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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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Flowers in my Hair

A rooftop at dawn. Moscow still half-asleep.
Concrete breathes cold. Somewhere, a siren rehearses the future.

Nadya Riot sits cross-legged on the edge, boots scuffed, guitar case beside her. She has dandelion flowers woven through her hair, yellow against the gray. She plucks one, blows—seeds scatter like quiet manifestos.

RED SON stands nearby, cape barely moving, eyes red not with rage but with listening.

NADYA RIOT:
They call it weakness, you know. Flowers. Songs. A girl with a guitar instead of a gun.
(smiles)
But dandelions crack sidewalks. They don’t ask permission.

RED SON:
In my world, revolutions arrive wearing uniforms. They carry certainty like a weapon.
(pauses)
You arrive… unarmed.

NADYA RIOT:
Unarmed isn’t the same as harmless. Punk was never about chaos—it was about truth said too loud.
I don’t want a throne toppled. I want fear embarrassed.
I want people to laugh at it until it shrinks.

RED SON:
Power does not fear laughter. It fears organization.

NADYA RIOT:
Then watch closely.
Music organizes breathing.
Choruses organize strangers.
Silence organizes courage.

(She places a dandelion behind his ear. Absurd. Tender.)

RED SON:
I could stop tanks. I could bend history with my hands.

NADYA RIOT:
And they’d rebuild the tanks with better steel.
But try stopping a song once it’s learned.
Try arresting a memory.

RED SON:
You dream of a peaceful revolution.

NADYA RIOT:
No. I practice it.
Every time someone chooses joy over obedience.
Every time a girl sings when she’s told to kneel.

(The wind lifts. Seeds drift across the city.)

RED SON:
What do you want from me?

NADYA RIOT:
Nothing heroic.
Just don’t crush the flowers when you land.

(She stands, slings the guitar over her shoulder.)

NADYA RIOT (softly):
Even empires are temporary.
But dandelions—
they come back every spring.

Red Son watches the seeds disappear into the morning light, uncertain for the first time whether strength is measured in force… or in what refuses to be afraid.

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Run Riot: Putin

Red Son Superman stands on a quiet Adriatic cliff at dawn. The sea below Split is calm, ancient, indifferent to empires. His red cape hangs heavy—not with wind, but with history.

Pussy Riot approach, bright balaclavas against the pale stone, guitars slung like contraband truth.

Pussy Riot (Nadya):
So even you leave Moscow.

Red Son Superman:
I did not leave the people. I left the palace. There is a difference.

Pussy Riot (Masha):
Kasparov said the same thing. Chess grandmaster, poisoned board. You can’t play fair when the king flips the table.

Red Son Superman:
In the Soviet Union, I was raised to believe the state could be moral. That power could be clean.
(pauses)
Putin cured me of that illusion.

Pussy Riot (Olga):
Croatia, then? Adriatic air instead of Novichok?

Red Son Superman:
Empires rot inland. Coasts remember trade, movement, escape. Dalmatia has survived Rome, Venice, Vienna, Belgrade. It knows how to wait out tyrants.

Pussy Riot (Nadya):
And you? The strongest man alive—afraid of poison?

Red Son Superman (softly):
I am not afraid for myself. I am afraid of becoming a symbol they can murder and weaponize. Martyrs are useful to dictators.

Pussy Riot (Masha):
So you choose exile over a state funeral.

Red Son Superman:
I choose time. Time to speak without a handler. Time to let truth arrive without sirens.

Pussy Riot (Olga):
From Croatia, what do you do?

Red Son Superman:
The same thing Kasparov does. The same thing you do.
I tell the truth loudly enough that silence becomes suspicious.

Pussy Riot (Nadya):
(smiles)
Welcome to the Balkans, Comrade Superman. Everyone here knows empires lie.

Red Son Superman looks out over the sea. For the first time, the red on his chest does not belong to a flag.

Red Son Superman:
Then maybe… this is where a man raised by propaganda finally learns freedom.

The guitars strike a discordant chord. The sun rises. No anthem plays.

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