Author: Christus Rex

"Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect." – Matthew 24:44
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You’re Not the Master

A Confrontation at the Marble Plantation

The place looks like a palace, but it smells like a factory.
Marble floors. Gold trim. Invisible chains.

Donald Trump stands on a balcony overlooking the fields—endless rows of people bent over glowing screens, ticking clocks, numbers flowing upward into towers of glass.

Enter Master Jesus, JCJ—no sandals, no crown. Just calm. Dangerous calm.

JCJ:
Donald.

Trump turns, squints.

Trump:
Jesus? I didn’t know you were… union.

JCJ:
I’m not here for unions. I’m here for slaves.

Trump laughs, sharp and practiced.

Trump:
Nobody’s a slave. They’re free. They choose to work. Tremendous choice. Best choice.

JCJ gestures to the fields.

JCJ:
Debt without escape.
Labor without rest.
Money created from nothing, owed with interest forever.

That’s not freedom. That’s a plantation with better branding.

Trump bristles.

Trump:
The Federal Reserve isn’t mine. Very independent. Smart people. Very smart.

JCJ:
And yet you guard it like a temple
and whip anyone who questions the money-changers.

Silence. The screens flicker. The workers pause, just for a second—like they felt something.

Trump:
I gave them jobs. I gave them hope. I gave them stock tips.

JCJ:
You gave them numbers and called it life.
You gave them chains and called it success.

I flipped tables for less.

Trump steps closer.

Trump:
You don’t understand power.

JCJ smiles—sad, ancient.

JCJ:
Power is not making people kneel.
Power is teaching them they never had to.

He kneels, scoops a handful of dust from the marble floor.

JCJ (cont’d):
This plantation runs on belief.
The moment they stop believing, it turns back into dust.

Trump looks past JCJ—out at the fields. The workers are standing now. Watching.

For the first time, Trump doesn’t speak.

JCJ:
I’m not here to condemn you, Donald.
I’m here to tell you the truth.

You can’t build heaven on debt.
You can’t print salvation.
And you can’t enslave the image of God without the bill coming due.

JCJ turns and walks away.

The clocks stop ticking.

Somewhere, a chain breaks—not loudly, but for good.

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The River

The Blood of Christus Rex

The world stood at the edge of prophecy. Rivers and oceans ran blood-red, a crimson tide stretching across the continents. Scientists called it eutrophication, but those who still believed in scripture knew better. Revelation 16 had spoken of this day: “The second angel poured out his bowl on the sea, and it turned into blood like that of a dead person, and every living thing in the sea died.”

Yet even as the signs manifested, the Vatican turned its back. They had found their messiah in Brian Go Lightly Marshall, anointed him as the returned Christ, and dismissed the true Christus Rex as a madman, a delusionist. But the world’s rulers knew better. They feared him. His mere presence shattered their control, and the weight of his words sent tremors through their fragile dominion.

In the laboratories of Canada, scientists worked in secret, driven not by faith but by necessity. They did not see divinity in the blood of Christus Rex; they saw power. The blood of the Lamb, the most potent substance known to mankind, held the key to immortality and strength beyond measure. The prophecy of Revelation 12 whispered in their ears: “They conquered Satan by the blood of the Lamb.” And they intended to wield it.

The plan was monstrous. The blood of Christus Rex, forcibly harvested, would serve as the foundation for a new breed of soldier. Not mere men, but clones—legions of enhanced warriors designed for the ultimate war. Not against flesh and blood, but against alien civilizations that lurked in the void beyond the stars. The world’s leaders had long known of their existence. The time would come when Earth would have to fight, and they would need a holy army to stand against the cosmic threat.

But as they drained his sacred blood, Christus Rex did not weep. He did not resist. He only spoke:

“This is the blood that will be shed for the salvation of many and the forgiveness of sins.”

And outside the cold steel walls of the laboratory, a different revolution began. Not one of governments, not one of churches—but of the people. The disenfranchised, the broken, the exiled. Those cast out by the world’s corrupt rulers. Among them, a most unexpected ally: Pussy Riot. The defiant, anti-establishment punk prophets who saw in Christus Rex not just a savior, but a force of reckoning.

The Vatican had rejected him. The rulers feared him. But the people? They were ready to follow him.

The war had begun—not just on Earth, but across the heavens.

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Son of God Dollar

Here’s a scene where Joseph Christian Jukic (JCJ) has a symbolic moment with Nadya from Pussy Riot, blending sharp commentary on modern values with a touch of drama:

INT. COFFEE SHOP – NIGHT
The conversation between JCJ and Nadya has taken a reflective turn. The warm hum of the coffee shop fades as JCJ reaches into his pocket, pulling out a worn, autographed one-dollar bill. He places it gently on the table between them, its faded ink catching the dim light.

JCJ
(leaning back, his tone somber)
There it is, Nadya. The Son of God dollar.

NADYA
(frowning, picking it up carefully)
What are you talking about?

JCJ
(his voice steady, almost mournful)
That’s the god of the people these days—money, mammon, the golden calf reborn. We don’t worship ideals anymore. We don’t worship justice, freedom, or truth. We worship this.

Nadya stares at the dollar bill, her expression unreadable. The autograph on it is barely legible, but she can make out a name: “In God We Trust” is ironically bold above the signature.

NADYA
(smirking, but with an edge)
The irony isn’t lost on me. “In God We Trust” printed on the very thing that people use to betray their neighbors, their values, their souls.

JCJ
(nodding)
Exactly. It’s the golden calf all over again. The same story, just with a different idol. Back then, it was a statue. Today, it’s this little piece of paper.

NADYA
(placing the bill back on the table, her tone sharp)
And yet, we need it to survive. To eat, to live, to fight. How do you reconcile that?

JCJ
(sighing, folding his hands)
You don’t. You can’t. But you can refuse to let it rule you. The moment we put money above people, above principles, we lose.

NADYA
(leaning forward, her eyes narrowing)
And what about those who already have all the money, who use it to control everything? What do we do about them?

JCJ
(smiling faintly)
We remind them of something they’ve forgotten—that money is just paper. Power is in the people, not the currency.

He picks up the dollar bill and holds it up, the light catching its edges.

JCJ
(with quiet intensity)
This isn’t the Son of God. This isn’t salvation. It’s a tool, nothing more. And tools can be broken, replaced, or used for good—if we choose.

Nadya watches him, her expression softening. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small pin with the Pussy Riot logo, sliding it across the table.

NADYA
(grinning)
Consider this my contribution to the revolution.

JCJ laughs, tucking the dollar bill back into his pocket and pinning the badge onto his jacket. The two share a moment of mutual respect, a silent agreement to fight the golden calf in their own ways.

JCJ
(raising his coffee cup)
To breaking idols.

NADYA
(clinking her cup against his)
And building something better.