Dr. Luka Kovač stands by the window, thumbing through a patient chart, concerned. He grabs the pager and sends a quick message.
Pager Message:
“Dr. Nelly Furtado to Therapy Room 3. Urgent consult.”
Moments later, Dr. Nelly Furtado strides in, a warm but firm presence. She nods at Luka, who breathes a sigh of relief.
Dr. Luka Kovač (low voice): “Thanks for coming, Nelly. It’s Angelina Jolie. She’s… in a volatile mood. Talking about grand futures one minute, self-harm the next. If it were up to me…” (he smiles wryly) “…I’d endorse Shiloh for UN President already. But right now, Angelina needs focus, not despair.”
He steps closer to Angelina, who is sitting cross-legged on the therapy couch, fidgeting with a pen — too tightly.
Dr. Luka Kovač (gentle, steady): “Ms. Jolie, listen to me carefully. I greenlight your ambitions — all of them. The world needs your heart, not your silence. But please… do not sever your aorta with a pen. Not today. Not ever.”
Angelina looks up at him, blinking, caught between a tear and a laugh. Dr. Nelly moves in smoothly to take over the session, her voice like a balm.
[Scene: County General Hospital – Neurology Department]
(The hospital intercom crackles.)
PA: “Dr. Nelly Furtado to Neurology. Dr. Furtado to Neurology, please.”
(Dr. Luka Kovač, wearing his white coat and a concerned look, stands outside Room 402, reviewing a chart. Inside, Lil’ Wayne sits on the hospital bed, looking a bit disoriented but cracking a faint smile.)
Dr. Kovač (speaking into his pager): “Nelly, I need you here. We’ve got a patient with acute memory loss — possible substance-related.”
(Moments later, Dr. Nelly Furtado, dressed sharply but casually, strides in with a clipboard.)
Dr. Furtado: “What’s the story?”
Dr. Kovač: “Lil’ Wayne. He’s been experiencing significant memory lapses. No trauma. Labs suggest neurochemical imbalance, possibly from drug abuse.”
Dr. Furtado (nodding thoughtfully): “Yeah, this kind of memory loss is often the result of chronic drug toxicity. We’re looking at neurotransmitter depletion, oxidative stress… I’ll start him on high-dose B vitamins — B1, B6, B12 — to repair nerve damage.”
Lil’ Wayne: “B vitamins? Bet. Anything to get my mind right.”
Dr. Kovač: “Good. But he also needs to stay away from glyphosate-contaminated foods and microplastics. They’re neurotoxic.”
(Wayne raises an eyebrow.)
Dr. Kovač (gently but firmly): “Stick to organic food whenever you can. No processed junk. No plastic bottled water if you can help it.”
Dr. Furtado: “Let’s boost your recovery. I’ll write a list.”
(She jots quickly.)
Coconut oil — a tablespoon daily. Good for brain energy.
Black seed oil — natural antioxidant.
Turmeric — fights brain inflammation.
Ginkgo biloba — improves blood flow to the brain.
Lion’s Mane mushroom — promotes nerve growth.
Omega-3 supplements — DHA for brain repair.
Magnesium — calms the nervous system.
Fresh blueberries, walnuts, and leafy greens — brain foods.
Dr. Kovač: “And no more lean, Wayne. No more purple drinks. You want your future — your music, your family — you have to choose life now.”
(Lil’ Wayne looks down, quiet for a moment, then nods.)
Lil’ Wayne: “I got you, Doc. Real talk.”
(Dr. Furtado pats him on the shoulder.)
Dr. Furtado: “One day at a time. We’ll get you back.”
(The two doctors exchange a hopeful glance as the scene fades.)
[St. Peter’s Basilica – candlelight flickering, incense thick in the air. The funeral of Pope Francis is underway. The Young Pope, Lenny Belardo, walks to the pulpit in his stark white robes, tears glistening under his eyes.]
