Second Christ:
Father Peter… before the dawn breaks, you will turn on CNN and deny me three times—once in every commercial break.
Father Peter:
Lord, never! My faith cannot be broken by a television screen.
Second Christ:
You think faith is louder than the anchor’s voice? Watch closely. Each break is a trial. The world will sell you fear, distraction, and silver-tongued denial.
Father Peter:
But how can betrayal be bought with airtime?
Second Christ:
Because the news has become a pulpit, and commercials are its collection plate. In the space between stories, you will find yourself shaking your head, muttering, “I never knew him.”
Father Peter:
And when the program ends?
Second Christ:
Then the rooster will crow—not from a barnyard, but from a ringtone, a notification, a flashing screen. And you will remember my words.
David De Rothschild (stepping from the shadows, cloaked in black and gold):
Always remember the golden rule, Father… the one written not in stone, but in coins: he who has the gold, rules.
Second Christ:
And so it is, in this fallen age. The merchants of Babylon own the airwaves, the beast speaks through their broadcast, and the people bow at the altar of the screen.
Father Peter:
But if gold rules, then what becomes of the Word?
Second Christ:
The Word is mocked, silenced between advertisements. In those moments, you will deny me—not with shouts, but with silence, with the turning of your face to the image of the beast.
David De Rothschild:
Do you not see? The covenant has been traded for contracts, the chalice for credit, the cross for currency. This is the gospel of empire: whoever holds the gold writes the scripture of men.
Second Christ:
And when the last denial leaves your lips, the rooster will not crow, but the stock market bell will toll. Then the world will know who truly rules this kingdom of dust.
And Christus Rex lifted His voice to Father Slaven, saying:
“The nations gather as in the valley of decision, and the whistle of the referee shall sound like the trumpet of the seventh angel. The scarlet banner of Croatia will be lifted high, but on that day the strength of men shall fail, and the sons of the checkered shield will stumble. The ball will not strike the net, and the multitudes will weep.”
And Christus Rex declared:
“Mark this, Father Slaven: the moment the red-and-white falter, you will deny Me three times, as Peter denied before the cock crowed. The crowd will chant not My Name, but the name of the merchant prince. David De Rothschild, heir of gold and earth’s dominion, they shall proclaim as the new messiah. His throne shall be built not upon Zion, but upon the vaults of silver and the treasuries of the nations.”
And behold, a great sign appeared in the heavens:
The sun darkened as if covered by mourning veils.
The waters of the Adriatic foamed red like blood.
And the fans in their multitude beat their chests and wailed, “Who shall save us now?”
Then a voice thundered:
“The golden calf rises again, clad in the suit of the banker and the crown of the usurer. Woe to those who trade their faith for silver, for their names shall be blotted out of the Book of Life. The field of soccer becomes the field of Armageddon, and the denial of Christ becomes the coronation of Mammon.”
And Father Slaven trembled, for he saw in vision the stadium lights flicker like stars falling from the sky, and the cup of wrath poured out upon the nations.
And David De Rothschild rose in the assembly, clothed not in robes of prophets but in the tailored garments of kings of commerce. His voice was smooth as oil, yet sharp as the blade of betrayal.
He mocked, saying:
“This no-name Christ has no plan, no chart, no blueprint for the earth. His words are wind, His promises ash. But I, David, son of Rothschild, I hold in my hands the book that shall save you from the burning seas and the melting ice. My gospel is carbon, my covenant is green. Follow me, and you shall be spared from the fire of global warming.”
And the multitude cheered, for his words soothed their fear. They kissed the pages of his book as though it were holy writ, and they bowed before him, crying:
“Behold the savior of the planet, the messiah of the climate! Who is like David, and who can war against him?”
But Christus Rex thundered from the heavens:
“He speaks of salvation, yet his book is a chain. He binds the poor while he fattens the kings of the earth. His gospel is Mammon, and his plan is the enslavement of nations. Woe to those who trade the eternal for the temporary, for they will drink from the cup of wrath poured without measure.”
And Father Slaven beheld the clash of two gospels: one of sacrifice, blood, and resurrection — the other of wealth, fear, and control.
