Author: Yugo Joe

Behold, I am coming like a thief.
Posted on

Two Schizos Dancing

Scene: “The Schizo Dance for the Normies”

A neon-lit dance floor somewhere between a New York nightclub and a strange internet dreamscape. Strobe lights flash. A disco ball spins like a surveillance satellite. MADONNA and JOE dance in exaggerated, chaotic moves—half performance art, half satire.

Madonna:
Joe, darling, remember—this dance is for the normies. They like their chaos choreographed.

Joe:
Right. Step one: spin like you just read ten conspiracy threads at once. Step two: shrug like you don’t care. Step three: smile for the cameras. 📺

They begin a bizarre routine—robot arms, sudden moonwalks, and dramatic pauses like malfunctioning androids.

Madonna:
You know what this reminds me of?

Joe:
Let me guess… America?

Madonna:
Exactly. The whole country doing a schizo dance. Wall Street moonwalks. Washington pirouettes. Meanwhile everyone’s pretending it’s normal. 💃

Joe:
And in the middle of the dance floor—Donald Trump.

Joe freezes mid-dance and puts on an exaggerated slick-hair pose.

Joe (imitating a TV announcer):
Ladies and gentlemen, presenting the American Psycho of prime-time politics!

Madonna:
Oh please. He doesn’t dance. He poses. Big difference.

Joe:
True. Dancing requires rhythm. Politics just requires a microphone.

They resume dancing—this time slower, like a parody of a serious art performance.

Madonna:
You know what fascinates me? Every generation gets the leader it deserves. Some get philosophers. Some get generals.

Joe:
And some get reality-show bosses.

Madonna:
Exactly. The whole thing becomes entertainment. Bread and circuses… but with cable news and social media. 🎭

Joe:
So what’s the move now?

Madonna:
Simple.

She spins dramatically and points at the invisible audience.

Madonna:
Dance louder than the madness. That’s the only way to stay sane.

Joe:
So the schizo dance… is actually therapy?

Madonna:
Honey, in America everything is therapy if you put a spotlight on it. ✨

The music crescendos. They finish with an absurd synchronized pose—half disco diva, half revolutionary statue.

Joe (breathing hard):
Think the normies understood the message?

Madonna:
No.

She grins.

Madonna:
But they loved the show. 🪩

Posted on

The Protector of Lourdes

Setting: The rooftop garden of a Tribeca loft, late evening. The skyline of New York City glitters, a private escape from the flashbulbs below. LOURDES, wrapped in a silk kimono robe, leans against the railing. MARKO, in a simple black t-shirt and jeans, stands a respectful few feet away, his posture alert, eyes scanning the adjacent rooftops. A faint, intricate pattern of dots is just visible along his forearm, like old ink.

LOURDES: (Without turning) You can stand down, you know. The only paparazzo up here is a very determined pigeon on that chimney.

MARKO: (A small smile, but his eyes don’t stop moving) Habit. And pigeons can be surprisingly shrewd.

LOURDES: (Turns, leaning her hip against the rail) That’s your answer for everything. ‘Habit.’ ‘Protocol.’ ‘My job.’ You’ve been a shadow in spotted clothing for two years, Marko. My very own, very serious Dalmatian.

MARKO: (Finally looks at her, his gaze steady) It’s not just a costume, Lourdes. It’s a vow. My family… we don’t just guard people. We guard legacies. Light. The things that burn too bright and attract moths… and worse.

LOURDES: She takes a step closer, the city lights catching in her eyes. And what if the ‘legacy’ is tired of being a flame? What if she just wants to be… a person? In the quiet?

MARKO: (His voice softens) Then I guard the quiet twice as fiercely.

LOURDES: Another step. The space between them is charged, humming. You know, in all the fairy tales, the protector eventually leaves. The job is done, the dragon is slain, off they go.

MARKO: (He swallows, the professional mask cracking) My fairy tale is different. The protector sees the flame not as a duty, but as a hearth. And the thought of leaving it cold… (He breaks off, shaking his head) That’s not in the vow.

LOURDES: Is this in the vow? (She reaches out, her fingers barely brushing the pattern of dots on his forearm. He goes very still.) All these spots… a map of every loyalty, every danger you’ve stood against?

