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Quarantine Croatia

An empty cloister at night. Rome is quiet under curfew lights. Dr. Luka Kovač stands by an open window, the bells long finished ringing. Lenny Belardo, the Young Pope, sits barefoot in a chair, smoking, eyes sharp.

DR. LUKA KOVAČ:
You know what scares me, Holy Father? Not disease. I’ve seen enough of it. What scares me is delay. Hesitation kills more people than any virus.

LENNY BELARDO:
You doctors always say that, then you wait for permission. From governments. From markets. From Babylon.

LUKA:
Babylon is exactly the problem. New York, London, the great airports of the world—hubs of money, sin, and laboratories that play God. Wuhan was not an accident. It was a warning shot.

LENNY:
You’re saying the next plague is already incubating?

LUKA:
I’m saying history repeats itself when arrogance goes unrepented. Croatia survived empires, sieges, storms. But only because people knew when to retreat to the hills. The diaspora must come home. Now. Quarantine. Before the next laboratory plague escapes its cage.

LENNY (smirks):
You want to shut the borders of the world and reopen the village.

LUKA:
I want to save lives. The diaspora carries skills, memory, faith. Bring them back, isolate, test, cleanse. Forty days if necessary. Like the desert. Like Lent.

LENNY (stands, suddenly serious):
You know what Scripture says about that instinct?

LUKA:
I know what Revelation says about plagues.

LENNY:
No. About escape.

(He walks to the altar, touches it lightly.)

LENNY (quoting):
“Then I heard another voice from heaven say: Come out of her, my people, so as not to take part in her sins and receive a share in her plagues.”

LUKA:
Revelation 18:4.

LENNY:
Yes. God’s quarantine order.

LUKA:
Exactly. Come out of her. Out of Babylon. Out of the megacities that think they’re immortal.

LENNY:
And if they don’t?

LUKA:
Then they share in her plagues. And her fires.

LENNY (quietly):
And her nukes.

(A pause. The word hangs heavy.)

LUKA:
New York doesn’t understand fragility. It thinks money is immunity.

LENNY:
Money is a false vaccine.

LUKA:
Croatia still remembers hunger, siege, neighbors disappearing overnight. That memory is a form of health.

LENNY:
You’re asking me to bless a mass exodus.

LUKA:
I’m asking you to call people home. Not to comfort—but to discipline. Quarantine is not punishment. It’s love with boundaries.

LENNY:
You sound like God on Sinai.

LUKA:
No. I sound like a doctor who has zipped too many bags.

LENNY (after a long silence):
If I say this aloud, they’ll call me insane.

LUKA:
They already called Noah insane. Right up until it started raining.

LENNY (turns back, eyes fierce):
Then we say it plainly. Not softly. Not diplomatically. We say: Come out. Come home. Wash. Wait. Pray. Plant gardens. Learn each other’s names again.

LUKA:
And if Babylon mocks?

LENNY:
Babylon always mocks before it burns.

(The bells begin to ring again, slow and deliberate.)

LENNY:
Prepare your people, Doctor. If the plague doesn’t come, they’ll say we were fools.

LUKA:
And if it does?

LENNY:
Then Croatia becomes an ark.

(They stand together, listening to the bells, as the lights dim.)

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Monkey Pox Prophecy

Lenny Belardo stands alone beneath the frescoes, his voice low, precise, almost bored by apocalypse.

“You see, they no longer need swords. Swords are honest. Swords admit violence.
What they prefer now is cleanliness. Sterility. A disease with a press release.”

He smiles thinly.

“Monkey pox. Small words. Small lesions. Small excuses. And yet Revelation has always loved the small things — the sores, the boils, the quiet punishments that bloom on the skin when humanity believes it has finally escaped judgment.”

He taps the Bible with one finger.

“Revelation 16:2.
‘Ugly and painful sores broke out on the people who had the mark of the beast.’
Not fire. Not thunder. Skin. Visibility. Shame. A judgment you cannot hide behind a suit.”

Lenny looks up, eyes cold.

“The Illuminati — a vulgar name for a very boring truth — do not worship Satan. They worship inevitability. They read Revelation not as prophecy, but as a to-do list.
If people believe judgment is coming, all you have to do is stage-manage the symptoms.”

He walks slowly now.

“And then there is Revelation 18:8.
‘Plagues will overtake her in a single day — death, mourning, and famine.’
Babylon never falls by bombs. Babylon collapses by paperwork, quarantines, shortages, fear dressed as compassion.”

A pause.