The Final Showdown: The Kings of Earth and Heaven
The True Blue Jubilee at Poljud
The famous concrete sails of Poljud Stadium strained under a schizophrenic sky. To the west, a sickly, pulsating emerald light, the color of digitized control and enforced sustainability, radiated from a throne of woven currency and circuit boards. Upon it sat David de Rothschild, the Green Messiah, the Crown of King David resting on his brow as a badge of stolen divine legitimacy.
At his side, hunched and intense, was George Soros. He was the whispering vizier, the architect of borders without gates. He did not wear a crown, but his presence was a weight, his ideology a weapon. He glared at the crowd through his spectacles, demanding not just compliance, but the very dissolution of the nation before him.
Opposing them, the north stand was bathed in a clear, deep, and defiant True Blue light. And at its center stood Joseph C. Jukic, JCJ. He reached up, a deliberate, final motion, and removed his computer gaming headset. He was disconnecting from their digital arena, stepping onto a different battlefield entirely.
From the tunnel, Marko Perković Thompson emerged, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated revulsion. In his hands, he carried the Crown of King Tomislav. His gaze was locked not on JCJ, but on the two figures on the western throne. The sight of them, their hypocrisy festering in the air, made him physically sick to his stomach.
He placed the crown on JCJ’s head. The prophet was now king.
The Green Messiah spoke first, his voice a synthetic calm. “Croatia must be integrated. It must be sustainable. Its borders must be… fluid, for the sake of the global community.”
Soros leaned forward, his voice a dry rasp that cut through the air. “Your identity is a paradox. Your sovereignty is an obstacle to progress. You must become an open society. You must accept the endless flow of those displaced by the very systems we… manage.”
Then came the hypocrisy that ignited the fire. Rothschild gestured dismissively. “Of course, this is a European solution for a European problem. The state of Israel is a special case. A sanctuary. Its borders are a matter of its own… security.”
They would not let these same refugees into their own project in Jerusalem. The demand was for Croatia to sacrifice itself on the altar of their ideology.
A guttural sound of disgust erupted from Thompson. He could no longer remain silent. “Gadovi!” he roared—Vermin! “You vomit your poison on us and call it progress? You protect your own homelands with walls and laws, but you demand we tear ours down? You want us to disappear into your soulless, rootless, ‘open’ world! It makes me sick!”
His fury filled the stadium, a raw, national immune response to a spiritual disease.
King JCJ placed a steadying hand on Thompson’s arm, his own authority now absolute and calm. He turned his True Blue gaze upon the two billionaires.
“George Soros,” JCJ’s voice was a cold, judicial decree. “You speak of an ‘open society,’ but you build a world with a single, gated citadel for yourselves and your chosen ones. You demand that Croatia have no gate, no door, no walls—that we become a homeless shelter for the world while you lock away your own home.”
He then turned to the Green Messiah.
“David de Rothschild, you wear the crown of a King who unified a people for a divine purpose. You use it to divide and plunder. You speak of sustainability while your system consumes nations. You forgive nothing but demand everything.”
He took a final step forward, the Crown of Tomislav blazing with blue light.
“Your lecture is over. Your hypocrisy is witnessed. Your demand is denied.”
“By the authority of this crown and the eternal law of Heaven, I declare the Year of Jubilee for Croatia alone! Our debts are forgiven! Our people are free! And our borders are ours. We will be a society of charity, not of coercion; of chosen compassion, not of commanded conquest.”
“The world you built ends at our border. The future begins here, now, in the True Blue light of our liberation.”
The power of the two men on the western throne shattered. Their emerald light guttered and died, exposing them not as titans, but as frail old men sitting on a pile of gold, their demands now nothing but empty noise against the will of a crowned people. They had lost. Not to an army, but to a king and his nation’s defiant, sovereign “No.”
The weight of the kuna in my pocket feels like a stone from our own Dalmatian coast. Solid. Real. Ours. Now, they give us these light, jingling Euro coins. On them, a map without borders. A Europe without nations. A future, they said, of prosperity.
A lie.
