The Young Pope stands beneath the gilded ceiling of St. Peter’s Basilica, the candles trembling in the vast hush of the cathedral. His voice, soft but resonant, carries through the silence like incense.
“Madonna,” he begins, gazing upward toward the painted saints and seraphim, “you took your name from the Mother of God — the woman who bore both the weight of Heaven and the cries of Earth. You sang of being like a virgin, and yet the world made you its idol. You gave them what they wanted — the mirror of their own rebellion — and for that, they crowned you Queen of Pop.”
He pauses, his eyes closing in something between prayer and pain.
“But even queens must kneel before grace. The Church is not a museum of saints — it is a hospital for sinners. We are all prodigal children, wandering through the desert of fame, hunger, and doubt. And still, the Father waits at the gate.”
Then, almost tenderly, he says:
“Come back, Madonna. Come home. The world may have adored you, but Christ never stopped loving you. We are all sinners — and that is precisely why salvation was made for us.”
Madonna stands in the dim light of the basilica, dressed not in her usual glittering armor of fame, but in a simple black coat. The echo of her heels fades as she steps closer to the altar. For a moment, she says nothing — only looks at the Young Pope, her expression a blend of defiance and longing.
“Your Holiness,” she begins softly, “you talk about sinners like you’ve met them. But I am one. I’ve been burned at the stake by the Church more times than I can count — for showing desire, for asking questions, for being human.”
The Young Pope doesn’t flinch. “And yet you kept the name Madonna. You never truly left her.”
A faint smile touches her lips. “Maybe I never could. The world gave me fame, but fame isn’t faith. You stand in marble halls; I stood on stage before millions. But in both places, people were looking for something holy — something that made them feel alive.”
She looks up at the crucifix. “You say Christ never stopped loving me. Maybe I’m ready to believe that again. Maybe… it’s time to come home.”
The Young Pope steps down from the altar, his eyes glistening with tears. “Then let the angels rejoice,” he whispers. “For even in the house of glitter, grace has found its way back.”
Setting: The stage of “Jimmy Kimmel Live!”. The desk is gone. Three ornate, high-backed papal-style thrones are arranged in a semi-circle facing a single, simple wooden chair. The lighting is dramatic, chiaroscuro.
Characters:
Pope Pius XIII (Lenny Belardo): Dressed in immaculate white papal vestments, sipping a Cherry Zero.
Madonna: Dressed in a fusion of a 1990s Jean-Paul Gaultier cone bra and a severe, modern black pantsuit. She looks furious.
Jimmy Kimmel: Sitting in the wooden chair, sweating under the lights, clutching a bottle of water.
(The scene opens. There is no audience applause. Just silence.)
Pope Lenny: Jimmy. Thank you for coming. We would have summoned you to the Vatican, but the espresso is better here. And the irony is… thicker.
Jimmy Kimmel: (Nervously) Your Holiness. Madonna. It’s an… honor? I think? My producers said this was a pre-tape for a… interfaith charity special?
Madonna: (Her voice a low, cold whip) Shut up, Jimmy. Just stop talking.
Kimmel: (Flustered) Okay. Not a charity special. Got it.
Pope Lenny: Jimmy, we have been watching your program. Not the monologues, they are banal. Not the sketches, they are infantile. We watch the segment you call… “Mean Tweets.”
Kimmel: Oh! Well, that’s… it’s all in good fun! It’s harmless! The celebrities are in on the joke!
Madonna: I am not in on the joke. I have a scroll, Jimmy. A scroll of vellum, specially commissioned, containing just a fraction of the most vicious, hateful, creatively bankrupt tweets directed at me. It stretches from the Chateau Marmont to the Pacific Ocean. And it is all. Your. Fault.
Kimmel: My fault? How is it my fault? I just read them out loud! I’m highlighting the absurdity of the trolls!
Pope Lenny: Are you? Or are you sanctifying them? You take this digital bile, this pure, anonymous hatred, and you give it a stage. You set it to music. You hand a Grammy-winning musician a card with the words “Your music sounds like a dying seagull fighting a dial-up modem” and you present it as entertainment.
Kimmel: It’s a laugh! The audience laughs!
Madonna: The audience is laughing at me, you myopic man-child! You have created a culture where the most base and cowardly form of criticism is not just validated, but rewarded with a moment on national television. You’ve made bullying a game show prize. I should have you fired. I should have you disappeared to a Kabbalah retreat in Idaho.