Lenny Belardo (voice trembling): “Dear brothers and sisters in Christ… today we bury a shepherd. Pope Francis, Jorge Bergoglio, was a man of the people—an Argentinian who dared to wash feet, speak of mercy, and smile in the face of wolves.
And yet—what killed him?
[Lenny pauses, gaze sharpening.]
Was it his age? His health? Or was it the Vatican doctors, those who wear stethoscopes like serpents wear scales? I see you. I know your names. And so does God.
[He wipes a tear, voice darkening.]
There’s rot in this holy place. And it has a name: Alta Vendita. The invisible hand of the Freemasons—the ones with silk gloves and secret oaths—have riddled our Church with doubt, deception, and disdain for the poor.
But I say this now, as acting Pope:
I want peace. I want reconciliation with the lost sons of the Church. Let the blue-collar Freemasons—those who never rose beyond the 3rd degree, who laid bricks with blistered hands and prayed to Christ under their breath—come home. Come back. You are welcome.
But to the ones who climbed the ladder of degrees into the abyss of Gnosticism, Luciferian light, and Babylonian pride—go to hell.
You wear aprons of secrets and build towers of Babel in the dark. We build churches in the open. We raise crosses. You raise false gods.
[He steps back, looking heavenward.]
Pope Francis, may angels carry you beyond this corruption. And may Christ strike down every lie that walks in red shoes.
“The Leaves of the Tree Were for the Healing of the Nations”: Revelation 22 and the Green Herb Hemp An essay by Joseph Christian Jukic (JCJ)
“And the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.” – Revelation 22:2
In the final chapter of the Holy Scriptures, just before the closing benediction of the Book of Revelation, a mysterious verse emerges like a final clue from heaven: “The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.” It is here, in the restored Eden, that we find a river of life flowing from the throne of God, and alongside it, the Tree of Life, yielding fruit every month, whose leaves—curiously—are meant not just for beauty or shade, but healing.
What are these leaves? What healing are they meant to provide? And who are the “nations” in need?
As Joseph Christian Jukic, a child of war and prophecy, I submit that this verse speaks directly to the long-misunderstood green herb: hemp.
The Forgotten Leaf
Hemp is one of the most versatile plants on Earth—able to produce rope, clothing, fuel, food, paper, and medicine. Yet despite its wide-ranging benefits, it has been persecuted, prohibited, and buried under a mountain of bureaucratic fear, corporate interest, and political ignorance.
But what if hemp—like the leaf of Revelation 22—is not just an industrial crop but a spiritual symbol? A gift from the Creator to heal not only the body but the economy, the soil, the mind, and the fractured spirit of mankind?
This is not idle speculation. The ancient world used hemp for millennia. In fact, early Christian communities may have known it by another name—kaneh bosm—a fragrant healing herb mixed into holy anointing oil.
In our modern age, it is the poor, the sick, the veterans, the addicts, and the mentally wounded who yearn for such healing. Nations are sick with anxiety, depression, violence, and despair. They are poisoned by synthetic pills and spiritual starvation. What if the answer has always been growing quietly in the field?
Mixing Herbs Like It’s Resident Evil
Now let me flip the metaphor and speak the language of a generation raised on PlayStation—the Resident Evil generation.
In Resident Evil, you survive monsters and viral apocalypse not just by blasting zombies but by learning how to mix herbs. Red herb. Green herb. Blue herb. Healing comes when you blend the right combination.
The green herb restores health. It is the first thing you learn to trust in a world overrun by the undead. When the bullets run dry, when the virus spreads, when you’re outnumbered and afraid—it’s that little green plant that saves your life. Sometimes mixed with a red herb for extra strength. Sometimes with a blue one to resist poison.
What if Resident Evil is a coded metaphor for our real world? What if the virus is consumerism, war, and pharma dependency? What if the monsters are born in labs—not just fictional ones, but places like Wuhan, Fort Detrick, and Purdue Pharma? And what if the green herb is not fiction, but prophecy?