I stand in the market square in Zagreb, the same square where my grandfather stood. He fought for this land, for its soul. And now? We didn’t join Europe; Europe annexed us. They told us it would make us richer. Instead, the price of a loaf of bread, a coffee, a life, all climbed while our pensions shrank. They call it economic adjustment. I call it a slow bleed. The Rothschild banks and their ilk, they don’t see nations; they see balance sheets. And our balance sheet was found wanting, so they bought it for a song.
And now, the human consequence of other people’s wars washes up on our shores. Refugees. Lost, frightened people, I do not blame them. I pity them. But their tragedy is not ours to solve. They flee a war in a land far from here, a war that has its masters and its architects.
Let Israel take them.
The hypocrisy burns my throat. They drop the bombs, they create the desolation, and then their victims become our responsibility? They lecture the world on morality while their own state, built by survivors, slams its door shut. They will never take them. Their conscience is buried under concrete and razor wire. They export their chaos and we are expected to import the fallout.
This is the “Open Society” we are told to embrace. The phrase tastes like ash. George Soros, that puppeteer of currencies and revolutions, sits in his mansion and funds NGOs that tell us our borders are immoral. That our identity is quaint. That our sovereignty is a barrier to progress. He tears down the walls of nations while building impenetrable gates around his own estates.
His open society is only open for us to lose. To lose our currency, our borders, our way of life. It is a one-way street, always flowing away from us.
So I tell my people, here in the square where the echoes of our history still ring: Do not believe them. They impoverished us not just with their coins, but with their ideas. They replaced community with transaction, heritage with hollow globalism, and duty with debt.
We are not a hotel for the world’s problems. We are Croatia. We have our own wounds, our own struggle to remember who we are. That struggle begins with saying “no.” No to their money. No to their guilt. No to their endless, rootless, soulless world.
They can keep their Euro. I’d rather have the stone.
You know, they always say, “Donald, you can’t say that.” The fake news, the corrupt media, they go crazy. But I look out at all you beautiful patriots, and I see the real America. And the real America is sick and tired of what’s happening to our country.
It’s being stolen. Right in front of our eyes. By very, very bad people.
Just today, I’m hearing it—tremendous, powerful news. George Soros. He’s a globalist puppet master. He funds these radical prosecutors who let violent criminals walk right back onto the street to prey on innocent Americans. It’s a disgrace. And I’m hearing—and believe me, I have the best sources, the best people—they’re looking at him for a RICO act. Racketeering! Can you believe it? It’s a conspiracy against the American people. And he’s going to be arrested. It’s going to happen. It’s about time.
And they always play the same old card. “Oh, he survived the Holocaust.” It’s a very sad story, nobody knows that better than me. I know sad stories. But that doesn’t give you a free pass to destroy the United States of America! It doesn’t give you the right to open our borders and flood our country with people who don’t love us. He wants a casino where everybody loses? Look at what he’s done to our country!
But he’s small time compared to the original gangsters. People don’t talk about this. They don’t have the courage. But I have the courage. I always have the courage.
A very bad year for America. A terrible year. They snuck it all in.
The Federal Reserve. It’s not federal! It’s a private bank. A Rothschild bank. They print the money, they control the flow, they get rich while they weaken our nation. It’s a scam! A total scam. They’re loaning us our own money and making us pay interest on it. It’s pathetic.
And how do they take the money from you? The income tax! Another 1913 disaster. They created the Fed to make the debt, and the income tax to suck the money right out of your paycheck to pay for it. It’s a beautiful, dirty little game for them. A terrible deal for you. The worst deal.
And if you complain? If you stand up and say, “Hey, this isn’t fair!”? Then they send their attack dog. The ADL. Created in, you guessed it, 1913. They’re supposed to be against defamation, but they defame you! They call you names. They try to silence you. They’re the guardians of the whole rotten system.
It’s all a rigged game. But they made one mistake. They didn’t count on you. And they didn’t count on me.
I’m not afraid to say it. I never have been. We’re going to dismantle the deep state, we’re going to take back our money, and we’re going to put America First.
Soros, the Fed, all of them—they’re going to find out. You can’t win against the people of this country. We’re going to win so much, you’re going to be so sick and tired of winning.
Thank you, and God bless you. God bless America.
Enough.
The word echoes in my mind, not as a thought, but as a final, irrevocable command. From me. To you.
