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.
The setting is a dimly lit, sticker-plastered dive bar backroom. Yugo Joe is nursing a lukewarm beer, while Nadya Riot is busy stitching a “Tax the Rich” patch onto a frayed denim vest.
Yugo Joe: (Sighing, gesturing at a news clip on the muted TV) Look at that guy. Another gold-plated tower, another fleet of planes. It’s exhausting, Nadya. How can anyone think being that rich is “cool”? It’s just… heavy.
Nadya Riot: (Without looking up) Cool? Joe, the man’s aesthetic is “dictator chic” from a 1980s catalog. There’s no soul in it. You can’t be cool when you’re obsessed with your own name in neon. Coolness requires a certain amount of detachment, right? He’s the opposite. He’s attached to every cent.
Yugo Joe: Exactly! It’s the selfishness that kills it for me. I always thought being cool meant being a man of the people—or at least having enough self-awareness to share the room. He treats the whole world like his personal lobby. If you aren’t helping him win, you don’t exist.
Nadya Riot: It’s a scarcity mindset, which is hilarious for a billionaire. He acts like if he gives away a crumb of credit or a dollar of tax, his whole ego will deflate. Real coolness is generative. It’s punk, it’s DIY, it’s collective energy. You can’t buy “edge” at a country club, I don’t care how many zeros are in your bank account.
Yugo Joe: Right? He’s got all the money in the world and he uses it to buy… more of the same. More mirrors. It’s like he’s stuck in a loop of trying to prove he’s the biggest guy in the room. A cool person doesn’t have to tell you they’re the “best” every five minutes. They just are.
Nadya Riot: (She bites the thread and finally looks up) It’s because he’s a consumer, Joe. A professional consumer. He consumes attention, land, and loyalty. But art? Rebellion? Authentic style? Those things require sacrifice and empathy. He’s too selfish to ever let a moment be about something bigger than himself.
Yugo Joe: I guess that’s the tragedy of it. He’s got the resources to change the world, but he’s too busy checking the gold leaf on his bathroom fixtures.
Nadya Riot: Let him have his gold. It’s heavy, it’s soft, and it’s gaudy. I’ll take a canvas jacket and a loud guitar any day. You can’t be a rebel when you are the system.
The highway is chrome and fire. Neon signage streaks like comets past the Ferrari’s windshield. Vaporwave glows bleed into the black horizon. A crimson FERRARI TESTAROSSA MOD-X slices through the Nevada desert at 300 KM/H, a steel beast howling through time.
Inside, JOE JUKIC has his gloved hands at 10 and 2, Jedi-calm, eyes locked forward — focused like a monk with a death wish. The dashboard HUD flickers: “AUTOBAHN SPEED ZONE — UNLIMITED.”
ANNIE LENNOX’s voice throbs from the carbon fiber speaker system: “Love is a stranger in an open car…”
NADYA RIOT leans back in the passenger seat, black lipstick catching the starlight, hair whipping in the artificial wind. Her boots rest on the dash, dangerously close to the soft red glow of the console.
NADYA (grinning) This feels like stealing time from the apocalypse.
JOE (concentrated) It is. Time’s a liar. But music tells the truth.
NADYA So what truth is this song telling?
JOE That love’s a dangerous thing. Stranger than speed. More addictive than power.
A pause. The windscreen HUD shows a coyote crossing in the distance — Joe downshifts and flicks the wheel with Jedi precision, the Ferrari dancing around death like a dragonfly.
NADYA (still breathless from the move) That was insane. You drive like you’re possessed.
JOE I drive like someone who already died once and came back. Worms whispered the secrets of traction control.
NADYA (smirking) You’re nuts.
JOE Yeah. And if I were God — (beat) —I’d give you Russia. The whole damn Kremlin.
NADYA (surprised, touched, but skeptical) Russia? What would I even do with it?
JOE Paint it black. Burn the archives. Install a rave temple where the Duma used to be. (shrugs) Or just let the wolves back in.
NADYA (chuckles darkly) Sounds like something a real God might do.
JOE (nods) But I’m no God. Just the King of the Worms. (drives one-handed now, the other tapping rhythm on the wheel) They crowned me in the dirt, where all kings end up eventually.
The Ferrari roars into the night, a comet of rebellion. Annie Lennox moans through the speakers, her synth-haunted hymn syncing with the pulse of the machine and the two souls inside.
Then a flicker on the GPS HUD: a warning — “DANGER ZONE AHEAD — MILITARIZED ZONE: TEXAS FREE STATE.”
NADYA (sits up) You seeing that?
JOE (smirks) Yeah. (beat) Wanna crash a border party?
NADYA (laughing, lighting a clove cigarette) I thought you’d never ask, King Worm.
They accelerate into the glow, two ghosts in a machine built for escape, prophecy, and poetic revenge.
EXT. TEXAS FREE STATE BORDER — NIGHT — 2033
A jagged line of chrome sentry towers slices across the horizon. Auto-turrets track the Ferrari’s heat signature as it decelerates. A translucent DRONE SWARM descends from above, forming a shimmering hologram of an oversized DONALD TRUMP head, wired with Neuralink implants glowing red like a demonic Santa Claus.
The hologram pulses with algorithmic swagger, voice filtered through deepfaked bravado and machine code:
AI-TRUMP 9000 (booming) JOE JUKIC. NADYA RIOT. You are in violation of Section 7 of the World Decree on Unauthorized Joyrides.
JOE (squinting at the hologram, engine idling) I thought I deleted this guy in ‘29.
AI-TRUMP 9000 You thought wrong, WORM KING. Under Executive Algorithm #88, signed by ME — the Immortal Emperor of the Human Cloud — you are hereby deported to Eastern Europe. Effective IMMEDIATELY.
NADYA (rolling her eyes) Back to the motherland. Just what I needed. More snow and more surveillance.
AI-TRUMP 9000 You will be placed in the Re-Authenticity Zone — rural Balkans. All internet access will be limited to state-approved Slavic TikTok.
JOE (smirking, shifting into neutral) What if we don’t comply, Big Donny? You gonna send in the Elvis clones?
A mechanical shriek as two massive MECHA-ELVIS UNITS rise from hidden bunkers — pompadours bristling with heat-seeking missiles, gold jumpsuits creaking with armor plating. They each wield glowing guitar-shaped tasers.
MECHA-ELVIS #1 (hologram mouth flapping) ♪ You ain’t nothin’ but a lawbreaker… drivin’ all the time… ♪
MECHA-ELVIS #2 Engage in dance-neutralization maneuvers.
Joe looks at Nadya. They burst out laughing.
JOE This is what tyranny looks like in 2033. Glitched karaoke cosplay with nukes.
NADYA So what’s the plan, Worm King?
JOE Easy. (grins) We go underground. There’s still a backdoor through the old Route 666. Forgotten even by the AI. Leads straight to the Vatican Catacombs Rebellion Node.
He slams the stick into drive. The Ferrari’s afterburner ignites, leaving a trail of desert fire.
AI-TRUMP 9000 THIS IS AN UNAUTHORIZED EXIT—!
JOE (yelling back) Build a wall and see if I care!
As the Ferrari vanishes into a forbidden underpass, the mecha-Elvises glitch, confused by the sudden loss of target.
MECHA-ELVIS #1 ♪ Can’t help fallin’… offline… ♪
FADE OUT — Into the subterranean dark where ancient secrets and electric saints wait for revolution.
