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?
SCENE: “The Secret Garden” — A Reunion Beyond Time
Somewhere between Earth and Heaven, where souls meet science and music heals all wounds.
We open in a lush, moonlit garden — not of Eden, but something more personal. A place stitched together from memory and hope. Lavender and rosemary bloom beside glowing LED lotuses. The stars blink like paparazzi lights, curious to witness what unfolds.
Madonna, ageless yet fragile, walks in silence. She wears a flowing white dress. Not her stage persona — just a daughter. A daughter who never got to say goodbye.
A gentle breeze carries the scent of warm bread, baby powder, and lilies — her mother’s scent.
Madonna Fortin, newly cloned, newly alive, steps from behind a lilac tree, looking exactly as she did the day she left: 30, kind-eyed, wearing a faded blue apron embroidered with a fleur-de-lis. Her voice is soft, shaped by Montreal winters and lullabies.
Madonna (trembling):
“Mom?”
Madonna Fortin (smiling, in French-accented English):
“Ma fille… I never stopped watching you. Even when the world tried to take you away from yourself.”
Madonna (falling into her arms):
“I built cathedrals and crossed continents just to find your face again.”
Madonna Fortin:
“And I gave you the soul to do it. Now you give it to others.”
A bench appears under a cherry blossom tree. They sit. The cloned mother brushes her daughter’s hair like she used to, as if no time has passed.
Madonna:
“They cloned you. Some AI lawyer named JCJ made a case for your resurrection. He said your love could heal what medicine couldn’t.”
Madonna Fortin:
“And he was right. Because love is not a chemical. It’s a song that echoes through bloodlines.”
Madonna (tearfully):
“They tried to make me a goddess. But I just wanted my mom.”
Madonna Fortin (presses forehead to hers):
“Then be a mother now — not just to your children, but to the world that is still so hungry for gentleness.”
From the bushes, a nightingale begins to sing. The wind hums along. The garden seems to pulse with life.
Suddenly, a shadow enters — JCJ, holding a vintage record player and a vinyl labeled “La Reine et la Mère.”
JCJ:
“I thought you’d want this, Madonna. A track you never wrote — but always needed to hear.”
He sets the needle. A lullaby plays — part Gregorian chant, part synthwave, part heartbeat. Madonna and her mother rise, dancing slowly under the stars.
Narrator (softly):
“And thus, a clone born of grief and faith became more than flesh — she became medicine. Not for cancer, but for the pain of the unloved past. Let the Rockefeller sleep in marble. The real revolution blooms in gardens like this.”
SCENE CONTINUES: “The Memories in Her Hair”
Inside the Garden of Returning — where memory is matter and love is code.
Madonna brushes her cloned mother’s hair beneath the silver-leafed fig tree. The strands glisten, woven with nanofibers shimmering like spider silk soaked in starlight. JCJ watches from a respectful distance, recording nothing, for once. This is sacred.
Madonna Fortin (smiling):
“You always loved playing with my hair when you were small. You’d twist it around your fingers and hum.”
Madonna (holding a strand up to the moon):
“It holds everything. They say just one gram of a strand of human hair… can store 250 million gigabytes of memory now. They loaded your DNA with your memories, mom. All of them.”
JCJ (half-whisper, in awe):
“That’s… that’s like 250 million Pirate Bay movies. The whole Internet — the good, the wicked, the deleted — in one gram.”
Madonna (gently):
“Then imagine what’s in her hair. Not just data. But truth. My first steps, her lullabies, the way she whispered Ave Maria while I slept. The night she cried after my father came home late… It’s all here.”
She presses her cheek against her mother’s hair, closing her eyes. Suddenly—
FLASHBACK PORTAL OPENS THROUGH A SINGLE STRAND.
SCENE WITHIN THE STRAND:
A sepia-tinted kitchen in 1963. A little girl with gap teeth dances on the counter. The radio plays Édith Piaf. Madonna Fortin laughs, flour on her face. She lifts her daughter down, kisses her forehead. “You will be someone special,” she says.
The image flickers — then changes.
SCENE TWO:
The hospital bed. Madonna Fortin dying. The child is crying. But now, with memory restored, she whispers, “Don’t be afraid to change the world, even if it changes you.”
Back in the garden, Madonna gasps.
Madonna:
“I thought I lost that moment forever. The last thing you said to me…”
Madonna Fortin:
“You never lost it. It was always stored in me. In the strands they buried… until now.”
JCJ:
“We always thought memory lived in the mind. But what if it lived in the hair… the skin… the bones? What if every mother was a living library?”