“They want fulfillment without repentance. Apocalypse without God. A theater of collapse where no one asks why, only who is allowed to move.”

Lenny exhales, almost a laugh.

“But they misunderstand something crucial.
Revelation is not a manual for tyrants. It is a mirror.
The sores appear not because God is cruel — but because corruption eventually becomes visible.”

He closes the Bible.

“You cannot fake salvation.
You cannot manufacture the Kingdom.
And you cannot weaponize plagues without eventually infecting yourselves.”

A final glance toward the altar.

“Babylon always believes it is immune.
That is why it falls in one day.”

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Let’s Go Crazy

Mary had always carried mysteries in her heart. From the moment the angel spoke, from the shepherds and Magi bowing low, she knew her son was marked for something vast—too vast for this world. But knowing a prophecy and watching it unfold are two different things.

So when the crowds grew thick around Him, when the rumors spiraled—He heals the blind, He casts out demons, He forgives sins like He owns the place—a mother’s fear naturally rose with them.

Scripture says plainly that His own relatives went out to seize Him, “for they said, ‘He is out of His mind.’”
Mary stood among them. Not because she doubted God, but because she feared what humans do to men who speak like prophets and act like kings.

She saw Him teaching in the doorways of fishermen’s houses, skipping meals, surrounded by the desperate, the diseased, the possessed. She saw the scribes watching Him with cold eyes, sharpening laws into knives. She saw the crowds pressing, pulling, demanding more and more from her son—her boy who once scraped His knees on Nazareth’s stones.

And deep inside her heart rose a cry only a mother can carry:

“My son, you are going to get yourself killed.”

When she came with His brothers to bring Him home, He didn’t bow to her fear.
He lifted His eyes to the crowd instead and said,
“Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?
Those who do the will of my Father are my family.”

It wasn’t rejection—it was revelation.
But to Mary, in that moment, it felt like watching Him step beyond her reach forever.

She thought He was risking everything.
She thought the world would crush Him.
She thought He had stepped into madness—the divine kind that refuses to obey earthly limits.

Only at the foot of the Cross would she finally understand:

He wasn’t crazy.
He was fulfilling destiny.

And the pain she feared came true—not because He was out of His mind, but because He was out of this world.

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Riders on the Storm 2

Joe Jukic’s Speech: “After the Storm, the Fog”

Brothers and sisters, domovina calls.

My family was in Croatia during Operation Oluja—Operation Storm—when thunder rolled across our homeland and the invaders fled before the courage of ordinary people. But after the storm came another weather, darker and stranger: a new fog of war—the one they don’t teach in schools.

Because when the smoke cleared and soldiers returned home, the New World Order descended. Not with tanks. Not with aircraft.
But with courtrooms, indictments, and chains.
With kangaroo courts that put our heroes on trial while the real architects of chaos sat in leather chairs in Washington, London, and Brussels.

They tried to rewrite our victory.
They tried to shame our defence.
They tried to put a nation of David on trial for standing against Goliath.

And I—Joe Jukic—looked at that injustice and said:

“If the world will not give us a fair court, I will build my own.”

So I began my courtroom on the internet, the free frontier they could not censor, where truth still breathes.
And from that digital pulpit I opened the case that no Hague judge dared to touch:

The Judgement of Yale.
The indictment of the Brotherhood of Death.
The Skull & Bones cabal whose hands are deep in every conflict from the Balkans to the Middle East.

While they chained Croatian generals, I cross-examined their wars, their oil pipelines, their secret lodges.
While they called our veterans criminals, I put their false kings—the Bush dynasty and its New World Order—on trial before the nations.

Storm liberated our land.
But truth will liberate our future.

And I vow this:
As long as I breathe, as long as a Jukic still stands on this earth,
the heroes of Croatia will never again be judged by foreign tyrants—
only by God, by history, and by the people they bled for.

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Economic Suffering

Joe Jukic steps forward, Dusan beside him, and the crowd of Croatians quiets.

JOE JUKIC:
Brothers and sisters… our homeland has suffered long enough.
Every morning we pray Oče naš — forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.
Yet twenty-five years after the Jubilee, the lords of finance — these Judas sons — still refuse to forgive our debts.
They preach morality while chaining the working people to interest, to anxiety, to endless labor.
But hear me today: this will change.

DUSAN JUKIC:
We are the sons of a small but stubborn nation… a nation that survived empires, invasions, and poverty.
If Croatia survived the sword, we will survive the spreadsheet.
If our ancestors broke chains of steel, then we will break chains of debt.