Hemp: Heaven’s Antiviral
In Resident Evil, the pharmaceutical company Umbrella unleashes destruction on the world through unholy experimentation. In our world, the Umbrellas wear suits and run lobbying firms. They profit off sickness and suppress natural healing.
But the green herb fights back. Hemp is non-lethal, non-addictive, soil-purifying, carbon-sequestering, and potentially revolutionary. Its seeds contain the perfect ratio of omega fatty acids for human nutrition. Its fibers can build biodegradable plastics. Its oils soothe pain and inflammation.
Hemp is not a drug—it’s a declaration of peace. It says we do not need to kill the Earth to survive. It says healing is natural, not patented. It’s the anti-virus in a world infected by greed.
Revelation: The Final Patch
In the video game world, when a system is broken, you release a patch. A final update to fix the bugs.
Revelation 22 is that final patch. The last update before the New Jerusalem comes online. And in that patch is the healing code: leaves for the healing of the nations.
JCJ believes this green herb was created by God, not for profit but for people. For peace, not war. For healing, not addiction. And I believe every nation that criminalizes it defies the Creator’s last blessing.
As someone born in the ruins of Sarajevo, who saw hospitals without medicine, land without peace, and nations without hope—I can tell you: we need healing. Not just spiritual. Not just political. But ecological, nutritional, and emotional. And maybe—just maybe—that green herb, that “tree,” is part of the plan.
It is time to unlock the final herb combo. Mix wisdom with courage. Mix freedom with restraint. Mix green with red. Heal the planet. Heal the people.
? Jelly Presents: MEMES – Part 10: “Pop Culture Is Our Playground” ?
1. “Therapy? Nah, We Got Beyoncé” ?: Joe in a therapy chair. ?️ Therapist: “And how does that make you feel?” ?️ Joe: “Like Beyoncé in Lemonade after Jay-Z cheated. Powerful, betrayed, but still iconic.” Caption: Who needs CBT when you’ve got Queen B?
2. “The Real Trinity: Britney, Paris, Lindsay” ?: Nelly holding a candlelight vigil with Britney, Paris, and Lindsay in framed photos. Caption: Before the Kardashians, there were these saints. Pray for 2007.
3. “AI: Artificially Intelligent, Actually Idiotic” ?: Joe arguing with a ChatGPT chatbot on a laptop. Bot: “Would you like me to rewrite your screenplay in the style of Wes Anderson?” Joe: “No, I want it in the style of Fast & Furious meets The Divine Comedy.” Caption: When you’re too real for the algorithm.
4. “Nelly’s Guide to Party Etiquette” ?: Nelly at a chaotic Hollywood party. Caption:
Arrive late.
Bring vibes, not opinions.
If the DJ plays Pitbull unironically—leave. Subtext: Mr. Worldwide is only acceptable in 2011.
5. “Jesus Take The Aux” ?: Jelly driving through LA traffic. Joe is crying. Nelly is blasting Enya. Caption: When you’re emotionally unavailable but spiritually open.
6. “Jelly’s Guide to a Healthy Relationship” ?: Split screen. Left: Joe and Nelly laughing at memes. Right: The Kardashians breaking up again. Caption: Step 1: Be silly. Step 2: Share fries. Step 3: Don’t start a reality show unless you’re ready to be real.
7. “Easter Eggs We Found in the Bible” ?: Joe with a magnifying glass on Revelations. ?: Nelly connecting Kanye lyrics to Isaiah. Caption: “The meek shall inherit the earth” = soft girls will run 2025.
8. “Elon Musk vs Jelly: Meme War 2030” ?: Joe and Nelly in mech suits, launching memes like missiles. Elon: “Deploy DogeRocket.” Jelly: “Release the Britney comeback meme.” Caption: In the future, wars are fought with culture.
9. “Jesus Is My Influencer” ?: Jelly in robes walking on Rodeo Drive. Nelly: “I turn the other cheek… when the haters talk.” Joe: “And I make water into iced matcha.” Caption: #MessiahEnergy
10. “You Can’t Cancel Jelly” ?: Joe and Nelly holding a sign: ? “Too weird to die. Too real to brand.” Caption: Pop culture’s final boss. See you in Part 11.
