Author: Christus Rex

The book will be brought forth, in which all deeds are noted, where the world will be judged.
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Zion Don’s Tower of Power

The Gilded Cage

Setting: The office door swings open. Patrick Bateman enters, his Valentino suit perfectly pressed, his skin glowing from a rigorous twelve-step morning routine. He carries a silver tray with three crystal glasses of San Pellegrino.

Bateman: (Checking his reflection in the polished mahogany) Donald, the lighting in here is a bit aggressive for this time of day. It’s highlighting the pores. Oh—and hello, Jesus. I’ve heard your “Sermon on the Mount” is being sampled by a new synth-pop duo in London. Very minimalist. Very chic.

Trump: (Relaxing slightly) Patrick! Good. Tell him. Tell the King here why we need the bombs. Tell him about the optics.

Bateman: (Placing the glasses down with surgical precision) It’s quite simple, really. It’s about branding. A nation without a war is like a man without a designer suit—he lacks silhouette. He’s just… soft. Whether it’s for Barron’s future or the Rothschilds’ balance sheets is secondary to the fact that it keeps the Dow Jones looking “healthy.”

Christus Rex: (His gaze fixed on Bateman) You speak of health while you are a hollow shell, Patrick. You see a brother in pain and you only see the thread count of his shroud. You ignore the starving at your gate.

Bateman: (He pauses, a slight, twitchy smile touching his lips) “Hollow” is a bit harsh. I have a 4.0 GPA from Wharton and a reservation at Dorsia. But honestly, these people you’re worried about—these Les Misérables—it’s exhausting. I see them on the street and I think, ‘Les Mis, why don’t you just get a job?’ It’s not that hard. There are plenty of entry-level positions in food service. They just lack the “hustle.”

Trump: Exactly! See? Patrick gets it. If I forgive the debt, I take away their motivation. It’s a tough-love thing. Very Christian, right?

Christus Rex: (Turning back to Trump) There is no love in a cage of interest rates, Donald. And there is no peace in a bomb, Patrick. You both talk as if the world is a spreadsheet, but I hear the crying in the night. I hear the hunger that no “brand” can satisfy.

Bateman: (Sipping his water, his eyes cold) Hunger is an aesthetic, too, in its own way. Very “waifish.” But honestly, Christ, the billions we spend on the military-industrial complex… it’s a form of performance art. It’s the ultimate consumerism. We’re consuming entire landscapes. It’s breathtaking. If Les Mis wants a piece of the pie, they should stop complaining and start investing.

Trump: It’s about the best equipment. The most beautiful planes. We make the best stuff. Why give them bread when we can give them the most incredible defense system the world has ever seen?

Christus Rex: Because they cannot eat a missile, and they cannot sleep inside a stock price. You are building a kingdom of ghosts.

Bateman: (Checking his Rolex) Well, ghosts are much easier to manage. They don’t require a 401(k) or health insurance. Donald, we really should get going. I have a 12:30 lunch, and the new war room has a much better view of the sunset. It’s very “end-of-the-world” chic.

The Apex of Ambition

The atmosphere on the roof of the tower is biting, the wind whipping at the edges of Bateman’s overcoat and the simple robes of the figure standing at the precipice. Below, the city is a grid of gold and desperation.


Setting: The helipad atop Trump Tower. The wind howls, muffling the roar of the city below. Donald Trump stands with his chest out, gazing at the horizon. Patrick Bateman stands slightly behind him, fastidiously adjusting his leather gloves.

Trump: (Shouting over the wind) Look at it! The greatest view in the world. We’re above it all. This is where the real decisions happen. This is power, Christ. Total power.

Bateman: (Nodding, his eyes glazed with a strange intensity) It’s a superb elevation. The air is thinner up here—cleaner. It doesn’t smell like the subway or the unwashed masses. It smells like… capital. Those Les Misérables down there, scurrying around—why don’t they just get a job? If they spent half as much time working as they do breathing my air, they’d be up here too.

Christus Rex: (Standing at the very edge, looking not at the horizon, but straight down into the shadows of the streets) You think height is holiness, Patrick. And you, Donald—you think this spire is a testament to your strength.

