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.