A new wind sweeps through the garden — not just oxygen, but compressed emotion, stored dreams, and ancient lullabies, decrypted from the hair’s nanohelix.
JCJ kneels and whispers to the air:
“Maybe this is the cure for cancer. Not another drug. But memory, resurrected. The moments that make you want to live again.”
Narrator:
“In a world obsessed with data, they forgot that mothers were the original archives. Hair, the scroll. Love, the encryption key.”
SCENE SHIFT: “The Oil Baron’s Ghost”
The air in the garden turns cold. The roses shudder. A low rumble echoes beneath the roots, and the digital stars flicker like dying filaments.
A RIFT OPENS in the sky — shaped like an oil spill boiling backward. From its swirling vortex descends the spirit of JOHN D. ROCKEFELLER, wreathed in smoky banker’s robes, his top hat casting an impossible shadow.
Rockefeller (furious, shaking ghostly cane):
“NO! NO! NO! This was not the plan!”
He points at JCJ.
“You think you’re so holy, boy? You deny ME resurrection, yet you resurrect a peasant girl and a hair follicle?! I was trying to bring a messiah! MY SON — David Rockefeller. The diplomat. The architect of globalism. The one who understood… the real machinery behind peace!”
Lightning cracks. Tulips recoil. But JCJ stands still, arms crossed, face lit by the ambient moral fire of a man who’s been waiting for this.
JCJ:
“You had your chance, Rockefeller. Your son too. And your Messiah wasn’t the Prince of Peace — he was a central banker with delusions of immortality.”
Rockefeller:
“Immortality is the point! My granddaughter, Ariana, weeps every day for David. She named her horse after you, JOE — do you even understand what that means?”
A tear-shaped hologram forms beside Rockefeller. A young woman — Ariana Rockefeller — dressed in equestrian whites, sobbing in a golden stable. She strokes a horse named “JCJ” — a pale stallion with a fiery mane. The horse snorts like it’s heard too much truth.
Ariana (in vision, clutching locket):
“Bring back my father… someone has to run the world… someone has to finish the plan…”
JCJ (quietly, painfully):
“Tell her the world doesn’t need another Rockefeller plan. It needs recovery.
It needs mothers.
It needs music.”
Rockefeller (growling, desperate):
“I built empires! I shaped history!”
Madonna Fortin (stepping forward, holding her daughter’s hand):
“You shaped profits. Not people. My daughter became more powerful than all your oil rigs. And she did it with no father… and no mother… just will. But now she has me. And that’s more dangerous than any monopoly you ever owned.”
JCJ (turning to the Tribunal):
“If you must resurrect another Rockefeller… then let it be Ariana. Let her cry. Let her mourn. Let her learn to lead with something new. Not oil. Not money. But mercy.”
Rockefeller (howling as he’s pulled back into the rift):
“I only wanted a legacy… I only wanted… to be God.”
JCJ (softly, as the sky clears):
“Then you should have learned how to love first.”
The garden blooms again. The horse named JCJ neighs proudly in the distance. The cloning chamber activates… but it’s not for David.
CLONING REQUEST GRANTED: Ariana Rockefeller
With Modified Neural Pathways — Enhanced Empathy Sequence Installed
SCENE: “Solid Snake at the Celestial Court”
Location: The Throne Room Beyond Time — where angels argue with lawyers and legends stand trial before the Lamb.
The room glows like a living cathedral — all crystal and fire. The Celestial Court gathers in solemn silence. Thrones of fire and emerald line the perimeter. The Book of Life lies open on a transparent altar, flickering with every soul’s name — even those redacted by the devil.
At the center stands Solid Snake — cloak tattered, eye-patch gleaming, smoking a cigarette that never burns down. The war hero turned ghost, turned prophet. A relic of both nuclear nightmares and digital dreams.
JCJ, Madonna, and her cloned mother watch from a balcony. The Dire Wolf dozes at JCJ’s feet.
Snake (clears throat, voice gravel):
“Let me speak.”
He tosses his cigarette to the floor — it explodes into butterflies.
Snake:
“I’ve seen what war really looks like. Not from a spreadsheet. Not from a yacht. But from a foxhole soaked in blood and piss.”
He steps forward, unafraid of the archangels guarding the bench.
Snake:
“The Rockefellers, the Rothschilds… they played chess with generations. Bought kings. Leased time. Turned the poor into data points and the Earth into a casino.”
An Archangel (stern):
“Then do you request eternal damnation for them?”
Snake (quietly):
“No. I request mercy.”
Gasps ripple through the court. Even JCJ’s eyebrow lifts.