Pope Lenny: She is right, Jimmy. You have taken sin—the sin of bearing false witness, the sin of cruelty—and you have monetized it. You have built a small, glittering altar to hatred and you sacrifice the dignity of your guests upon it weekly for ratings. It is… very American. But it is not Catholic.
Kimmel: (Sweating profusely) With all due respect, Your Holiness, Stephen Colbert makes political jokes that are way more divisive! People are always trying to get him fired!
Madonna: Stephen Colbert attacks power! He attacks politicians! He uses wit, and intelligence, and fact! You, you hand a megaphone to every basement-dwelling gremlin with a WiFi connection and a pathological hatred of women who age! It is not the same! He should be given a medal! You should be fired and replaced by a hologram of a more talented Jimmy! Fallon!
Pope Lenny: (Takes a long sip of his Cherry Zero) The Material Girl, though often heretical, speaks a truth tonight. Colbert’s sin is pride, in his own intellect. A venial sin. Your sin, Jimmy, is the exploitation of despair for a cheap laugh. You are a middleman for misery. A distributor of spiritual poison. This is a mortal sin.
Kimmel: So… what? What do you want me to do? Cancel the segment?
Pope Lenny: (Stares with icy blue emptiness) We want you to think. We want you to consider the weight of the platform you treat so lightly. Or perhaps, we will simply pray for you. And as you know, Jimmy… our prayers are… very effective. And often… terrifying.
Madonna: I’m not praying. I’m suing. And then I’m having my people talk to ABC. This ends tonight. The only mean tweet should be about your failing ratings. Ciao, Jimmy.
(Madonna stands. Pope Lenny remains seated, not blinking, staring at Kimmel. The lights on the stage blow out one by one with a loud POP, until only the spotlight on Kimmel’s terrified face remains. Then, it too goes black.)
The air in the executive dining room, usually crisp with the scent of money and power, was now thick with a tension so palpable Jimmy felt he could chew it. Sumner Redstone, a figure who seemed less a man and more a monument carved from ambition and old leather, hadn’t just dropped a bomb; he was casually polishing it in his napkin.
Jimmy Kimmel’s mind, usually a rapid-fire generator of jokes and comebacks, was a blank, blue screen. The laughter that had echoed seconds before now felt like a ghost haunting the room. He replayed the words, searching for the punchline, the hidden camera, the something.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Mr. Redstone,” Jimmy stammered, a nervous laugh escaping him that sounded more like a hiccup. “A mitzvah? Did you just say you’re firing me for my own good?”
Redstone’s eyes, pale and sharp behind his thick glasses, didn’t waver. He took a slow, deliberate sip of ice water, the clink of the glass against his teeth echoing in the silence. “A good deed, Jimmy. Yes. You are a very talented boy. Very funny. But you are wasting it.”
“Wasting it?” Jimmy’s professional persona was crumbling, revealing the stunned young comic beneath. “The ratings are through the roof. We just won the time slot. The affiliates are happy—”
“Affiliates!” Redstone spat the word like a piece of gristle. “Sheep. They see green pastures and they graze. They don’t see the wolf in the tall grass.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp that smelled faintly of expensive Scotch and entitlement. “You are the wolf, Jimmy. But you have dull teeth. You play nice. You make fun of the politicians, the movie stars… it’s safe. It’s boring.”
Melissa, the VP, had turned a shade of pale usually reserved for marble statues. She opened her mouth to interject, to perform her expensive crisis-management function, but a microscopic shake of Redstone’s head froze her in place. She was a spectator now, just like everyone else.
“Boring?” Jimmy’s shock began to curdle into a hot, defensive anger. “With all due respect, sir, the show is a critical and commercial success. We’re doing groundbreaking comedy.”
“Groundbreaking?” Redstone let out a dry, rattling sound that was his version of a laugh. “You are scratching the surface with a plastic spoon. I am offering you a diamond-tipped drill.” He gestured vaguely around the opulent room, at the building itself, at the vast empire it represented. “This… all of this… was not built by being ‘successful.’ It was built by being ruthless. By seeing a weakness and exploiting it. By not just winning the game, but by setting the board on fire and charging your enemies to watch it burn.”