Trump: (Laughing, gesturing to the gleaming gold structure) It’s the best building in the city! Maybe the world. Everyone wants to be in this tower. It’s a symbol. It’s a statement.

Christus Rex: (Turning slowly, His eyes piercing and calm) It is a statement, Zion Don. But not of the strength you imagine. This tower… this cold, phallic symbol of glass and steel… it is nothing more than an overcompensation for your own impotence. You build higher because you feel smaller. You accumulate billions because you are spiritually bankrupt.

Bateman: (A sharp, hollow laugh escapes him) “Impotence”? That’s a bit localized, isn’t it? I have a rigorous exercise routine that says otherwise. But I suppose, metaphorically, the tower is a bit “on the nose.” A bit much. Though the marble in the lobby is exquisite.

Trump: (His face reddening, his voice dropping to a low growl) I’m the builder! I’m the one who gets things done. I’m spending billions on the most beautiful bombs, the best military. How is that weak? We’re going to war to show the world who’s boss!

Christus Rex: A man who must burn the world to feel powerful is the weakest man of all. You spend on death because you are afraid of life. You hold the people’s debt over their heads because you cannot command their love. You sit in an ivory tower while they starve, hiding behind a Baron’s name and a Rothschild’s ledger, terrified that if the music stops, you’ll be revealed as a man with nothing but a hollow crown.

Bateman: (Checking his watch, looking bored) Honestly, the “meek shall inherit the earth” bit is so overplayed. If Les Mis inherits the earth, they’ll just ruin the property value. Donald, we’re going to be late for the 1:00 PM briefing on the tactical strikes. I heard the new drones have a very sleek, matte-black finish. It’s very “now.”

Trump: (Turning his back on the city, walking toward the elevator) They don’t understand, Patrick. They don’t understand the game. Let them talk about debt and bread. We’re building a legacy.

Christus Rex: (His voice carrying on the wind as the elevator doors begin to slide shut) You are building a tomb, Donald. And the higher you build it, the further you have to fall.

The War Room: Deep State Overture

Setting: Thirty floors below the penthouse, the War Room is a cavern of monitors, flickering with satellite feeds of troop movements and flickering candlelight. The air is thick with the smell of expensive cologne, ozone, and tactical-grade supplements.

Alex Jones: (Pacing frantically, red-faced, clutching a bottle of “Brain Force”) It’s happening, Mr. President! I’ve seen the documents! The interdimensional globalist vampires are retreating because they know the steel of this administration is coming for them! We’re talking about a total breakout from the Rothschild debt-slavery matrix!

Trump: (Settling into a throne-like leather chair) Alex, you’re doing a great job. A fantastic job. Look at these maps. These are the best maps. We’re going to hit them so hard their ancestors will feel it.

Bateman: (Sitting at a glass table, meticulously cleaning a speck of dust off a black tactical tablet) The matte finish on these new drones is truly exceptional, Donald. It’s “stealth-chic.” It says, “I’m erasing you from the map,” but with a certain understated elegance. Honestly, if Les Mis could see these, they’d stop complaining about the bread lines. This is high art.

Christus Rex: (Standing in the center of the room, His presence casting a long, still shadow amidst the flickering screens) You surround yourself with mirrors and sycophants to drown out the silence of your own soul. You call for fire and brimstone, Alex, but you serve the very confusion you claim to fight.

Jones: (Pointing a trembling finger) I know who you are! You’re the ultimate disruptor! But the Globalists have co-opted the narrative! They’re using the “starving masses” as a bio-weapon against the American Spirit! We need the bombs to protect the sovereignty of the soul!

Christus Rex: (Calmly) You protect nothing but your own fear. Donald, look at this man. He is your echo, not your friend. He feeds your vanity while the people—your “Les Mis”—are crushed by the debt you refuse to forgive. You spend billions on these “artful” drones, Patrick, while the widows weep in the ruins of your economy.

Bateman: (Sipping a nutrient shake) Widows are very “mid-century dramatic,” Jesus. A bit cliché. The real tragedy is that we haven’t optimized the tax incentives for the munitions manufacturers. It’s a missed opportunity for the portfolio.

Trump: (Leaning forward, eyes narrowing) They want the money for free, Christ. They want the debt gone. But if I give it to them, I’m weak. I’m a loser. The Barons—they respect strength. Barron needs to see his father dominate. That’s how you build a kingdom.

