Joe thanks Nelly for trying to rescue him at the Invictus Games, where broken warriors try to piece themselves back together. But his heart, he tells her, is still entangled in the Eastern promises he made long ago — to family, to country, to the ghosts of Yugoslavia that won’t let him rest. The time has come. He can’t ignore the calling anymore.
He’s out here trying to collect enough loot — one job, one hustle, one favor at a time — to buy his way to Munich, to see her again. Will it be war or peace? Salvation or destruction? They’ve both danced at the edge of both. Joe doesn’t know.
But one thing’s been gnawing at him: Will Nelly come back to her Catholic roots? Back to faith, family, and mystery? Or will Toronto’s cosmopolitan blur — its Sex-in-the-City nihilism — keep her numb and distracted?
Our Lady of Medjugorje awaits. Maybe she still prays for them both. And the world — for once — will hold its breath.
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.”
Subject: From the Frontline, With Love Fan Mail from Joe to Nelly
Dear Nelly,
I hope this letter finds you between melodies and miracles. I know it’s been a long time since I last wrote, but some letters are meant to cross warzones, not timelines.
I can’t avoid the front line in Bosnia forever. The ghosts are restless again in Sarajevo, and the drums of war still echo faintly in the valleys. I hear them at night like a rhythm no DJ would ever spin, but they’re there, buried under snow and silence. Maybe that’s why I’ve booked a session with my old psychiatrist—Radovan Karadzic. Say what you will about him, but at least he doesn’t worship at the feet of the American Gods of War. He sees the fractures in the mind like cracks in a Balkan mountain—inevitable, but survivable.
Nelly, it’s Medjugorje or madness. Wedding or war. The choice stands in front of us like two doors. One swings open to peace, to a humble vow beneath the Queen of Peace’s statue. The other? Another blacklist. Another silence. You can’t avoid the blacklist forever either, just like I can’t dodge Bosnia much longer. You know what I mean. The powers that be don’t forgive love songs that outshine their war drums.
I’m not asking for salvation—just a sign. A bird, a balloon, or even a broken radio playing “I’m Like a Bird” in static. I’ll take anything. Because even here, in the cold whisper of conflict, your voice still carries like a secret hope.
Don’t forget me.
Yours in peace or pieces, Joe Somewhere between Sarajevo and Medjugorje