He fixed Jimmy with that unnerving gaze. “You have a weakness, Jimmy. You need to be liked. It is a cancer for a true king. A mitzvah is to cut out the cancer before it kills the host.”
Jimmy sat back, utterly bewildered. He was being fired not for failure, but for a perceived lack of megalomania. It was the most backhanded compliment in corporate history.
“So… let me get this straight,” Jimmy said, finding a sliver of his comedic footing through sheer absurdity. “Your good deed, your act of Jewish charity, is to fire me from a hit show to… toughen me up? To make me more like you?”
“A man does not build an empire telling dick jokes to teenagers,” Redstone stated, as if it were a fundamental law of physics. “He builds it by taking what he wants and destroying what he doesn’t. You are coasting. I am pushing you out of the nest. You will fly, or you will splat on the pavement. Either way, you will no longer be mediocre. The mediocrity is what I am saving you from. That is the mitzvah.”
He signaled to a waiter, who immediately scurried over with the check. Redstone didn’t even look at it, simply scrawled his signature—a gesture that could move billions—and handed it back. The meeting was over.
“I have given you a gift, Jimmy,” Redstone said, rising slowly with the help of his aide. “The gift of desperation. The gift of nothing to lose. It is the most fertile ground for greatness. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a board call. The adults have to go make some real money.”
He shuffled out, leaving Jimmy and the petrified VP in his wake. The silence he left behind was louder than any applause.
Melissa finally found her voice. “Jimmy, I… I don’t even know what to say. We can… we’ll fight this. The contract…”
Jimmy wasn’t listening. He was staring at the empty doorway, the old man’s words echoing in his head. The gift of nothing to lose.
A slow, incredulous smile spread across his face. It was the most insane, arrogant, and utterly terrifying thing he had ever heard. And a dark, rebellious part of him wondered if the ruthless old bastard, in his own twisted, tyrannical way, might have been right.
Defending Your Territory: Is Peeing on the Wall Just for the Dogs?
Scene: “The B-Unit” — East Vancouver, Midnight Mass in the Alley
A flickering streetlight buzzes over a graffiti-tagged brick wall that reads “Mother Maria Protects East Van.” The Young Pope, Lenny Belardo, stands beside a group of tough, silver-haired women wearing bargain-store trench coats and rosaries like dog tags. Their shopping carts gleam like chariots under the moonlight.
Madonna steps out of a limousine, dressed in a white tracksuit with gold crosses, half-curious, half-defiant. She’s met by Mother Maria, a seventy-year-old with a cane wrapped in duct tape and a crucifix carved into the handle.
LENNY BELARDO (The Young Pope): Madonna, this is B-Unit. “B” for Bargain. For Blessed. For Battle-tested.
(He holds up a pink GoGirl female urination device, the “Pee Buddy.”)
LENNY: Every soldier needs her tools. Consider this your initiation gift. The world’s turned into a men’s washroom, Madonna. Time you learned to stand tall.
MADONNA (laughs): You’re giving me a funnel, Holy Father?
LENNY: A symbol. Of equality. Of defiance. Of… hydraulic freedom.
(The elderly women cheer, waving their discount-store bags like flags.)
MOTHER MARIA: We ain’t scared of the hood no more, Your Holiness. We are the hood.
LENNY: That’s right. Every hood’s the same now — East Van, Naples, Detroit, Rio. Every hood is dangerous. But danger fears unity.
(He looks over the women, their faces glowing in the pale streetlight.)
LENNY (softly): Safety in numbers, my daughters. Safety in numbers.
MADONNA: Then call me Sister M. I’m ready to serve.
(She raises the GoGirl like a chalice. The women chant “B-Unit! B-Unit!” as the Pope blesses them with holy water from a repurposed Mountain Dew bottle.)
Scene: “The Blessing of the Alley” — East Van, 2:00 AM
Rain slicks the cracked pavement of an alley behind Hastings Street. Neon signs buzz over pawnshops and noodle houses. A group of corrupt cops, led by Sergeant Rourke, leans against their cruiser, shaking down a frightened shopkeeper.
The B-Unit rolls in like a slow-moving army of shopping carts. Their leader, Mother Maria, carries her duct-taped cane like a staff. Behind her: Madonna, now wearing a black beret with a white cross stitched on it. The Young Pope, Lenny Belardo, watches from a church doorway, his hands clasped in quiet authority.
