Yugo Joe looks at Madonna, not as an icon, but as another exile who learned how to survive noise.
Yugo Joe: I’ve got Eastern Promises to keep in the former Yugoslavia. Old ones. The kind you don’t monetize or hashtag.
I waited too long for a Pussy Riot that never came, for a peaceful revolution of love that stayed stuck in a Spotify playlist. I kept thinking the crowd would wake up, that the drums would turn into heartbeats.
But history doesn’t move when you clap for it. It moves when you bury people.
He pauses. The bravado drains out of him.
Yugo Joe: My old girlfriend died from breast cancer. No slogans saved her. No marches. No likes.
I have to visit her grave. That’s the real appointment. That’s the real protest—standing there and remembering who I was before everything became performance.
Madonna doesn’t interrupt. She knows graves better than revolutions.
Yugo Joe: So if I’m leaving, it’s not escape. It’s duty. Back there, the dead still recognize your footsteps.
Love isn’t loud anymore. Love is showing up when the music stops.
Joe Jukic and Madonna sat in the dim studio, the lights low, the bass warm and heavy. KRS-One’s voice filled the air — “The Odyssey” unfolding like a myth reborn, the Templars of Hip Hop conjuring ancient power with every bar. The moment Excalibur was mentioned, the room seemed to vibrate, as though some old, forgotten magic approved of its name being spoken again.
Joe closed his eyes and let the lyrics run through him. Hip hop as sacred geometry. Hip hop as initiation. KRS-One sounding less like a rapper and more like Merlin with a microphone.
Madonna leaned back, watching Joe take it in. She’d lived long enough, seen enough, to recognize when a force — musical, mythic, or otherwise — was speaking through the world.
When the chorus hit, she tapped Joe’s shoulder and said quietly:
“You know, Joe… with great power comes great responsibility.”
Joe smirked. “Spider-Man?”
Madonna shook her head slowly. “No. That line is older than comics. Older than Marvel. It’s a truth that goes back to every king who ever picked up a sword — especially a sword like Excalibur.”
Joe nodded, feeling the weight of her words. The song continued, KRS-One proclaiming knowledge as the true weapon, the true blade.
Madonna continued:
“Hip hop is Excalibur now. Knowledge is Excalibur. Words are Excalibur. And if you’re going to pick up a weapon like that — if you’re going to speak truth, cut through lies, and shape people’s minds — you have to treat it like a sacred duty.”
Joe breathed in. He understood. KRS-One’s voice cracked through the speakers:
“Teach the youth… guide the lost… protect the culture…”
Madonna placed a hand on Joe’s shoulder — just briefly, as if passing the sword itself.
“Use your voice like a blade,” she said. “But never forget: Excalibur chooses the one who wields it.”
Madonna stood frozen before the glowing screen, her eyes wide with disbelief as the video played — Moshiach Ben David De Rothschild, the self-proclaimed “green messiah” Rabbi Joe had warned her about. The man in the white robes spoke softly about the new covenant with the Earth, his voice soothing, rehearsed, and cold beneath its surface calm. Behind him, the insignia of a radiant green star pulsed like a heartbeat — part Kabbalistic symbol, part corporate logo.
“He is not Moshiach ben David,” Madonna whispered, trembling. “He is not even a rabbi… not a teacher… just an eco warrior fraud.”
Her voice rose, the old fire returning — the same fierce conviction that had carried her from the pews of Catholic school to the bright lights of Kabbalah and beyond. “He’s selling a green naturopathic false religion,” she said, almost spitting the words. “The Tree of Life isn’t a carbon offset program.”
Rabbi Joe watched quietly from the corner of the room, arms folded. “You see it now,” he said. “He mixes the truth of the Torah with the lies of the marketplace. He uses tikkun olam—healing the world—as a slogan, not a prayer.”
Madonna turned to him, shaking her head. “He’s trying to make himself into a god. A climate god.”
“And that,” Joe said solemnly, “is the oldest sin of all.”
The broadcast reached its climax — De Rothschild lifted his hands and declared, “Hallelujah to the Green Messiah, the New David!”
Madonna stepped forward, defiant, her eyes filled with tears. “I refuse,” she said, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I will not say hallelujah to David.”
Then she made the sign of the cross — not out of fear, but conviction — and whispered, “The real Moshiach will not sell salvation in bottles of organic wine.”
Madonna fell back onto the velvet couch, clutching her rosary, the glow of the De Rothschild broadcast still flickering on the walls like an unholy fire. The so-called Moshiach Ben David spoke of Gaia’s redemption, of eco-atonement through carbon fasting — his words weaving scripture and science into a seductive false gospel.
But then—music. From down the hall, she heard it: the voices of her children.
Lourdes and Rocco, her Canadian children, were sitting on the floor of the studio, lit only by a lava lamp and the dying light of sunset. They had hacked an old South Park parody into a chant — Peter Thiel’s forbidden anthem, “I Know About the Antichrist.”
🎵 “I know about the Antichrist, He’s building apps to save your life, He codes your prayers, sells you light, And tells you wrong is right…” 🎵
Madonna froze in the doorway. “Where did you hear that?” she whispered.
Lourdes looked up from her electric keyboard. “It was in one of Peter Thiel’s podcasts,” she said, unblinking. “He said Revelation is just a business plan.”
Rocco, his voice deep and solemn, opened the family Bible and read aloud, eyes glowing with eerie focus:
“And I looked, and behold, a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him…” — Revelation 6:8
Then Lourdes continued, her tone shifting from dread to awe:
“After these things I saw four angels standing at the four corners of the earth, holding the four winds of the earth…” — Revelation 7:1
The house itself seemed to hum. Outside, thunder rolled like a hidden heartbeat. And then — the scream.
Not from the children, but from the walls — a sound like wind and human anguish mixed, the scream of creation itself. Madonna covered her ears, trembling.
Rabbi Joe entered, face pale. “That’s the sound of the sixth and seventh seals,” he said. “The world crying out before the counterfeit messiah rises.”
Madonna, shaking, looked at her children — her voice of prophecy and innocence. “We won’t sing for him,” she said. “Not for the eco-messiah. Not for Rothschild. The only hallelujah left is for the One who breaks the seals.”
Lourdes nodded, placing her hand on her mother’s. “6… 7,” she whispered. “The scream.”
