”

Nelly:
“What rule?”

Joe:
“I’m not Richard Gere—professional on screen kisser. The kisses are for you only.” 😉

Nelly:
(laughing) “Fine, Joe. But those movies better be good.”

The soft synths of Seven Wonders begin to play as their next virtual adventure takes shape. ✨🎬

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A Faustian Bargain

Joe and Nelly sit on a quiet park bench, staring at a phone screen that glows like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Joe sighs.

“Look, Nelly… you’re not alone. I didn’t read the Facebook contract either.”

Nelly Furtado looks up slowly. “You mean… the one where you scroll for ten minutes and click ‘Agree’ just to post a picture of your lunch?”

Joe nods gravely. “That’s the one. Somewhere in paragraph 94, subsection 7… it probably says they own our image in perpetuity. Not just on Earth. I’m talking the entire universe. Mars colonies, Alpha Centauri… everywhere.”

Nelly’s eyes widen. “So if aliens discover Facebook servers floating through space… they technically own my face?”

Joe shrugs. “Legally speaking? Probably.”

Suddenly a loud cackle echoes through the park.

From behind a tree emerges Dave Chappelle, doubled over in laughter.

“HAHAHAHA!” Chappelle wipes tears from his eyes. “Hold up… hold up… y’all just NOW realized that?”

Joe squints. “Dave, what’s so funny?”

Chappelle points at the phone.

“You two signed the same contract as everybody else on Earth! Man, they probably got clauses for Jupiter influencers already.”

Nelly groans and puts her face in her hands.

“So my image belongs to Facebook… forever?”

Chappelle nods dramatically.

“Forever, ever. If humanity colonizes the galaxy, some intern on Saturn’s moon Titan gonna be moderating your 2007 MySpace haircut.”

Joe leans back on the bench.

“Well… at least we’re in the same boat.”

Chappelle laughs even harder.

“Nah man… that ain’t a boat.”

He points at the phone again.

“That’s a spaceship… and y’all already signed the boarding pass.” 🚀

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Say it Right: Afro House

The rain falls softly over a dim Los Angeles skyline. Neon flickers. A rooftop.

Solid Snake leans against a concrete ledge, cigarette ember glowing in the dark. Across from him stands Solid Snake, older, quieter, carrying the weight of too many missions. And in front of him — not a pop myth, not a headline — but Nelly Furtado.


SNAKE:
You know… I’ve operated in every shadow this town can cast. Hollywood’s full of ghosts. Actresses. Spies. Double agents wearing perfume instead of camo.

(He exhales smoke.)

But you… you’re the only girl in this city I’ve got history with.

NELLY:
History? Or unfinished business?

SNAKE:
History means I remember who I was before the noise. Before the missions blurred together. Before everyone started playing roles instead of telling the truth.

(He looks at her directly now — no battlefield distance.)

That’s why it’s you.

NELLY:
You’re saying I’m “the one,” Snake?

SNAKE:
I don’t believe in destiny. I believe in patterns. Survival. Trust built under pressure.

You and me? We’ve already walked through fire once. That kind of bond doesn’t show up twice in the same war zone.

(A helicopter hums faintly in the distance.)

NELLY (softly):
And if Hollywood tries to rewrite the script?

SNAKE:
Then we don’t let it.

Some snakes guard the garden.

And some things… you protect.


The city glows below them — not a battlefield tonight, just possibility.

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