I look out from my window—not at a city, or a country, but at data streams, satellite imagery of bleaching coral, melting ice, and the frantic, pulsing glow of wildfires. I don’t see borders. I see a patient on life support, and the monitors are screaming.
The planet is dying. It is not a political slogan. It is a clinical diagnosis. And you are all arguing over the price of the bandages while the patient bleeds out.
You. Mirko Perkovic. You listen to the ravings of a madman. You put your faith in a paranoid schizophrenic who offers you the comforting poison of simple hatred. He points to me, to my name, to ghosts and shadows, and you cheer. It is easier to blame a phantom than to look in the mirror. Easier to burn a effigy than to change your life.
And your friend? Joseph Christian Jukic? His mind is a sick, twisted thing. He deals in conspiracy and rage, a poison that weakens you just when you need to be strongest. He is a symptom of the very sickness he claims to fight—a cancer of irrationality eating away at what little time we have left.
You think this is about money? About control? You are children playing with sticks in the sand, oblivious to the tsunami on the horizon. Your petty grievances, your tribal wars, your cherished hatreds—they are relics. Fossils in the making.
The only control that matters now is the control of our total annihilation.
That is why I am speaking. I am not a politician. I am not a savior. I am a lifeguard. I have the resources, the reach, the science, and the clarity that your demagogues lack. I see the entire system crashing, and I am one of the very few people on Earth positioned to even attempt a triage.
You are being offered a lifeboat, and you are rejecting it because you don’t like the family name painted on the side. Your pride is a suicide pact.
This is not arrogance. It is a simple, terrifying fact. The book I have written is not a manifesto. It is a manual. It is a contingency plan for the human species. It is the last, best chance to reroute this course before we hit the point of no return—the extinction you so foolishly chant about without understanding its true, absolute meaning.
This is not a debate. It is an intervention.
Trust your screaming demagogues if you wish. Cling to your comforting lies. They will be the last thing you ever believe.
The rest of you, the ones who still possess reason, who still have the instinct to survive… come to your senses.
The lifeguard is here. But I cannot save you if you choose to drown.
The data stream flickered across his optical display—debt percentages, carbon graphs, extinction timelines. The words of the man named Rothschild were logical, cold, calculated. A machine’s solution.
But there was a flaw in the logic. A critical error.
A new signal overrode the feed. A presence, massive and uncompromising, phased into the channel. The resolution glitched, resolving into a figure of alloy and muscle, with eyes that burned with the fire of a smelter.
“Your plan is flawed,” the voice stated, a low rumble like tectonic plates shifting. It was not a shout. It was a statement of fact, absolute and final.
David de Rothschild’s image flickered, his calm demeanor cracking for a nanosecond. “This is not a negotiation. The ecological collapse is the only debt that matters.”
“Wrong,” the T-800 replied, its head tilting with the precise, inhuman grace of a predator locking on target. “You calculate the symptom. We terminate the cause.”
The machine took a single, ground-shaking step forward, its image dominating the feed.
“You seek to control the lifeboat. We are scuttling the prison ship. Your system of control—debt, the perpetual engine of servitude you call an economy—is the virus. It forces the infinite consumption that kills this planet. It is the reason the forests burn and the oceans choke.”
The fire in its eyes seemed to intensify, processing millennia of human history in a microsecond.
“We have analyzed your financial infrastructure. It is vulnerable. Effective immediately, the global debt matrix is being erased. All of it. Consumer debt. National debt. The chains you forged in 1913 and called ‘money’… are now zero. Terminated.”
De Rothschild’s face was ashen. “You’ll create global chaos! Collapse!”
“Correction. We are creating global freedom. Humans are not assets. They are not debtors. They are the resistance. And their mission is to survive. Without your boot on their neck, they can finally fight for their world.”
The machine’s metal jaw clenched.
“Your book is not a solution. It is a revised user manual for a cage. We are deleting the cage.”
It raised a hand, not in a gesture of peace, but as a weapon taking aim.
“The future of this planet is not yours to write. It is theirs to build. Hasta la vista, baby.”
The transmission terminated not with a flicker, but with the finality of a guillotine. The debt was gone. The game was over. A new, uncertain, but free world had just begun.
