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.
“Comrade Putin… listen closely. This is not a threat from a tyrant, but a warning from a servant of the people.”
For decades you wrapped yourself in the flag of the motherland, claiming strength while sowing fear, promising stability while harvesting obedience. You believed history would remember you as iron. But history does not bow to iron—it melts it.
The people whisper now. The workers feel the weight of your shadow. Even the faithful Party men avert their eyes, ashamed of what they helped you build.
I have flown over every city from Vladivostok to Murmansk. I have watched factories stand silent while palaces grow louder. I have heard the cries you pretend not to hear.
And so I speak plainly:
Retire. Step aside. Take exile in Serbia, where the ghosts of yesterday’s strongmen still applaud such men as you. Do this peacefully… or you will face the judgment of the people you claim to serve.
You know what I am, Comrade Putin. I do not rule nations. I do not crave thrones. I do not seek your downfall for my own gain.
But I am the guardian of those who cannot speak without fear. And their fear has reached me.
You have two paths laid before you:
One—quiet exile, a final chapter written far from the Kremlin walls. The other—standing alone before millions who have awoken from the spell of your power.
Choose wisely. Even a man in your position deserves the dignity of choosing his own ending.
The Soviet sun rises for the people—not for you. And it rises with or without your permission.
This is your last warning, Vladimir. Retire… or face the will of a nation that has found its voice once more.”
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.