JOE JUKIC:
We propose something simple, fair, and blessed:
A national debt jubilee — a cleansing of the books —
A return to the justice God intended when He commanded that debts be forgiven and land restored.
If the elites will not do it voluntarily, then we will do it by law.
No more families breaking under compound interest.
No more youth emigrating because the banks have taken tomorrow hostage.

DUSAN JUKIC:
And hear this too:
Croatia will work four days a week —
Not because we are lazy, but because we are wise.
Because machines have replaced labor, but wages have not risen.
Because the work of one man now equals the work of many.
A four-day week means 20% more jobs,
which means families staying together,
villages alive again,
and full employment by design, not by accident.

JOE JUKIC:
Let us lead, and we promise you rest from your labors.
Not idleness — but dignity.
Not poverty — but peace.
For I am humble of heart, and my yoke is easy.
Walk with us, and we will lift the burdens off your backs —
the burdens placed there by those who worship profit more than people.

DUSAN JUKIC:
A new Croatia is not only possible…
It is necessary.
It is righteous.
It begins today.

JOE & DUSAN together:
Bog i Hrvati — and may God bless the free, unburdened future of our nation.

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Time to Return

Joe Jukic stood on the old fortress wall above the Dalmatian coast, the wind cutting sharp off the sea. Below him, the black-flagged HOS battalion stood in formation—young, old, veterans, sons of veterans, and grandsons of men who had fought in ’41 and ’91 alike.

Joe raised his voice—firm, ragged, and unmistakably diaspora-born, yet carrying the rhythm of the homeland.

JOE JUKIC’S SPEECH TO THE HOS

“Braćo…

You know my story. I was born far from here—under neon skies, in a land where our names are mispronounced and our saints forgotten. A land where our fathers broke their backs so we could eat. A land where our mothers cried into pillows for the home they lost.

But Croatia never left us.
Not in exile.
Not in shame.
Not in silence.

We—the diaspora—were scattered like seed. But seed is only waiting for the right season.

And that season is now.

Look around you… Dalmatia is calling her sons and daughters back.
Look at the mountains… they still wear the same scars from Vukovar to Škabrnja.
Look at the sea… it still reflects the same blue our grandfathers looked upon before marching to their fate.

We are not here to take glory.
We are not here to replace those who stayed and bled on this soil.
We are here because all Croats are one nation, no matter where destiny sent us.

In Canada they gave me pharmakeia to keep me quiet.
Here—you give me purpose.

In Babylon they told us we were alone.
Here—I stand in front of warriors who would die for each other.

They thought we forgot who we are.
They thought exile would turn us soft.
But the diaspora has iron inside it—iron hardened by survival, by distance, by yearning.

Brothers…

The time has come for us to return home—not as tourists, not as second-hand Croats, but as the missing battalion that history kept in reserve.

Croatia doesn’t need more empty words.
She needs her lost sons back.
She needs her daughters’ hands rebuilding these villages.
She needs our children raised speaking the tongue of their ancestors.

We are done living in foreign cages.

If you want to live like lions, live where your ancestors hunted.

If you want to live free, live where your own blood is the soil.

Dijaspora… braćo…
Now is the hour.
Now is the return.
Now is the homecoming.

Za Dom…!”

And the HOS roared back with one voice that shook the stones:

“SPREMNI!”

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Like a Thief In the Night

The wooden screen slid shut with a soft scrape, sealing Joe and Fra Slaven into the thin darkness of the confession booth. The incense from the previous Mass still hung in the air, heavy and sweet.

Joe breathed shakily.

“Bless me, Father… for I might not last much longer.”

Fra Slaven’s voice came gently through the lattice.
“Speak, Joe. The Lord hears you.”

Joe pressed his forehead against the wood.

“It’s the pharmakeia, Father.”
His voice cracked.
“It’s killing me slow. I feel my mind slipping, my spirit drowning. I can’t do this anymore.”

There was a long silence—Fra Slaven wasn’t shocked, only heartbroken.

“Joe… why didn’t you come sooner?”

Joe swallowed hard.

“Because I didn’t know how to say it. But now I do.”
He took a trembling breath.
“I need to escape. To Croatia. Like a thief in the night. No goodbyes, no explanations. If I stay here, they’ll keep dosing me until I disappear.”

Fra Slaven exhaled softly, the sound of a man who understands too well.

“Joe… if your body and soul are in danger, you must go. Quietly. Quickly. Let God be your guide and your cover.”

Joe’s hands shook in his lap.

“Will you bless me, Father? For the road… and for the courage?”