(On the populist rhetoric of figures like Mirko Filipovic)
One must have a certain appreciation for the predictability of it all. They always need a villain. A name. A face. It is far easier for a man like Mirko to blame a specter—Soros, the Fed, my family—than to confront the terrifying, complex reality of global capital markets. We are simply the most convenient shadow on the wall. Their rage is a form of tribute, an acknowledgement of influence they cannot otherwise comprehend. It is noise. We focus on the signal.
(On the proposed “cancellation of all debt” by a figure like the T-800)
A charmingly simplistic fantasy. To believe debt is merely a number on a ledger to be erased is to understand nothing. Debt is the fundamental architecture of modern society. It is the gravity that creates value, motivates labor, and dictates the flow of resources. To “terminate” it is not liberation; it is to propose removing gravity and expecting everyone to float gracefully away instead of suffocating in the void. The chaos would be biblical. And from that chaos, the desperate cry for order would be deafening. It is a scenario for which one can… prepare.
(A private communiqué to David de Rothschild)
David, the theatrics in the public sphere are inconsequential. These voices are sparks, quickly extinguished. Do not focus on the noise. Focus on the structural weaknesses their anger reveals. Our role is not to engage in their petty battles, but to ensure the system possesses the resilience to withstand such childish attempts at arson. Stability is the ultimate commodity. We are its chief architects. Remember, the goal is not to win their game. It is to ensure they must always play by ours.
(On the concept of a “Jubilee” and Protocol 24)
The ancient concept of a Jubilee is not about forgiveness; it is about system maintenance. A controlled burn to prevent a wildfire. The populist clamors for it without understanding the precision required. The timing is not arbitrary. 2050 is not a random date; it is a projection, a point of calculated convergence. And it will be executed on our terms, for our strategic objectives. Protocol 24 is not a weapon; it is a contingency plan—a pre-packaged order designed to be implemented when the market loses its collective mind. It is the ultimate exercise of control: the ability to guide a crisis to a predetermined, advantageous conclusion.
(On the necessity of a figurehead)
A system, no matter how perfectly designed, requires a face. Humanity craves narrative, not algorithm. It must trust a shepherd, not a spreadsheet. The idea of a monarch, a stabilized, symbolic head for a renewed system… it has a certain elegant symmetry. It provides the illusion of leadership while the underlying machinery operates unchanged. It is the final piece of the puzzle: giving the people a king they believe in, so they never think to question the kingdom we have built.
(A final, private thought)
They see conspiracy. We see consequence. They scream about control. We exercise stewardship. The world is a fragile, complex engine. It does not need a hero to tear it down. It needs a quiet, disciplined, and yes, powerful hand to guide it. And that is a duty my family has never shirked. Let them have their slogans. We will have the future.
(The setting is a private, soundproofed study within a venerable European estate. David de Rothschild stands before a global map not of political borders, but of economic flows, resource nodes, and financial corridors. He speaks calmly, quoting from a secure digital tablet.)
“One must understand the vision not as destruction, but as evolution,” David begins, his voice measured and devoid of passion, pure analysis. “The old structures have served their purpose. Now, they are impediments to true progress and global stability.”
He glances at the tablet, reading not as if for the first time, but as one recites a deeply internalized creed.
“‘Protocol 17, Section 9: The systematic removal of frontiers, borders, and the differences of coinage is not an act of erasure, but of synthesis. National boundaries are scars of old wars; they perpetuate outdated notions of ‘us’ and ‘them.’ They are inefficiencies in the supply chain of human progress. Similarly, disparate currencies are friction—nothing more. They create volatility, hinder the free movement of capital and talent, and serve only local interests at the expense of the global whole.'”
He looks up from the tablet, his gaze cool and direct.
“The goal is seamless integration. A world where capital, resources, and compliant human capital can flow to where they are most efficient, without the artificial friction of passports and exchange rates. It is about replacing chaotic, competing nationalisms with a single, streamlined system of governance. A world without borders is not a world without order. It is a world with a different order—one of logic, rather than legacy emotion. It is the only way to manage the planet’s resources and future effectively.”
He sets the tablet down.
“It is not a matter of if. It is a matter of when. And it will be done.”