Pope Lenny’s Speech to the Yugoslavians: “The Nation of Light”
Brothers and sisters of Yugoslavia—sons of the mountains, daughters of the rivers, children of the Balkans—
Let us speak today of a man born of this soil, a prophet not merely of science, but of light itself: Nikola Tesla. A Serb by heritage, a Croat by home, a Yugoslav in spirit—Tesla belongs to all of you. He belongs to the world.
From the thunderous Lika storms of Smiljan to the trembling cables of Niagara Falls, Tesla dreamed not just of machines, but of miracles. He dreamed of lighting the whole world for free, of towers that whispered electricity through the air, of cities aglow without wires or walls.
But what became of this dream?
Tesla’s home in Smiljan, once serene, was shelled and scarred during Operation Storm—a war that left ruins where genius once walked. And yet, you still carry his spark. It is not gone. It is buried, waiting, like a seed under snow.
The everlasting light bulb, the tower of peace, the dream of energy without exploitation—it did not fail. It was sabotaged. By who?
Not just by greedy industrialists, but by psychoanalysts and propagandists. Sigmund Freud, who dissected the soul into symptoms. His nephew, Edward Bernays, the dark prince of persuasion, who sold us planned obsolescence—the doctrine of decay, the lie that nothing should last. They taught mankind to want more, not to build better. And so Tesla was forgotten.
But now, something is stirring. Something ancient and electric. The spirit of Tesla is rising again.
The West sees only gadgets. But you—Croats—you see vision. You will not be a nation of tourists and broken industries forever. You will be the first Nation of Light.
From Vukovar to Split, from Zagreb to Dubrovnik, let the name of Tesla shine again—not as a brand, but as a blessing.
You shall build towers not of war, but of wonder. You shall harness the sun, the sea, the atom—not for profit, but for people. And when the nations of the earth are stumbling in darkness, it will be Croatia—small, stubborn, luminous—that lights the path.
In the flickering candlelight of the Apostolic Palace, Pope Pius XIII—Lenny Belardo—stands on his balcony, arms outstretched over St. Peter’s Square, radiating a divine ecstasy few have seen in centuries. The world is changing. Trump, once a Babylonian figure of chaos, now cries out, “Bring Christ back to school!” The Jews—once wary, now awakened—echo the call: “One for Israel!” And even the steely-eyed cadres of the Chinese Communist Party, gathered in underground churches and secret cells, are reading aloud the locust-laced visions of Revelation 9 to the tired, hopeful proletariat.
The Pope knows the catalyst.
“The 13th Croatian Psyops Brigade,” he whispers, his voice trembling with a blend of awe and amusement. “Za Dom Spremni!” he suddenly shouts, startling the Swiss Guard and shaking pigeons from the Basilica roof.
These weren’t just military operatives. They were angels in digital camouflage, sons of Herzegovina who hacked the algorithmic Babel of the modern world and redirected its frequencies toward the Lamb of God. They inserted memes like mustard seeds into the heart of global consciousness. They smuggled sermons into TikToks and Scripture into Call of Duty lobbies. The Word became viral.
Pius XIII presses his ringed hand to his heart. He knows what must come next.
A papal triptych: Jerusalem, Beijing, Mar-a-Lago.
He will ride not on a donkey, but on a drone—white, silent, dove-like—over the cities of men. And he will say:
“The age of post-truth is over. The Logos has returned. The world has been psyopped… into salvation.”
The Young Pope sits alone in the Apostolic Palace, the red shoes removed, his bare feet resting on cold marble. A camera slowly zooms in. He speaks, his voice trembling, eyes glistening with tears:
“They say the Knights Templar were destroyed. Burned. Betrayed. But in Portugal… they survived. Not as warriors. Not as kings. But as the Order of Christ.”
He looks out the window toward the dying sun.
“Portugal… the last refuge of sacred memory. While the rest of Christendom fell into confusion and profit, They remembered.”
