Mel Gibson’s Firestorm Epiphany
The acrid smell of smoke lingered in the air as Mel Gibson stood on his balcony, overlooking the scorched hills of Los Angeles. The fires had raged for weeks, consuming everything in their path—homes, dreams, and lives. Mel sipped his whiskey, the glass trembling slightly in his hand. The fire hadn’t reached his estate yet, but the sense of impending doom was palpable.
He turned to his friend, a retired firefighter named Ron, who had come to check on him. “Ron,” Mel began, his voice heavy, “who do you think benefits from all this destruction? It’s not just nature’s wrath—it feels orchestrated.”
Ron shrugged. “Insurance companies, contractors, maybe even some developers. But orchestrated? That’s a stretch.”
Mel scoffed. “Is it? Look at Trump and his billionaire buddies. Real estate moguls love a clean slate. Burn down the old, build up the new. High-density high-rises with penthouses for the oligarchs. You think they’ll be living in the ashes like the rest of us?”
Ron didn’t reply, and Mel continued, his thoughts spiraling. “They’ll be sipping martinis in their fireproof towers, laughing at us. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here in a house built on sand instead of rock. Maybe it’s time to move—to Canada, near JCJ. At least he’s grounded.”
Ron raised an eyebrow. “Canada? You’d trade LA for snow and moose?”
Mel chuckled. “Why not? I don’t want to live in a neighborhood full of Madonna and her liberal entourage. I want peace. JCJ’s up there doing good, building community. Meanwhile, down here, it’s just greed and flames.”
Ron leaned against the railing, watching the distant glow of the fires. “You really think Trump’s behind this?”
Mel nodded. “If not him, then someone like him. The fires clear the way for their vision of the future. High-rises, smart cities, controlled living. The oligarchs don’t see homes—they see profit margins. And Trump, the ultimate dealmaker, would love to rebuild LA in his image.”
Ron sighed. “You’ve got a vivid imagination, Mel.”
“Imagination?” Mel’s eyes burned with conviction. “This city’s on fire, Ron. And I’m not just talking about the flames. It’s greed, corruption, and the pursuit of power. If I stay here, I’ll burn with it. Canada’s looking better every day.”
Ron placed a reassuring hand on Mel’s shoulder. “Wherever you go, just make sure it’s not running away. Make it a stand for something better.”
Mel nodded, staring into the horizon. “You’re right. If I move, it won’t be out of fear—it’ll be for a fresh start. But one thing’s for sure: I’m done playing their game. Whether it’s Trump, Madonna, or any of them, I won’t be a pawn in their empire of sand.”
As the fires crackled in the distance, Mel felt a strange sense of clarity. He might not have all the answers, but he knew one thing—he wouldn’t let the flames consume his soul.
Mel Gibson chuckled as he paced the charred remains of his patio, phone in hand, the smoky Los Angeles skyline fading into dusk. Madonna’s voice on the other end was light but insistent.
“Mel, listen to me,” she said. “Jelly thinks we should all be neighbors in East Vancouver. You on the right, me on the left. Safety in numbers, you know? And besides, the studio’s just a sky train ride away. They’ve got the best green screen for your Resurrection movie. It’s perfect.”
Mel paused, staring out at the scorched hills. “East Vancouver, huh? So, I’d be trading wildfires for rain and sky trains?”
“Rain is cleansing,” Madonna quipped. “And sky trains are efficient. It’s not about the weather, Mel—it’s about community. You and Jelly both believe in Ned Flanders’… what did you call it? Revelation gibberish? You’d have your sanctuary, and I’d be there to keep things balanced.”
Mel smirked, rubbing his temple. “Sanctuary? From what, Madonna? The oligarchs? The fires? Or the Hollywood machine that keeps churning out this madness?”
“All of it,” she replied firmly. “You’ve been talking about moving for years. This is your chance to do it right. East Van is up-and-coming. Diverse, artistic, and far enough from the chaos. Plus, I hear Jelly’s got big plans for that area. You could be part of something meaningful.”
Mel sighed, the weight of the decision pressing on him. “And what about you, Madonna? Why would you leave LA? You’ve got your empire here.”
“Empires are overrated,” she said with a laugh. “I’m looking for something real. And Jelly’s vision for community—it resonates with me. Besides, I’ve got kids to think about. They need to grow up in a place where people care about each other, not just about profit margins.”
Mel looked down at the soot-covered ground beneath his feet. “You think East Vancouver’s the answer?”
“I think it’s a start,” Madonna said softly. “And with you there, with Jelly, it could be something extraordinary. Think about it, Mel. A fresh start. A green screen for your masterpiece. And neighbors who actually have your back.”
Mel chuckled again, shaking his head. “You’re persuasive, I’ll give you that. But I’ll need more than a green screen to convince me.”