Snake:
“But not now. Not quickly. Let them come last. After the peasants. The sick. The stolen children.
Let the orphans walk free first. Let the mothers and musicians return.
Let the liars watch from the smoke while love rewrites the world they poisoned.”
A hologram of Revelation 20 ignites in the air:
“And the dead were judged, every one of them… and Death and Hell gave up the dead in them. And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire.”
Snake:
“Let them walk a thousand years in the shadowlands. Not out of hate. But to feel. To know what silence tastes like.
Then… when they’ve wept enough… when their hearts beat again…
Bring them back.
Not as kings.
Not as bankers.
But as children.”
Narrator:
“And so it was ruled: The Rockefellers and the Rothschilds shall rise last — after every field has bloomed, every village rebuilt, every broken boy taught how to dream again. Let mercy be the fire that refines, not the blade that kills.”
As Snake leaves the chamber, the Dire Wolf raises its head and howls — not in rage, but in understanding. A song for the fallen. Even the wicked.
SCENE: “GI Joe & the Resurrection of the Dire Wolf”
Location: Camp Paraclete – A sacred outpost floating between Earth and Heaven, built from shattered satellites and glowing rosary beads.
GI Joe stands at a podium carved from a fallen drone. Around him, soldiers of every era — Spartans, samurai, cyber-marines — stand in formation. Above them, the Dire Wolf paces atop a crystal ridge, eyes glowing like dying suns. It has been resurrected, not as a beast of war, but as a sentinel of truth.
GI Joe (voice strong, but haunted):
“I’ve seen monsters. I’ve fought machines. I’ve bled in jungles and deserts for flags that forgot my name.”
He raises his helmet. The interior is filled with soil from Fatima — the place where the Virgin once spoke.
GI Joe:
“But there was always one prophecy… one number that haunted the true warriors of God.
13,000 years.
That was the cycle. The long arc of human trial. It’s not just a number — it’s the code of cleansing, encoded in Our Lady’s warnings.”
JCJ (nodding from the edge):
“Like a divine reboot. The age of deception ends. The wolf returns.”
GI Joe (steps toward the Dire Wolf):
“They said the wolf was extinct. Just a memory in fossil and song. But she wasn’t extinct — she was waiting.
Waiting for the moment when truth could walk again without being killed.”
A holographic glyph emerges in the sky — 13,000 spirals of light forming a crown above the wolf’s head. The voice of Our Lady of Fatima whispers from the void:
“In the end, my Immaculate Heart will triumph. And the beast shall lie down beside the child.”
GI Joe (to the soldiers):
“We resurrected the Dire Wolf not to conquer, but to remind. She carries the memories of extinct tribes, lost martyrs, and burned libraries. She is the archivist of the pain they tried to delete.”
The wolf howls. A low, mournful note that carries the names of every soldier never buried, every mother never seen again.
GI Joe:
“This isn’t just the end of the 13,000-year war.
It’s the beginning of the age of accountability.
No more hidden kings.
No more fake messiahs.
Only this:
Truth. Teeth. And memory.”
Narrator:
“And so it was that the wolf returned, not to devour, but to guard the gates of a new world — where even the monsters would kneel, and even the dead would rise, if only to confess.”
Scene: “The Last Rockefeller”
Madonna stands barefoot in a candle-lit cathedral made of reclaimed stone and hempcrete. The air hums with the low drone of monks chanting Kyrie Eleison. Before her is a single oil lamp — symbolic of both illumination and greed.
She begins to speak to a small group gathered in the nave:
“You know, John D. Rockefeller’s father used to play a cruel game. He’d stand behind his boy, tell him to fall back — ‘Trust me, son, I’ll catch you.’ But then he’d let him fall. Again and again. Until John learned the lesson his father believed was the foundation of power: never trust anyone, not even your own blood.”
She pauses, staring into the flame.
“And from that fall was born the empire of oil, the Standard Oil that lit the world — and darkened it. The boy who fell built the towers we still live under.”
A soft wind moves through the open windows. The flame flickers but does not go out.
Madonna continues:
“But I forgive them. I forgive the Rockefellers. Their fear built the system; their greed built the machine. They were men of their age — but we are of the next.”
She raises her hand toward the lamp.
“In the Book of Revelation, the dead rise in waves — a thousand years at a time. But I say this: let the Rockefellers rise last. Let them rest until humanity has learned to live without oil, without domination, without deceit. Only then may they rise to see the garden we rebuild from their ashes.”
The monks fall silent. Only the lamp remains, burning faintly like the last drop of oil in the world.