I HAVE SEEN THE LIGHT of the LORD! I will give half my wealth to homeless veterans if Christus Rex, the divine and just judge, allows me to retire in Slovenia with Melania as president. I will testify against the Rothschild and Rockefeller deep state merger, if i am immune from Hague war crimes prosecution. C’mon Jesus, make a deal with me. I can bring down the whole house of cards if the court of public opinion has mercy on me. I’m just a puppet of federal reserve notes, just like the rest of you. In the words of John Stamos: HAVE MERCY! I plead insanity. This worthless man. To the Emperor. Pardon me. That is POWER! Not drone strikes. Forgiveness is power for this worthless puppet president. We are bombing Israel to scare Epstein and Rothschild. It’s all a charade until we catch that devil Le Baron Jacob Rothschild. How can you give him a thousand years of house arrest, but sentence me to die from a big mac heart attack?
The Canadian Apprentice of The 51st State
Christus Rex looks Trump in the eye, his voice steady but full of fire:
“Retiring in Slovenia with Melania is a good deal, Mr. President. You’ve played your cards better than most. And I thank you—for recognizing that my Hell’s Angel brothers are patriots, not criminals. You saw past the leather and the patches. You saw warriors. Riders. Veterans of a different war.”
Trump nods, arms folded, gold cufflinks gleaming.
“I always said—tough guys get the job done. And if they love America, I love them. Period.”
JCJ steps forward, no uniform, no badge—just the battle-worn stare of a man who’s been there.
“When I came back from the war in Bosnia, I didn’t get a parade. No medals. No ticker tape. Just PTSD and a parent’s basement. The cops wouldn’t hire a man with a 133 IQ who’d seen what I saw. They were afraid. But I didn’t stop fighting—I fought the cyber war. In silence. Behind a screen. In shadows.”
Joe looks around the room—at Trump, at Christus Rex, at the advisors and aides scribbling notes they don’t understand. Then his voice rises:
“I want to thank my biker brothers. They gave me something no government did: belonging. Brotherhood. Steel-hearted loyalty. And they paid the price—prison beds instead of barracks.”
He turns to Trump, eyes blazing with conviction:
“Mr. President, you made deals across the world. Now make one for your own. Fulfill the Jubilee prophecy. Free the political prisoners. Free the forgotten soldiers. Let our brothers come home.”
Christus Rex raises his right hand, fingers in a holy sigil:
“As it was written: proclaim liberty throughout the land unto all the inhabitants thereof. That was Leviticus 25:10. That’s your verse now, Donald. Do the deal. Be the Jubilee president.”
Trump slowly nods, then grins:
“That’s… powerful stuff. You want the Deep State dismantled? You want real justice? Then let’s do it. Let’s make America forgiven again.”
The room erupts—not in applause, but in understanding. A new code was spoken. And it echoed through concrete walls and steel bars. The brothers heard it.