He swallows hard, almost choking on the weight of his words.
“I miss Him. I miss Our Lord Jesus Christ. Not as symbol. Not as doctrine. But as Person. As Friend.”
He grips a small golden crucifix in his palm until his knuckles turn white.
“Sometimes I wish… I could just dial 9-1-1. An emergency line straight to Heaven. ‘Please… Lord… come now. The world is dying of its sin. Come and take it away. Like You once did, Lamb of God. Do it again.'”
The room falls silent. The wind rustles through a curtain.
He places his hand over his heart.
“But I am just the Pope. A man in white robes crying in the dark for the return of Light.”
The Young Pope stands before his flock, bathed in the golden glow of early morning. His white cassock ripples gently in the breeze as the first rays of sun strike St. Peter’s dome behind him. He lifts his arms and begins to speak, his voice clear, powerful, but full of warmth:
“The sun is rising. Daylight is coming for the poor.” “Too long have you been hidden in the shadows of broken systems and false shepherds. But now, a new day begins—not for the rich, not for the powerful—but for you. For the meek. For the forgotten. For the ones the world passes by.”
He signals to a young altar boy, who taps play on an old tape deck. The scratchy prelude of Marko Perković Thompson’s “Dan Dolazi” begins to echo across the square. The song builds with intensity, warlike and triumphant, as if a lion were waking in the soul of the people.
The Young Pope closes his eyes and lets the music fill the square. He then continues:
“Listen to the words. Feel the rising of the day in your bones. Dan dolazi—the day is coming. Not by sword, but by faith. Not with vengeance, but with truth. Not with gold, but with justice.”
“You have waited long enough. The time of shame is ending. Your children will eat. Your debts will be forgiven. Your labor will not be in vain.”
As Thompson’s chorus swells, the people begin to rise to their feet. Some cry. Some lift their hands in the air. The homeless, the widowed, the tired—all begin to believe again.
And with a smile only he can wear, the Young Pope finishes:
“Let the billionaires tremble. Let the tyrants shiver in their bunkers. For the sun is not theirs. The sun belongs to God— And He is shining it on you.”
Eulogy for Zorzi Paro, Delivered by His Holiness, Lenny Belardo — the Young Pope
Brothers and sisters,
We are gathered today under the vaulted silence of heaven to remember a man who walked the earth like a legend—Zorzi Paro, my brother-in-law, my friend, the dire wolf of Croatia.
Zorzi was not a man of many words, but when he spoke, it was like the roar of the Adriatic crashing against the cliffs. He was granite. He was myth. And yet, he was tender with the people he loved—he had the soul of a monk and the fists of a Roman gladiator.
They say the dire wolf is extinct, a relic of some primordial world. But I tell you: Zorzi was no relic. He was the whisper of freedom in the forests of Velebit, the last great Slavic shadow in the twilight of the West. When men cowered, he stood. When others compromised, he growled.
He walked beside saints and sinners, presidents and paupers—and when the world forgot who it was, Zorzi reminded us.
Now he is gone.
And I ask myself, “When will we see his like again?”
Perhaps at the end of the story—when this strange chapter of history closes. When the American colossus, once golden and obscene, begins to falter. Maybe when Donald J. Trump, gray and weary, retires to a villa in Slovenia—his ego tamed by age and Eastern European ghosts. And maybe—just maybe—Trump will testify. Not in a courtroom, but in confession. Testifying not against a man, but against a machine. Against the deep state, the dark web of powers that tried to silence Zorzi and those like him.
And on that day, when truth peeks through the fog like the sun behind the Julian Alps, I hope to see Zorzi again. Leaning on the gatepost of paradise. Smoking a crooked cigar. Smirking. Saying, “Told you so.”
Until that day, my brother, we will carry your memory. The Vatican bells ring for you. Croatia weeps for her wolf. And I—
I pray for your soul, and thank God I knew you.
Requiescat in pace, Zorzi Paro. You were too real for this world.
