In a dimly lit monastery library high in the Portuguese hills, three men stand before an ancient scroll sealed with red wax.
Luis Morgado, the quiet scholar, traces the faded ink with reverent fingers. His voice is steady:
“The bloodline did not vanish. It waited. In silence. For us.”
Diogo Morgado, the charismatic actor whose portrayal of Christ once moved millions, steps forward. His eyes burn with conviction:
“I’ve worn His crown in story… but now I feel the weight in truth. The legacy is ours to guard.”
And between them, Joe C. Jukic—known to some as JCJ—the maverick wanderer whose life has been a string of prophetic encounters. He holds the key found in Jerusalem’s old quarter, inscribed in Aramaic:
“The legacy is not a relic—it is a responsibility. We are not kings, but servants. And the world is starving for what we must give.”
The three clasp hands over the scroll as the bells toll midnight. Outside, storm clouds gather—not from weather, but from powers who have long sought to bury this truth.
Some call them pretenders. Others call them blasphemers. But they call themselves… The Heirs to the Legacy of Christ.
Title: “Peace at Gallery” A neo-noir political mob satire written by Joe Jukic
Scene Treatment:
INT. GALLERY NIGHTCLUB – NIGHT – VANCOUVER
A blacked-out convoy rolls up under the electric haze of neon and streetlight. Leading the pack is a matte black Mercedes G-Wagon. Out steps Luis Morgado, the EU mob boss with diamond cufflinks and a Versace trench freshly looted from downtown. At his side:
Tony Medeiros, his icy underboss with smart glasses and a Glock tucked under his designer blazer.
Joe Jukic, the quiet consigliere with a cosmic mind.
And Sunny, their Indo-Canadian plug, rocking gold chains and a turban that could intimidate a sheikh.
They enter Gallery. The beats thump. Bottles pop. Dancers perform with weary grace. The tension is thick: they’ve come to make peace with the UN mob, specifically the Upena Indo-Canadian crew.
Luis raises his hands—not to flex, but to give. He hands out toys, children’s books, and dead presidents to the dancers.
LUIS MORGADO “These are for your kids. Don’t thank me. Thank Joe. He said a good captain saves more than just a ship.”
He winks at the DJ booth, where Joe’s old Croatian cousin Eugen is working the fog machine, reminiscing about the time he used to collect pennies in an artillery shell from the war—now repurposed as an ashtray in Joe’s study.
JOE JUKIC (to dancers) “Treat those ones like my cousin did. Stack ’em. Stack ’em like memories in war.”
Sunny takes the mic from the DJ.
SUNNY “Let me be real. If it weren’t for us Indo-Canadians paying into the Ponzi welfare pyramid, this whole damn country would fold like a cheap rug. Tell the EU to respect the UN. We paid your pension, don’t forget it.”
Joe smiles, impressed. He offers Sunny a fist bump and then shares an old story, poetic and warning:
JOE JUKIC “Two types of ants in a jar—black and red. They get along. Until someone shakes the jar. Then they blame each other. But the enemy… is the one who shook the jar.”
He puts his hand on Sunny’s shoulder.
JOE JUKIC (cont’d) “When Revelation 16 comes and the big one hits… even if Richmond sinks into the Pacific, do not fight. That’s how they trap us. Race war. Religion war. All planned. All Masonic sorcery.”
Just then, the bass changes. Four silhouettes arrive.
SYLVESTER STALLONE marches in with his own four horsemen:
50 CENT: all swagger and scars.
ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER: still jacked, still grinning.
DENZEL WASHINGTON: suit sharp as truth.
Sly himself: part saint, part soldier.
He walks straight to the tension point between EU and UN crews.
STALLONE “Look, I can read and write. That’s why the Mafia and the cops respect me. But I ain’t here to pick sides. I’m here to end the game. The planet’s dying. No more time for cops and robbers. The real heist is at the banks, not the block.”
Everyone freezes.
STALLONE (cont’d) “The banks are pulling off a grift bigger than Goodfellas, bigger than Henry Hill could dream. These financial death machines cause war, famine, pestilence, and death. We need to stop the big heist, not fight each other over crumbs.”
He lights a candle at the bar under the Lady of Van statue—Our Lady of Vancouver, protector of the street kids and the brokenhearted. He mutters a prayer.
Then he looks up and shuns Timothée Chalamet on a nearby TV screen.
STALLONE “That’s your action hero? Look at him. He couldn’t protect a sandbox.”
Suddenly, Clint Eastwood calls Stallone on speaker.
CLINT EASTWOOD (V.O.) “These new guys look like pussies. You ask ’em to protect a park, they hide behind a ring light. I need real men to watch Clark Park. Kids are getting circled by the 666 mafia.”
Sly looks at the room—EU, UN, black, brown, white, Catholic, Sikh, Muslim.
STALLONE “Who’s in?”
Everyone volunteers. No beef. No color lines. No nonsense.
FINAL MONTAGE:
Children of all backgrounds play under the trees at Clark Park. The mob bosses are now coaches. Cops and gangsters share barbecued hot dogs. Denzel reads poetry. 50 teaches kids how to balance a checkbook. Arnold hosts a push-up contest. Luis Morgado watches from a bench, sketching peace signs on the back of a stolen Versace napkin.
Joe Jukic looks at the sky and whispers:
JOE JUKIC “Namaste. I see the divine in all of you.”
(Verse 1) Paved with gold, the road to control, A dynasty forged in blackened coal. Pipelines stretch through the sands of time, Empires built on the dollar sign.
Underneath the surface, fires burn, Deals in shadows, no lessons learned. Barrels spin where the blood runs deep, The price of power, the cost we keep.
(Chorus) Blood for oil, the currency of kings, Turning lives to profit, see what power brings. Behind the veil, where the puppets toil, They write the future in blood for oil.
(Verse 2) From Standard Oil to the modern day, A legacy born in the games they play. Hidden hands guide the world’s design, The meek inherit what the strong decline.
Fields of black stretch across the lands, Fueled by the greed of unseen hands. A kingdom rises where the pipelines flow, Buried truths they hope we’ll never know.
(Chorus) Blood for oil, the currency of kings, Turning lives to profit, see what power brings. Behind the veil, where the puppets toil, They write the future in blood for oil.
(Bridge) Crimson rivers, blackened gold, A story of power, a tale retold. What’s the cost of a world on fire? Dreams consumed by their empire.
(Outro) But every empire fades in time, No shadow rules the endless climb. Blood for oil may feed their greed, But the human soul is what they’ll need.