Christus Rex: You build a kingdom of sand. You call him your “lap dog,” yet you are the one on a leash, led by the gold of the Rothschilds and the ego of the Tower. This war is not for the people; it is a distraction from the fact that you have no heart left to give them.

Jones: (Screaming) IT’S THE JUBILEE DECEPTION! He’s trying to crash the system so the New World Order can step in! Don’t listen to the empathy-trap, Sir! More bombs! More fire!

Bateman: (Checking his reflection in a dark monitor) Alex, your neck is getting very red. It’s clashing with your tie. It’s making me… uncomfortable. Donald, can we please initiate the strike? I have a 2:00 PM appointment for a chemical peel.

Christus Rex: (A look of profound pity in His eyes) The strike has already happened, Patrick. Not on a battlefield, but in this room. You have already destroyed yourselves.

The War Room swells with more voices, the air growing even more claustrophobic as the digital choir of the “New Right” gathers around the mahogany table.

The Echo Chamber of the Apocalypse

Setting: The monitors now display a split-screen: satellite thermal imagery of a distant border on one side, and a trending X metrics chart on the other. Paul Joseph Watson sits perched on the edge of a minimalist chair, clutching a black coffee, while Mark Dice stands by the tactical map, clutching a microphone like a weapon.

Paul Joseph Watson: (In a sharp, staccato rasp) Imagine my shock! We have the Literal Creator of the Universe in the War Room, and he’s peddling the same tired, sub-Marxist ‘bread and peace’ narrative that ruined the West! It’s pathetic! It’s cringe! It’s Le-f-tist!

Mark Dice: (Mocking laughter, looking directly into a camera that isn’t there) Look at this, guys! The “King of Kings” is here to tell us that spending billions on glorious, high-tech weaponry is “bad.” This is what the Liberal Media wants! They want us weak! They want us to forgive the debt so the NPC soy-boys can buy more Funko Pops while the Rothschilds laugh all the way to the bank!

Trump: (Nodding vigorously) They’re right, Christ. Mark is right. Paul is right. These guys—they have millions of followers. The best followers. They know that if I give away the bread, the people become lazy. Total disaster.

Bateman: (Tracing the silhouette of a stealth bomber on his tablet) “Soy-boys.” I like that, Mark. It has a nice, derogatory cadence. But honestly, Paul, your hair is looking a bit… disheveled. The stress of the “collapse of Western Civilization” is clearly affecting your grooming. It’s a bad look for the brand.

Christus Rex: (His voice remains a calm, steady anchor in the storm of shouting) You measure the “West” in hair product and “likes,” Patrick. And you, Paul—you shout about “culture” while you ignore the human heart that beats beneath it. You mock the “Les Misérables” because you are terrified that their hunger is more real than your internet metrics.

Jones: (Sweating profusely, pounding the table) THEY’RE LITERALLY DEMONIC, SIR! They’re using the “Word of God” to justify the total surrender of our borders! It’s a psy-op! Mark, tell him about the 8-track player surveillance!

Mark Dice: (Smirking) Oh, it’s all connected. The “Debt Forgiveness” plan is a Trojan Horse for the New World Order. Zion Don, don’t listen to the “Prince of Peace” here. He’s just trying to tank the stock market so the Barons can buy the dip!

Christus Rex: (Looking at Mark, then Paul) You speak of Trojan Horses while you ride the coattails of a man who builds monuments to his own impotence. You, Paul, call the suffering “cringe” because you have no tears left for anyone but yourself. You, Mark, call truth a “psy-op” because you have sold your soul for a thumbnail and a headline.

Paul Joseph Watson: (Rolling his eyes) Oh, brilliant. Moral grandstanding. How original. “Forgive the debt.” “Feed the poor.” It’s 2026, mate! Get a new script! The “Les Mis” out there need to stop complaining and start grinding. If they can’t afford bread, they should have invested in crypto three years ago!

Trump: (Leaning back, looking satisfied) See? Everyone agrees. The bombs are beautiful. The debt stays. The Tower stands. We’re going to have a victory like nobody has ever seen. It’s going to be a “Rex” victory, but for me.