“Then come and see for yourself,” Madonna urged. “You might just find what you’re looking for.”
As the call ended, Mel stood in the smoky twilight, the weight of the decision heavy on his shoulders. East Vancouver, with its promise of community and creative freedom, loomed large in his mind. Perhaps it was time to leave the sand behind and build something new—on rock.
Joe and Nelly sat with Mel and Madonna in a quiet café, the conversation heavy with the weight of unfulfilled dreams. The faint hum of city life outside contrasted sharply with the urgency in their voices.
“We had big plans for East Vancouver,” Joe began, his tone a mix of frustration and determination. “A pollution-free electric avenue for stars like Lady Gaga, where the sick could heal and the creative could thrive. But if the stars won’t align, we might have to leave it all behind.”
Nelly nodded, her eyes meeting Madonna’s. “We’ve been thinking about Europe. Somewhere we can breathe, think, and create without being watched every second or drugged into submission by an oppressive government. The CBC idiot box isn’t our idea of freedom.”
Madonna frowned, her concern evident. “Europe? That’s a big move. What about the community you wanted to build here? The electric avenue? The vision for something better?”
Nelly sighed. “We want that, Madonna. We really do. But how can we build something meaningful when the system is designed to keep us down? They don’t want us to succeed. They want us distracted, compliant, and medicated.”
Mel leaned back, his arms crossed. “I get it. I’ve been fighting the machine my whole life. But running away? Is that really the answer? What about standing your ground and making them listen?”
Joe shook his head. “We’ve tried, Mel. Protests, petitions, even pitching our ideas to the city council. But every time, it’s the same. Roadblocks, bureaucracy, and a system that values profits over people. Europe might not be perfect, but at least we’d have a chance to start fresh.”
Madonna leaned forward, her voice soft but firm. “You’re not wrong about the challenges here. But leaving won’t fix what’s broken. If everyone with a vision leaves, who’s left to fight for change?”
Nelly hesitated, her resolve wavering. “It’s not just about us, Madonna. It’s about survival. We can’t create if we’re constantly being dragged down. Maybe Europe is where we need to be to make a difference.”
Mel glanced at Joe, a hint of understanding in his eyes. “If you go, you better make it count. Don’t let the system win, no matter where you are. And if you ever decide to come back, we’ll be here, fighting the good fight.”
Joe and Nelly exchanged a glance, their decision not yet final but their resolve clear. The dream of East Vancouver’s electric avenue remained, but the pull of Europe’s promise loomed large. For now, all they could do was hope the stars would align—or prepare to forge a new path elsewhere.
Mel leaned back in his chair, a sly grin spreading across his face as he let out a distinctly French laugh. “Ha-ha! You know, I was in Who Killed the Electric Car?,” he said, swirling his espresso for dramatic effect. “I dream of an electric avenue too. A place where the air is clean, the streets are alive, and creativity flows like wine in Provence.”
He paused, his grin fading into a more serious expression. “But let’s be real here. I’ve put all my chips on Jim Caviezel—JC. He’s the one I’ve bet on to be the new messiah. The guy’s got the gravitas, the faith, and the conviction. I mean, The Passion of the Christ? That wasn’t just a movie; it was a movement.”
Nelly raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. “And what about JCJ? My old dance partner? He’s not exactly Jim Caviezel, but he’s got heart. He’s got vision. Just because he’s not a Hollywood name doesn’t mean he’s a nobody.”
Mel chuckled, shaking his head. “Nelly, JCJ might have heart, but Hollywood doesn’t run on heart. It runs on star power, on charisma, on… well, on box office returns. And Jim? He’s got that in spades. JCJ? He’s still finding his footing. I’m not saying he can’t make an impact, but let’s face it—he’s not carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders like Jim is.”
Joe crossed his arms, his expression firm. “Maybe JCJ doesn’t need to be a Hollywood messiah. Maybe his impact isn’t about the spotlight. It’s about the people he inspires, the dreams he helps create, and the change he’s trying to make—electric avenue or not.”
Mel gave a half-smile, tipping his espresso cup toward Joe. “Fair enough, Joe. Fair enough. But if you’re betting on a messiah for the big screen, my money’s still on Jim. He’s got the chops, the faith, and the fire. JCJ? Let’s see if he can turn that spark into a flame.”
Nelly leaned back, a small smile playing on her lips. “Maybe the world needs both. A big-screen messiah and a grassroots dreamer. Who says we can’t have it all?”
Mel laughed again, raising his cup. “To electric avenues and unexpected messiahs. May the best JC win.”
I built more of Maccabees in an hour than Joe Esterhaus did in a year.
https://www.melgibson.site/the-hammer-of-god/
embrace the AI Mel, don’t be a neo luddite.