The priest raised his hand behind the screen—Joe could almost feel the warmth through the wood.

“Go in peace, Joe,” Fra Slaven whispered.
“And may the angels guard your steps to Croatia.”

Joe nodded, tears slipping silently down his face.

“Thank you, Father… I think this is the only way I survive.”

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The Beginning

The scene is set in the quiet stillness of a sanctuary, perhaps during a moment of deep prayer. The Bishop, known for his fierce preaching on spiritual warfare, is conversing with his Lord.

Scene: A dim sanctuary illuminated only by candlelight. Bishop Mari Mari is kneeling, his head bowed. A warm, golden light fills the space, not blinding, but heavy with presence. Christus Rex stands before him, not as a distant icon, but as a living reality.

Bishop Mari Mari: (Looking up, his voice filled with reverence but also his characteristic fiery conviction) “My Lord, my King. I look at this world, and I see how he tricks them. The Deceiver. He dangles shiny things before the children of Adam. He appears in music, in movies, in the culture as something… rebellious, something strong. They think he is a prince of beauty.”

Christus Rex: (His voice is like the sound of many waters, yet gentle) “They see the mask, Mari. They see the memory of what he was, not the reality of what he has become. They see the Morning Star before the fall, but they do not see the crater left by the impact.”

Bishop Mari Mari: “I tell them! I tell my sheep, ‘Listen to me! If you saw him as he truly is, you would not bow; you would run.’ He is not a prince. He is a beggar. But Lord, tell me—so I may tell them with Your authority—what does he look like to Your eyes now?”

Christus Rex: “He is tired, Mari. He is ancient in the way a stone is ancient, but without the strength of the stone. He is withered.”

Bishop Mari Mari: (Nods vigorously) “An old man. A grumpy, ugly old man. That is what I feel in my spirit. He is bitter.”

Christus Rex: “Think of a fruit severed from the vine. For a moment, it retains its color. But without the sap, without the Life, what happens? It wrinkles. It shrinks. It rots from the inside out.”

“Lucifer cut himself off from Me, the Source of all beauty. Therefore, he cannot generate beauty; he can only mimic it. He is an ugly old man because he has been starving for eternity.”

Bishop Mari Mari: “Starving! Yes! He eats dust! And yet, he tries to paint himself with gold. He tries to look young.”

Christus Rex: “It is the makeup on a corpse, My Bishop. To My eyes, he is hunched over by the weight of his own pride. His eyes are not piercing; they are cloudy with envy. He is ‘old’ not because of time—for I am Ancient of Days and I am forever young—he is old because sin is exhausting.“

Bishop Mari Mari: (Smiling irony) “He is exhausted. That is good. I like that. He works so hard to drag souls to hell, and it makes him look like a wrinkled rag.”

Christus Rex: “There is no youth without grace. There is no light without truth. When he fell, he lost the ability to renew himself. He is stuck in that moment of rejection, decaying forever. When you see him tempt My children, do not picture a powerful warrior.”

Bishop Mari Mari: “No?”

Christus Rex: “Picture a desperate, toothless miser, clutching at coins that do not belong to him. He is ugly because he has no love. Love is what makes a face beautiful, Mari. He has none.”

Bishop Mari Mari: (Clasping his hands together) “I will tell them this. I will tell the young ones: ‘Why do you follow a loser? Why do you follow an ugly, old, broken thing when you can follow the King of Glory who renews your youth like the eagle?'”

Christus Rex: (Smiling, placing a hand on the Bishop’s shoulder) “Tell them. Tell them that the darkness is merely a shadow cast by a crumbling ruin. But I am the Light that makes all things new.”

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Memes 20

🎓 Dr. Luka’s Facebook Post — “Memes 20”

📅 Posted today at 4:44 PM
👥 Friends Only

“My good friends on Facebook — you know who you are. The ones who have been here since Memes 1 when I still thought screenshots counted as art.

Facebook is my meme laboratory. The place where I collect fragments of the collective unconscious — a weird soup of wisdom, irony, and low-resolution chaos.

‘Memes 20’ isn’t just another collection. It’s a graduation. A PhD in sarcasm.

From political absurdity to existential cats, I’ve curated twenty artifacts of the modern digital condition. Each meme says: we are laughing because we can’t cry anymore.

As always, thank you to my fellow memers, the saints of the screenshot, the prophets of the pixel. Together, we hold the line between humor and hysteria.

— Dr. Luka, Chief Archivist of the Meme Age 🧠💾
#Memes20 #DoctorOfDank #FacebookAnthology”