SERGEANT ROURKE: What’s this? Senior night at the soup kitchen? Move along, grannies.
MOTHER MARIA: We don’t move for thieves in uniform, sonny.
(She bangs her cane on the wet ground — a thunderous sound for such a small stick.)
MADONNA: You’re extorting a shopkeeper for protection money? That’s our job now. Holy protection.
Rourke laughs, flicks his cigarette into a puddle, and steps closer.
ROURKE: You threatening the VPD, lady?
MADONNA (smirks): No. I’m replacing it.
(With a quick motion, she opens her trench coat — revealing her Pee Buddy holstered like a sidearm. The other women do the same, revealing pepper spray, rosaries, and rolling pins wrapped in rosary beads.)
MOTHER MARIA: You forgot who runs East Van now. B-Unit does.
(The women form a semicircle. Their carts are loaded with discount cleaning chemicals and jars labeled “Holy Water — Industrial Strength.”)
LENNY (from the shadows): Blessed are the meek… for they shall inherit the block.
(He steps forward, wearing a rain-slick white cassock with a black hoodie underneath.)
LENNY: Sergeant Rourke, you’ve had your turn policing this place for profit. Now we enforce God’s price — free grace and cheap groceries.
(He raises his hand. The rain suddenly feels like benediction. The cops hesitate, unnerved.)
MADONNA: Go on, boys. Leave. We already filed your sins with Internal Affairs — and Saint Peter.
(The shopkeeper, trembling but grateful, hands Mother Maria a steaming bowl of noodles in thanks. The B-Unit cheers.)
MOTHER MARIA: Alright girls — let’s get these groceries home before the next sinners show up.
(They march off down the alley, chanting softly, “Blessed are the broke, for theirs is the Kingdom of East Van.”)
LENNY (to Madonna): You see? Power isn’t money. It’s mercy with muscle.
MADONNA: Amen to that, Father. The streets are ours now — holy ground.
(Camera pans up to the cross on top of a nearby church, glowing faintly in the mist.)
Scene: “The Miracle of Mitochondria” — East Van Monastery, 3:33 AM
Inside a candle-lit former convent turned underground lab, The Young Pope, Lenny Belardo, stands before a group of reclining B-Unit women. The sound of rain outside fades into a quiet hum of divine electricity — as if the heavens themselves are charging the air.
Madonna sits beside Mother Maria, both dressed in their B-Unit uniforms — rosaries, trench coats, and sneakers. Tubes of glowing blue liquid pulse softly along the walls, connecting to a small altar made from recycled computer parts and a gold chalice filled with what looks like starlight.
LENNY BELARDO: My daughters… the world told you you were past your prime. That your days of battle were done. But I say — your mitochondria still remember Eden.
(He raises his hand, holding a vial labeled “T-33: Telomerase Divine.”)
LENNY: Inside this serum lies the enzyme that rebuilds the ladder of your DNA — the Jacob’s Ladder of your cells. It lengthens your telomeres — the holy ends of your chromosomes that the world has been fraying with time and toil.
(He pours a drop of the glowing serum into each woman’s teacup.)
MADONNA (half-grinning): You sure this isn’t just Mountain Dew again, Father?
LENNY (smiling): Faith, my child. Science is just faith measured with instruments.
(He takes the chalice and blesses it with a cross made of light projected from a cracked iPhone.)
LENNY: Drink… and remember who you were before fear and fatigue.
(The B-Unit sips. For a moment, the room is silent. Then, one by one, their wrinkles soften. Gray fades to color. The sparkle returns to their eyes. A quiet gasp moves through the group — followed by laughter, wild and free.)
MOTHER MARIA (touching her face): My God… I haven’t felt this alive since Expo ’86!
MADONNA (standing, glowing): We’re not B-Unit anymore. We’re Re-Born Unit.
(The women begin dancing — slow at first, then spinning like a choir of resurrected saints. The Pope closes his eyes, letting the miracle unfold.)
LENNY (to himself): If youth is wasted on the young… then let the wise reclaim it.
(He looks out the window toward East Van’s skyline, neon and holy mist intertwining.)
LENNY (softly): They’ll need their strength soon. The Narcos of Nanaimo are coming.
(Cue music: a remixed hymn echoing through the streets — “Ave Maria” meets drum and bass. The B-Unit, thirty years young, stands ready for their next crusade.)