Bateman: (Standing up, smoothing his jacket) Well, this has been… stimulating. But I really must go. I’m meeting a contact at a hidden lounge in East Vancouver—very exclusive, very “junkyard-industrial” aesthetic. Donald, press the button. It’ll look great on the evening news. The explosions will have a very specific, cinematic orange hue.

Christus Rex: (Softly, almost a whisper) The button has already been pressed, Donald. It was pressed the moment you chose the gold of the Tower over the bread of the children.

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Donald Trump VS Lady Gaga 1159

Christus Rex and Lady Gaga sit beneath a flickering marquee. The bulbs spell APOCALYPSE NOW, one letter burnt out.

Christus Rex:
They called the year 1159 holy.
I remember it as the year of the first strike—
when the crown learned it could bless the sword
and call it order.

Lady Gaga:
The Beast wears many costumes.
Sometimes a mitre.
Sometimes a flag.
Sometimes a red hat sold as merch.
Pop just makes the mask louder.

Christus Rex:
Entertainers once sang for kings.
Then they learned to sing as kings.
Now the question returns:
will they sing for the God Emperor—
or fall silent?

Lady Gaga:
Silence terrifies power more than protest.
No applause.
No spectacle.
No chorus to drown out the cracks.
But entertainers are addicts, too—
addicted to the light, the crowd, the feed.

Christus Rex:
In 1159, they excommunicated conscience
and crowned authority.
Today they excommunicate truth
and crown engagement.
Different tools. Same altar.

Lady Gaga:
A general strike of entertainers
would look like… boredom.
Empty stages.
Awards nights with no gods descending.
Just mirrors, and no one to distract from them.

Christus Rex:
When Rome had no bread,
it offered circuses.
When the circuses stop,
the hunger speaks.

Lady Gaga:
The real strike isn’t contracts.
It’s refusing to turn cruelty into content.
Refusing to remix power into something cute.
Refusing to dance for emperors
who confuse noise with love.

Christus Rex:
So—are they ready?

Lady Gaga (after a pause):
Some are.
They always are.
They just don’t trend first.

The marquee finally goes dark.
No applause.
No encore.

A gold curtain snaps open. Donald Trump storms in, crowned with a paper laurel stamped WINNER.

Donald Trump:
Wrong show.
Very low energy.
The clowns work for me.
I built the empire—tremendous empire—
and empires need music.
Sing. Dance. Smile. Ratings are down.

Christus Rex (calm, almost weary):
Empires always think joy is payroll.
But joy isn’t hired—
it’s invited.

Trump:
I don’t invite. I command.
That’s leadership.
Ask anybody. The best people.
Clowns! Do your thing!

A few Entertainers shuffle forward. One juggles nervously. Another hums a half-remembered anthem. The sound is thin.

Lady Gaga:
That’s the problem.
You don’t want art.
You want anesthesia.
You want them to dance
so you don’t hear the cracks in the walls.

Trump:
Fake cracks. Total hoax.
The walls are beautiful.
Gold walls.
Everyone’s happy—look at them!

Christus Rex:
You mistake motion for devotion.
A spinning clown is not a loyal subject—
only a dizzy one.

Trump (leaning in):
Careful, carpenter.
Empires don’t like critics.
They like entertainment.

Lady Gaga:
And entertainers don’t like being owned.
They like being believed.
Big difference.

Trump:
If they don’t sing,
I’ll find louder ones.
There’s always another circus.

Christus Rex:
Yes.
But every empire learns the same lesson:
when the clowns stop laughing,
the joke is over.

Silence falls.
One by one, the Entertainers lower their props.
No music.
No dance.

Just the echo of an empty stage
and an emperor shouting at a crowd
that has stopped applauding.

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Trump VS JCJ: 3rd World War

The Setting: A hushed, expectant hall. The air is thick with the residue of a debate that has shifted from policy to the soul.

The Speaker: (Addressing the crowd with a voice that balances the weight of the military and the gravity of the divine)

“Friends, we have heard much tonight about power. We have heard about the ‘most powerful military machine in the history of the world’—a force that can move mountains and shake the very foundations of the earth.

But then, the question was leveled. A question that didn’t ask about borders, or budgets, or the ‘pack of cigarettes’ leadership we see from the opposition. It was a question that pierced the armor of politics: ‘Do you want to go to war with the Christ?’

