Scene: A golden cathedral-like chamber floating above the clouds. Pope Leo and Bono are on their knees before a massive hologram of God Emperor Trump. Gigolo Joe stands confidently nearby, arms crossed. Outside the windows, the “Children of the Sky” hover in their drones, observing, judging.
God Emperor Trump (hologram, booming): Why are you here on your knees? Do you not see the empire prospers? Do you not see the billionaires smile?
Bono (pleading, voice shaking): Great Emperor… we beg for a jubilee. Without it, women cannot bear children. Twenty-five years… twenty-five years of debt, of despair…
Pope Leo (folded hands, whispering): Forgive us, Your Excellency… we have failed the faithful.
Gigolo Joe (stepping forward, sharp): Stop groveling. You’re asking for a handout from the people who only care about their yachts and their stock portfolios. “The Man” says no? Well, the sky says yes.
Bono (confused): The sky?
Gigolo Joe (pointing toward the hovering children): The Children of the Sky. They’re rejecting your Silicon Valley nonsense. No more Pornhub, no more robotic sex dolls. Real women, real love, real children. That’s the future.
Pope Leo (hesitant): But… we’ve sanctioned the new technologies to ease human suffering…
Gigolo Joe (snapping): Bullshit. You’ve turned intimacy into a transaction. The Children see it. They hover up there, judging, and they’re saying enough.
Bono (raising his voice): But how do we reconcile… the billionaires… your jubilee…
Gigolo Joe: You don’t. You kneel for them in this hall and nothing changes. The Children of the Sky—they’re not kneeling. They’re demanding. And they’ll choose life over circuits every time.
God Emperor Trump (hologram flickering, slightly annoyed): What’s this chatter about Children of the Sky? You will obey, or…
Gigolo Joe (interrupting, grinning): No. We follow the sky. Not your stocks, not your drones, not your toys. The future is human. And if you can’t handle that… well, the clouds will take care of the rest.
The Children of the Sky tilt in unison, shining beams of light down. The hologram of Trump flickers as if being overridden, and the chamber fills with a gentle hum of wind and freedom.
Bono (awed, whispering to Pope Leo): Maybe… maybe we’ve been kneeling to the wrong masters.
Pope Leo (nodding, trembling): The sky… the sky judges.
Gigolo Joe (smirking, arms crossed): Told you. Real women, real children… real life. Not your billion-dollar fantasies.