Rockefeller Resurrection Poll

JCJ the Prosecutor and Michael the Defense Attorney: The Resurrection Debate
Live from the Celestial Tribunal


JCJ the Prosecutor (Justice Crusader Joe):
clears throat and adjusts robe with righteous conviction

“Honorable Council of Cosmic Resurrection, I rise today to oppose the resurrection of John D. Rockefeller, the so-called oil magnate turned ‘philanthropist,’ whose war on natural medicine birthed the age of cancer profiteering. He didn’t cure cancer — he industrialized it! Through his funding of the Flexner Report in 1910, he crushed homeopathy, natural cures, and traditional herbal healing in favor of a petrochemical-based pharmaceutical empire. Why? Because he owned the oil. He didn’t just monopolize energy — he monopolized medicine, rewriting health care for corporate gain.

Do we resurrect a man whose legacy is a trillion-dollar cancer industry that treats but does not cure? A man who paved the path for a generation of quacks in white coats with degrees but no conscience? No. We do not resurrect a fossil of greed. Let the Dire Wolf roam, not the oil baron who turned health into hell.”


Michael the Defense Attorney (Cool-headed Brother, Defender of Due Process):
smooths his tie, speaks calmly

“Brother, your passion is moving, but the law is about balance. Yes, Rockefeller’s influence shaped the modern medical establishment, but he also donated over $500 million to education and public health. He established the Rockefeller Foundation, which helped eradicate hookworm in the American South and funded research that advanced science globally. We must not judge solely with hindsight. He acted within the spirit of his age — industrial progress.

And let us remember, the same oil you vilify powered ambulances, factories, even the planes that brought medicine to the sick. He brought order to chaos, brother. We can’t throw out the man with the motor oil.”


JCJ:
slams celestial gavel
“And yet, for all his wealth and ‘benevolence,’ where is the cure for cancer? Where is the holistic vision? This man made a cathedral of chemicals and taxed the poor for entry. If we must resurrect, let it be someone who birthed life, not industry.”


Michael:
“Then who, JCJ? Who shall we raise in his place?”


JCJ (with glowing reverence):
“I nominate Madonna’s mother — Madonna Fortin. A humble French-Canadian woman of faith and grace, who passed too soon from breast cancer when her daughter was just five. Her absence shaped a pop queen, but imagine what her presence could have inspired.

She is no titan of oil, no sculptor of monopolies. She is the soul behind the song, the ghost in the girl who taught the world to express themselves. Clone her — not to commercialize her — but to give her a second chance to dance with her daughter under the stars.

A mother’s love can heal more than any patent medicine.”


Michael (smiling softly):
“You always win when you play the heartstrings, brother. The court may well agree with you this time. Let the past tycoons sleep — and let mothers rise.”


The Celestial Tribunal goes silent. A beam of light descends toward a quiet village in Québec…
Resurrection Request Granted: Madonna Fortin
Resurrection Request Denied: John D. Rockefeller

The Dire Wolf howls approval.

Would you like the next scene — maybe Madonna and her cloned mother reunited in a secret garden of healing arts?

Resurrection Poll 13: Madonna's Mother or John D Rockefeller?
  • Add your answer

MK-Ultra Madonna

Title: “The Once and Future Mind Control”

Setting: A candle-lit chamber within a grand medieval castle. Arthur Pendragon, the legendary king, sits upon a stone throne, Excalibur resting at his side. Across from him, draped in a shimmering, futuristic cloak, sits Madonna—Queen of Pop, time traveler, and truth-seeker. A fire crackles between them.


Arthur Pendragon: (gazing at her curiously) You speak in riddles, Lady Madonna. What is this MK Ultra you claim has ensnared your realm? Is it some sorcerer’s curse?

Madonna: (leans forward, eyes piercing) Worse than any curse, Arthur. It’s a spell woven not with magic, but with science. A dark order has learned to break men’s minds, to shatter their wills, and mold them into slaves.

Arthur Pendragon: (gripping Excalibur tighter) Mind control? Tis an evil craft indeed! In my time, men are broken through chains and war, but you say in yours, they are broken from within?

Madonna: (nods solemnly) Yes. Through trauma, drugs, hypnosis. They fracture the mind, create alter personalities. Perfect puppets. And they use them to control everything—politics, entertainment, war.

Arthur Pendragon: (his jaw tightens, eyes darkening) This… MK Ultra. It is a tool of tyrants, then?

Madonna: (smirks, leaning back) And what empire has ever survived without tyranny? Even Camelot had its shadows, Arthur.

Arthur Pendragon: (grimly) A just king must battle those shadows, lest they consume the realm. Have your people no knights to fight this evil?

Madonna: (chuckles wryly) They have some. But most don’t even know they’re enslaved. And those who do? They get silenced. Exiled. Assassinated.

Arthur Pendragon: (leans forward, eyes fierce) Then you need a new Round Table. Warriors who will stand against this invisible enemy.

Madonna: (grinning) Now that’s a comeback tour I’d be willing to lead.

Arthur Pendragon: (smirks, lifting Excalibur) Then let us carve out a new legend, Lady Madonna. One where no king, no queen, and no common man bows to unseen masters.

Madonna: (raising her glass) To the fall of the sorcerers of control. And to the rise of free minds.

(Their voices echo in the great hall, as if destiny itself has heard their vow.)

King Arthur’s Rusty Sword

Title: The Return of the Sword

Scene: A misty dawn at an ancient stone monastery in Podstrana, Croatia. The ruins sit atop a rugged hillside, overlooking the Adriatic Sea. Joe Jukic, clad in a weathered leather jacket, stands beside a moss-covered sarcophagus. The air is thick with history, and in his hands, he holds a rusted, timeworn sword—King Arthur’s long-lost blade, resting in the tomb for centuries.

Enter Prince Harry, dressed simply, his usual royal demeanor replaced by something humbler, more uncertain. His boots crunch over the damp grass as he approaches Joe. He stops a few feet away, staring at the sword.

Joe Jukic:

(Holding up the sword, studying it one last time.)
Funny thing about legends. You dig long enough, and sometimes… they turn out to be real.

Prince Harry:

(Eyes locked on the blade, voice steady but unsure.)
Is it really his?

Joe Jukic:

Every mark, every dent… it tells a story. Your ancestor’s story. The last sword of Arthur, hidden here, far from Camelot. They buried it to keep it safe—until the right man came to claim it.

(Joe extends the sword, holding it out between them.)

Prince Harry:

(Pauses, hesitant to take it.)
And you think that man is me?

Joe Jukic:

I don’t decide that. He does. (Nods to the heavens.)
God can only give what is rightfully yours. I’m just the messenger.

Prince Harry:

(Slowly reaches out, fingers wrapping around the hilt. The moment he touches it, a gust of wind rushes over the hilltop, as if history itself is exhaling.)
And if I’m not worthy?

Joe Jukic:

(Smirks, folding his arms.)
Then the sword will let you know.

Silence. Harry lifts the sword, feeling its weight—not just in metal, but in responsibility. He exhales, nodding.

Prince Harry:

Then I guess I have a destiny to fulfill.

Joe Jukic:

(Chuckles, stepping back.)
Better hurry up. The world doesn’t wait for kings anymore.

The camera lingers on the rusted sword in Harry’s grip. The sun rises behind him, casting a golden glow over the Adriatic.

FADE TO BLACK.