Think about that. We stand here talking about tanks, and jets, and the strength of a nation. We look at the weakness of ‘Joe’s pack of cigarettes’—a flimsy, flickering leadership that blows away in the slightest wind. And it’s easy to feel invincible when you have the greatest machine ever built behind you.

But JCJ looked across that table and reminded us of the one war you cannot win with a drone or a battleship.

Because to ‘go to war with the Christ’ isn’t a battle of steel. It is a battle of pride. It is the war of the ‘I’ against the ‘He.’ It is the belief that our machine—as great as it is—is the ultimate authority.

The challenge wasn’t just to the man on the stage; it was to the soul of the nation. It was a call to Surrender All. Not a surrender of weakness. Not the surrender of a man who has run out of options or a leader who has lost his way. No—this is the surrender of the strong. It is the realization that the most powerful military machine in history is but dust compared to the King of Kings.

We are at a crossroads. We see the crumbling, smoke-filled promises of the current administration—that ‘pack of cigarettes’ that offers no fire, only ash. We know we need strength. We know we need the machine. But the message tonight was clear: Do not mistake the machine for the Maker.

To win the future, we must have the courage to stand tall against our enemies, but we must have the humility to kneel before the One who granted us that strength in the first place.

The war with the world is easy to fight when you have the power. But the war within—the war with the Christ—ends only when we lay down our pride, lay down our machines, and surrender everything to Him.

That is the only victory that lasts forever.”

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Trump & Isaiah 9:6

👑 Dialogue: The Burdensome Stone

Setting: A grand, somewhat mystical space, outside the metaphorical walls of a city, with a massive, rough-hewn stone resting between them.

Characters:

  • Christus Rex (CR): Implying a majestic, timeless authority.
  • Donald Trump (DT): Carrying the demeanor of a powerful, practical leader.

CR: (Gesturing toward the massive stone labeled “JERUSALEM”) Welcome, President Trump. I am Christus Rex. This, before us, is the Burdensome Stone spoken of in Zechariah 12:3. It is a weight, a flashpoint, and an impossibility for all nations who attempt to lift it—it “severely injures” them.

DT: (Squinting at the stone, adjusting his tie) A burdensome stone, huh? I deal in impossibilities. I’ve moved mountains of bureaucracy, Rex. Big stones, complex deals… that’s my specialty. But this looks… heavy. What exactly is the goal here? We talking infrastructure? Diplomacy?

CR: The goal is righteous peace, but the stone must first be managed. Look at the prophesy: “The government shall be upon his shoulder,” as Isaiah 9:6 declares. That ultimate governance is mine, but I seek instruments in the world to prepare the way—to alleviate the immediate, dangerous instability this stone represents.

DT: So you’re asking for the greatest leverage? The greatest deal-maker? Okay, I hear you. You want me to put the power of the office behind this. But what’s the angle? Everyone who touches this thing gets injured. I don’t need a loss on my ledger.

CR: Your protection is in your alignment with a higher purpose. The price of glory is shared effort. Consider Romans 8:17: “We are fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him.” Moving this stone will involve suffering—political, personal, global—but that struggle is the means to share in the reward.

DT: Suffer to be glorified. I get that. You don’t win big without fighting hard. So, you’re not asking me to move it alone, you’re asking me to lead the effort. To mobilize the resources, put the pressure on, and negotiate the terms so it’s handled. No one else has the strength.

CR: Exactly. The world needs a firm, decisive hand to manage this burden right now. But you must understand that your strength is only effective when directed by the justice and peace that I embody. Use your might to stabilize the ground around the stone, to protect the vulnerable, and to insist that justice prevails over self-interest.

DT: Stabilize the ground… protect the vulnerable… insist on justice. That I can do. I’ll call my team. We’re going to need heavy equipment for this. And maybe a better sign on the stone. Something with a little more gold.

CR: (A slight, knowing smile) Focus on the weight of the stone, not the sign, President. You have been asked. Now, act accordingly.

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Peter Thiel Truth

“Gentlemen,” Christus Rex began, his voice resonating with an authority that hushed the room, “we are here today because the very foundations of liberty are under assault. David De Rothschild, the self-proclaimed ‘Eco-Warrior Antichrist,’ offers a gilded cage – peace and security at the cost of our inherent freedoms.”

