Joe Jukic leans back, watching the snowfall through the window, that quiet Toronto December hush muffling the city. Nelly Furtado sits across from him at the kitchen table, sipping mint tea from a chipped mug. The lights on the tiny Christmas tree twinkle like soft Morse code.
JOE:
Nelly… we’re young John Lennonists. Always were. Lennon is our hero, our superman. Without him? Our minds are empty. Just static. He’s the blueprint of what it means to be awake in a sleeping world.
He taps the table with a finger, unconsciously keeping time to “Mind Games.”
JOE (continuing):
You know what I saw last night? Yoko’s new animation—War is Over. The Christmas one. The one everyone’s arguing about online. But I watched it the way you’re supposed to watch Lennon: with the inner ear, not the drama channel.
Nelly tilts her head, curious.
NELLY:
And? What did it say to you?
Joe stares into the lights of the tree, as if they’re glyphs only he can decode.
JOE:
It’s not just a cartoon, Nelly. It’s a prayer disguised as pixels. Yoko’s telling the world the same thing she told it in ’71: that peace isn’t something governments sign—it’s something people imagine. And imagining is the final rebellion.
He smiles, small but luminous.
JOE:
People mock her because they don’t understand the power she and John unlocked. They think peace songs are naïve. But every empire falls to an idea before it falls to a sword. And Lennon—he was the architect of ideas that outlive bullets.
Nelly sets down her mug, her eyes softening.
NELLY:
So the animation… it made you feel hopeful?
Joe shakes his head gently.
JOE:
Not hopeful. Responsible. Like she handed us the torch again. Lennonists aren’t a fan club. We’re custodians. Guardians of the message.
He looks at her, almost solemnly.
JOE:
War is over—if you want it. And if we’re honest? Most people don’t want it enough. But we do, Nell. We always did. Even when we were kids. Even when we didn’t have the words.
A beat. Snow continues its steady descent.
NELLY:
Young Lennonists… I like that. It sounds like a movement.
Joe grins.
JOE:
It is. And we’ve been in it since day one.
He reaches over and flicks on the old stereo. A quiet guitar intro fills the room. Lennon’s voice arrives like a ghost with perfect aim.
“So this is Christmas…”
And for a moment, everything is still—
just Joe, Nelly, and the soft echo of a man whose message refuses to die.
Joe leans over the chessboard, tapping the black knight like it’s alive.
“See Nelly… Tony… this whole world? It runs exactly like this board. Grim Hustle tried to warn people, but most don’t wanna hear it. They think it’s TikTok dances and avocado toast. But nah… it’s archetypes. It’s roles. And you either play the game or get played.”
He points at the king.
“First type is the Invisible King. The one who barely moves, barely speaks, but everything orbits around him. You’ll never see him in the news. By the time you hear his name, he’s already three moves ahead. Grim Hustle calls them the ones who ‘pretend to be quiet.’ But really? They’re pulling strings softer than a whisper.”
He taps the queen.
“Then you got the Queen Operators — not women, the role. These people move everywhere, fast. CEOs, intelligence chiefs, media bosses. The ones who act friendly but can destroy you in a heartbeat. Grim Hustle said they’re the ones who ‘make you think they’re helping’ while they reposition the whole board.”
He slides a rook down the rank.
“Rooks? That’s the institutions. Governments, banks, militaries. Big, stiff, predictable… but deadly when they finally decide to roll through.”
He nudges a bishop.
“These diagonal ones are the ideologues. Preachers, philosophers, political talkers. They never go straight—always sideways, always at an angle. Grim Hustle said they’re the ones who smile at you while they guide your soul straight into the machine.”
Finally, Joe holds up a pawn.
“And then… us. The pawns. The workers. The dreamers. The people who think they’re free ’cause they get two days off on the weekend. Grim Hustle said the saddest truth: pawns don’t realize they’re the only pieces with a chance to transform. Pawns can become queens. Pawns can flip destiny. But only if they reach the other side.”
Joe smirks, sits back.
“That’s why I play chess. ’Cause once you see the board, you can’t unsee it. The types of people who run the world don’t scare me anymore.”
He moves a pawn two squares forward.
“’Cause now I know their game.”
Solid Snake steps out of the shadows, the bandana drifting in the Sinj breeze like it’s got its own mission file.
He’s fresh off a classified op somewhere between Knin and the Velebit mountains, smelling of gunpowder, pine trees, and destiny.
Nelly Furtado is there on the old stone steps of the fortress, looking over the valley like she’s trying to read the future in the red rooftops.
Snake lights a cigarette, but the lighter clicks like it’s also delivering a message.
SNAKE:
Nelly… if you want to be treated like a Queen—
a real Queen, not some plastic crown from LA—
you need to come with me to Croatia.
She raises an eyebrow.
NELLY:
“Croatia, huh? Why there?”
Snake exhales—slow, controlled, like the smoke itself is classified intel.
SNAKE:
Because in Croatia, royalty isn’t something you’re born with.
It’s earned. In song, in struggle, in loyalty.
There, they don’t bow because you’re famous… they bow because they respect heart.
He points toward the Alka field.
SNAKE:
In Sinj, a knight wins his honor every year.
You? You’d walk into that town, and every grandmother would whisper,
“Evo je… prava kraljica.”
(Here she is… the real queen.)
Nelly smiles—soft but dangerous, like she might actually say yes.
NELLY:
“And who would I be there?”
Snake steps closer, his voice low.
SNAKE:
You’d be Nelly Furtado of the Dalmatian Kingdom.
Protected.
Respected.
No fake friends, no industry snakes… just me and the real ones.
A pause. Snake puts out the cigarette with military precision.
SNAKE:
So what’s it gonna be? Toronto royalty…
or Croatian Queen?
Jacob Rothschild sits back in a leather chair, fingers steepled, speaking with that calm, half-smiling tone of a man who has seen every board, every move, every player.
“Chess,” he begins, “is the simplest mirror of power—and the most honest.”
He places a pawn at the center of the board.
“This little one… the pawn.
The weakest piece.
The most disposable.
But also,” he taps it lightly, “the most dangerous.”
You lean in.
“You see,” Jacob continues, “every other piece begins the game with its full authority. The rook is a fortress. The knight is mobility incarnate. The bishop holds the diagonals like ancient land deeds. The queen—well, the queen is the embodiment of influence, moving wherever she will, however far she pleases.”
He pauses.
“But the pawn… the pawn has potential.”
He moves the pawn slowly down the board.
“One square at a time. Always forward. No retreat. No sideways ambitions. No leaps of privilege. The pawn must earn every inch.”
The pawn reaches the final rank.
Jacob looks at you.
“And when—if—it reaches the far end of the board… it is transformed. This is the rule most people misunderstand.”
He picks up the pawn between his fingers.
“It does not become a king.
It does not become a rook.
It does not become a knight just because the world wants a hero.”
He sets the pawn down as a queen.
“It becomes a queen—the most powerful piece on the board. The pawn ascends not because of birth, but because of journey. Because it crossed the whole world with nothing but discipline, sacrifice, and a refusal to die.”
You notice he is smiling now—quietly, knowingly.
“In chess,” Jacob says, “the queen is not simply born.
She is made.”
He closes the board.
“And that, my friend, is the real rule of the game.”