MARKO: (A low murmur) A map of every reason I shouldn’t be this close to you right now.

LOURDES: But you are. You’re here. And you’re not scanning the rooftops anymore. You’re looking at me.

He was. His intense focus, once diffused across the entire skyline, was now fixed solely on her face. The night seemed to hold its breath.

MARKO: It’s the greatest breach of protocol I’ve ever committed.

LOURDES: Then be a disgrace with me. Just for tonight. No Marko Bosko, Dalmatian guardian of some sacred trust. And no Lourdes Leon, heir to a hurricane. Just… us. In the quiet you promised to guard.

MARKO: (He brings his hand up, covering hers where it rests on his arm. His touch is warm, surprisingly gentle for hands so capable of violence.) The quiet was a lie. There’s nothing quiet about this. About how I feel. It’s a roar.

LOURDES: (A smile, genuine and unguarded) Good. I’ve spent my life surrounded by noise. I’d rather have your roar. Let it drown everything else out.

He doesn’t kiss her. Not yet. Instead, he brings her knuckles to his lips, his eyes closing for a brief, precious second—a guardian offering a devotion deeper than duty.

MARKO: Then my vow changes. From this moment, I don’t protect the flame from the world. I protect the world for the flame. For you. Wherever you lead.

LOURDES: (Whispering, leaning into him) Start by leading me inside. The pigeon is definitely getting a scoop.

A low, genuine laugh rumbles in his chest as he finally, fully, lets his guard down, wrapping an arm around her and turning them both away from the glittering, watchful city.

Posted on

Swimming With The Serbs

🎤 “The Water Belongs to Us All” – A Speech by Yugo Joe

(Yugo Joe steps up, looking out over a crowd, perhaps near the Adriatic coast. He speaks with passion, but an underlying weariness.)

My friends, my neighbors, my Croatian people! I want to talk to you tonight about the water. About the sea that washes up on our beautiful beaches. This land, this coastline, this heritage—it is ours.

And because it is ours, we have a right to decide who shares it. And right now, we are sharing it. Aren’t we?

We see Harjeet bringing his children to splash in the shallows. We see Muhammed setting up his umbrella to escape the fierce summer sun. And we welcome them. We open our arms, because they are here, they are working, they are living, and they are part of the new lifeblood of this country. That is right, and that is progress.

🌊 Why Not the Serbs?

But if the water is open enough for Harjeet, and open enough for Muhammed, then I have to ask: Why is it still closed to the Serbs?

I see the faces. I feel the tension. I hear the old whispers about what happened, about who lost what, and about grudges that go back further than my own grandfather can remember.

But look at us! We are the new generation! We are not defined by 1991. We are defined by 2025. We are defined by the jobs we need, the lives we want to build, and the simple, undeniable fact that the sea does not belong to any flag!

💔 The Lie of Conflict

They tell us to hate. They tell us to remember the bitterness. They tell us that our history demands we keep this wall up—this invisible, hateful wall between people who are geographically, linguistically, and culturally brothers and sisters.

But I learned something profound, something true, from a man who saw this same madness. He said:

“War is when the old and bitter convince the young and stupid to fight.”

They were the old and bitter. We, my friends, were the young and stupid.

They convinced us to fight. They convinced us to kill. They convinced us that a few square meters of sand was worth more than a lifetime of peace.

Well, I am done being stupid! I am done carrying a hatred that was handed to me like a heavy, broken relic!

🤝 Choose the Future

This is not about forgetting. It is about choosing to live.

It is about saying that if a family comes from a continent away and is welcome to swim on our beach, then a family that lives just an hour’s drive over a border that should be meaningless is also welcome!

Let them swim. Let them spend their money here. Let them taste the same salt air that we do. Because every single Serbian kid who swims here, every Serbian family who is shown a moment of kindness, is another nail in the coffin of that old, bitter war.

We are the new Yugoslavia. Not the old, failed state. But the new, invisible, peaceful union of people who just want to live.

Open the beaches. Open your hearts. Let’s start swimming together.

Thank you.

Madonna