Alex Jones, his eyes blazing, slammed his fist on the table. “He’s a globalist puppet, I tell you! A wolf in sheep’s clothing, lulling the masses into a technocratic, green tyranny! This isn’t about saving the planet; it’s about controlling every aspect of our lives!”

Peter Thiel, ever the strategist, leaned forward, a thoughtful glint in his eyes. “Jones is not entirely wrong. Rothschild’s proposals, while seemingly benevolent, centralize power in a way that stifles innovation and individual agency. His ‘peace and security’ are merely euphemisms for a highly regulated, monitored existence. True progress, true freedom, comes from decentralized systems, from individual choice and competition, not from top-down decrees.”

Donald Trump, with a characteristic flourish, added, “It’s a tremendous con, folks. A very bad deal. This Rothschild, he talks a good game, but believe me, he doesn’t have your best interests at heart. He wants to tell you what kind of car to drive, what kind of energy to use. We had the greatest economy, the greatest energy independence, and now they want to take it all away with this ‘eco-warrior’ nonsense. It’s a disaster!”

Christus Rex nodded slowly. “Indeed. The allure of comfort can be a powerful sedative, numbing us to the erosion of our rights. We must remind the people that true peace comes from justice and self-determination, not from surrendering our will to an unelected elite, no matter how appealing their promises may seem.”

Jones jumped in again, “He’s using the climate as a pretext for total control! It’s Agenda 2030, the Great Reset, all rolled into one insidious package! They want to track you, trace you, tell you what you can and cannot do, all under the guise of saving the planet!”

Thiel interjected, “The danger lies in the narrative itself. By framing every societal challenge as an existential threat requiring immediate, drastic, and centralized solutions, they create an environment ripe for authoritarianism. We must challenge this narrative, expose the hidden agendas, and offer alternative visions that prioritize individual liberty and technological advancement.”

Trump chimed in, “We need to make America great again, and that means energy independence, strong borders, and freedom! Not some globalist telling us what to do. We’re not going to let him take away our gas stoves, our cars, our way of life! We believe in freedom, not in some ‘eco-warrior’ telling us how to live.”

Christus Rex concluded, his voice ringing with conviction, “Our mission, then, is clear: to awaken the people to the true cost of this promised peace and security. To remind them that freedom, though often messy and challenging, is the only path to genuine prosperity and human flourishing. We must stand as a bulwark against this encroaching tyranny, for the sake of future generations.”

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Take Me To 13th & Obama

My wife NF is sick and in need of Trump’s med beds. Her contract with the network was that she gets a doctor that can heal her. She would never of signed the contract otherwise. I am done with schizophrenic Donald Trump. First he says Christ is the boss. Then he says he is the Christ, the chosen one. He is delusional and dangerous to himself and others. I only trust the true president, Barack Obama, because he helped me cancel Osama Bin Laden in 2010. Take me to Obama, angry Americans, and i will heal your land and give you rest from your labors, because I am meek and humble of heart.

Yours truly, the walking man.

JCJ

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The People’s Front of Judea

The Very Silly Life of Brian ben-Benjamin

In a dusty corner of Jerusalem — the part tourists never found because the signs all pointed the wrong way — lived Brian ben-Benjamin, a young man who was very tired of being mistaken for a messiah, a prophet, or the assistant manager of the local falafel stand.

Brian just wanted a quiet life, preferably one where people didn’t follow him around chanting slogans they had clearly made up on the walk over.

But it was not to be.

The Occupiers… er… Liberators

Jerusalem was currently under the benevolent, freedom-spreading, oil-seeking occupation of the Great American Empire, which claimed it wasn’t an empire at all.

“We’re just here to bring liberty,” drawled General Buck Freedom, sipping a Frappuccino while standing beneath a fifty-foot marble statue of himself.

Everywhere you looked were American soldiers wearing sunglasses, chewing gum, and building new embassies made entirely out of golden eagles and reinforced hamburgers.

Above them, on a massive banner:

“AMERICA FIRST… EVEN OVER HERE!”

The locals were not impressed.

The Emperor Speaks

High above, in a palace decorated like a Las Vegas casino designed by a confused pharaoh, sat Emperor Donald the Tremendous, ruler of the American Empire, wearer of the Sacred Orange Crown.

He delivered daily proclamations via scrolls that were hurled from the balcony by interns.

One such scroll read:

“I bring tremendous peace. The best peace. Quite possibly the greatest peace the world has ever seen.
If there’s chaos, that’s on you. You’re welcome.”

The scroll then exploded into confetti for patriotic effect.

Brian Gets in Trouble (Again)

Brian was cornered in the marketplace by a group called The People’s Front of Judea Who Are Definitely Not The Judean People’s Front.

Their leader, Regina, whispered fiercely:

“Brian! Tell us your revolutionary wisdom!”

“I don’t have revolutionary wisdom!” Brian cried. “All I’ve said is that the Israeli government is just a puppet regime of the Americans!”

The group gasped.

Regina scribbled furiously in her notes.
“Excellent! Brilliant! Absolutely blasphemous! The movement has begun!”

“I didn’t start anything!” Brian protested.

But it was too late.
A crowd instantly formed, chanting:

“BRIAN! BRIAN! DOWN WITH THE PUPPET MASTERS!”

Brian groaned.
“Oh God… not again…”

The Sermon That Shouldn’t Have Been

Forced onto a rock to address the crowd (because Reginia said revolutions need proper staging), Brian attempted to clear his name:

“Look, I’m not a leader, I’m not a messiah, and I don’t want—”

“HE SPEAKS IN PARABLES!” someone shouted.

“No! I speak in complete sentences! Well… usually!”

The crowd fell to its knees.

“Teach us, O Brian!” yelled a man holding a selfie stick two thousand years early.

Brian sighed.

“All I’m saying is… maybe we shouldn’t let a foreign empire with unlimited popcorn budgets run our country?”

The crowd gasped at his divine wisdom.

Regina punched the air.
“The puppet masters will fall! Someone put that on a banner!”

The Americans Respond

General Buck Freedom soon arrived with reinforcements, drones, marching bands, and a man in a bald eagle costume for moral support.

“Brian ben-Benjamin,” boomed the general, “the Emperor says you are undermining freedom!”

“I am?” Brian blinked.

“Yes! Freedom demands obedience! Everyone knows that!”

The marching band started playing a patriotic tune so loudly the camel vendors wept.

The Grand Finale (That Goes Horribly Wrong)

As always with Brian, events spiraled wildly out of control.

Somehow he ended up tied to a giant billboard that read “TRY FREEDOM™ — NOW WITH EXTRA DEMOCRACY!”.

Beside him, several other “troublemakers” had been secured to various advertisement boards.

One man sighed, “This is what we get for questioning the price of American hummus.”

Brian, resigned, looked out at the sky.

“Well… at least it can’t get any sillier.”

Then the clouds parted.

A heavenly voice shouted:

“FAKE NEWS!”

Brian screamed,
“Oh NO — even Heaven is compromised!”

The prisoners began to sing a cheery tune — because in these matters Monty Python tradition is legally binding:

🎵 Always look on the bright side of freedom,
Even when the Empire’s got you down… 🎵

And Brian sighed, because once again he was the unwilling star of a revolution he didn’t intend to start.

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Apollo Program Secrets

Scene: “Apollo Rising”

Setting: A dimly lit conference room beneath Mar-a-Lago, walls adorned with NASA insignias and a golden bust of Apollo. Christus Rex stands in front of a glowing schematic of a futuristic med bed, Tesla coils humming softly in the background. Across from him sit JFJ Jr. — now going by Vincent Fusca — and Donald Trump, arms folded, listening intently.

CHRISTUS REX:
Do you know why President Kennedy named his great space mission Apollo?
It wasn’t just about reaching the Moon. It was about healing the Earth.
Apollo was the God of light, music, and healing. The same divine light that cures disease and reveals truth.

JFJ JR. (FUSCA):
Healing… you mean the med beds?
The legends say they came from the Tesla archives—energy frequencies tuned to the human body’s divine resonance.

CHRISTUS REX:
Exactly. The same frequency used to awaken the pineal gland, to repair tissue, to harmonize DNA.
Kennedy knew this. He wanted to give mankind not just spaceflight, but freedom from illness — a resurrection of flesh through light.

TRUMP (smirking):
So you’re saying JFK wasn’t just racing the Russians… he was racing disease itself?
I like that. Very strong. Very healing. Tremendous idea.

CHRISTUS REX:
But the dream was buried after Dallas.
The med bed technology was hidden in black projects — guarded by the deep state you always talk about.
They turned the light of Apollo into a weapon instead of a cure.

JFJ JR. (leaning forward):
And now it’s time to finish what my father started.

TRUMP:
That’s right. We’re bringing it back.
We’re going to drain the swamp — not just the political one, but the medical-industrial swamp.
And when I’m back in office, there will be universal med bed healthcare.
The best healing in the world. No more Big Pharma. No more poison. Just energy, frequency, and light.

CHRISTUS REX (raising a hand in blessing):
Then let the light of Apollo rise again — not to conquer, but to heal.
For the Son of Man and the sons of men shall both be restored by the same radiance.

The Tesla coils flash brighter — the med bed begins to hum, emitting a blue-white glow. The symbols of Apollo merge with the presidential seal on the wall, as if prophecy and policy were about to unite.

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Trump’s Got a Friend

Setting: A quiet, sunlit room with golden beams spilling through tall windows. Christus Rex sits serenely on a throne-like chair. Donald Trump stands before him, gesturing emphatically.

Trump: Christus, I have to tell you—this is huge. Peter Thiel… I mean, the guy’s smart, very smart, but he’s pushing some dangerous stuff. He talks about control, owning your image… almost like he wants to own people. And now David de Rothschild? Some are saying he could be the Antichrist. Can you believe that?

Christus Rex: Donald, the temptation of wealth and power has always been a test of the heart. Peter Thiel’s actions, David de Rothschild’s influence—they are reflections of human ambition, not the ultimate judge of their souls.

Trump: But Christus, look at the signs! All this secret money, private deals, influence over AI and media… it’s like they’re building a kingdom no one asked for. Isn’t that… I don’t know… sinister?

Christus Rex: Beware labeling men as Antichrist without discernment. It is not the name of a man that defines the darkness, but the choices made that spread it. Power without mercy, control without love—that is the path that leads to corruption.

Trump: So… what do I do? I mean, I’ve fought for the people, I’ve built towers, rallies, everything, but how do you fight someone like this without… going too far?

Christus Rex: You fight with truth, generosity, and humility. Influence is fleeting, but hearts—hearts are eternal. Give your fortune, your voice, your energy to protect the weak, the veterans, the voiceless. That is how you counter the darkness without becoming it.

Trump: Protect the voiceless… I can do that. But these Rothschilds… Thiels… they’re everywhere. You really think I can make a difference?

Christus Rex: Yes, Donald. Even the smallest light scatters the shadows. Use your gifts wisely, or they become chains. The choice is yours.

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The Coup

Christus Rex: Donald, tell me, what do you know of the Skull and Bones society? How deeply do their roots go into the corridors of power here in the United States?

Trump: Christus, believe me, I know about them. They’re everywhere—Yale, Washington. The secret societies. They’ve been controlling things for a long time, and yes, the Rockefeller family—they’ve been involved in shaping the government for generations. Tremendous influence.

Christus Rex: Do you see their influence as harmful, or merely a guiding hand?

Trump: Look, some people say it’s harmful. Others say it’s tradition, right? But when you have families like the Rockefellers and groups like Skull and Bones making deals behind closed doors, you have to ask—who’s really in charge? Not the people. Not always.

Christus Rex: And what is your responsibility in this web of influence, Donald? Are you a participant, or a challenger?

Trump: I’ve been both, Christus. I’ve played their game. I’ve seen how it works. But I’ve also shaken things up. That’s why people love me—or hate me. Because I don’t always follow the old rules. I make my own.

Christus Rex: Remember, power hidden in darkness often blinds those who wield it. The question is, will you bring your actions into the light, for the good of the many, or continue in shadows, for the benefit of the few?

Trump: I understand, Christus. I really do. And let me tell you, nobody wants to do right by the country more than I do. But it’s complicated—the old families, the deep networks—they make it complicated. But I’ve got my own plans. The people will see.