Greta Thunberg VS Global Warming

THE TRUTH

is written in revelation 16:8

Setting: The Vatican gardens. Pope Pius XIII is walking slowly, flanked by a visibly tense Mel Gibson and a skeptical, arms-crossed Greta Thunberg. The Pope gestures with a bony finger not at the flowers, but at the vast lawns.

Pope Pius XIII: (His voice a soft, chilling monotone) Behold the heresy. The great, green heresy.

Mel Gibson: (Nodding intensely, searching the lawn for meaning) The… grass, Your Holiness?

Greta Thunberg: It’s a monoculture. It has almost zero biodiversity and is often maintained with pesticides and fossil-fuel-powered mowers. It is a problem.

Pope Pius XIII: (A faint, approving smile at Greta) The child sees the symptom. But the sin is deeper. It is the sin of control. Of dominating Creation to impose a bland, pointless order. They mow. They cut. They manicure the world God made wild and purposefully chaotic. They are rehearsing for Eden with shears and two-stroke engines.

Mel Gibson: (Eyes wide with revelation) My God… the endless Saturdays… all that roaring and trimming… it’s a ritual of vanity!

Pope Pius XIII: Precisely. It is the “work of their hands” that they must repent of. As it is written. But the prophecy is even more precise. Revelation 16:8. “The fourth angel poured out his bowl on the sun, and it was allowed to scorch people with fire.”

Greta Thunberg: A metaphorical text about divine wrath. I’m talking about atmospheric physics. The greenhouse effect is caused by excess carbon dioxide, methane—

Pope Pius XIII: (Cuts her off, not with anger, but with an unshakable certainty) —is caused by the collective sin of mankind’s arrogance. The science you cite is merely the physical measurement of a spiritual decay. God told us the sun would scorch us. It is happening. You measure the how. I am explaining the why.

Mel Gibson: So the plague is already upon us… and we’re mowing our lawns…

Pope Pius XIII: And cutting down the very lungs of the planet. Every tree felled is a hymn unsung. But God, in his mercy, provides not just a warning, but the tools for penance. We must put away the work of our destructive hands. We must take up the work of restorative hands.

Greta Thunberg: And what work is that? Prayer?

Pope Pius XIII: (Stops and turns to face them both, his eyes burning with a surreal fervor) Industrial hemp. And bamboo.

(A long silence. Mel Gibson looks confused. Greta looks incredulous.)

Greta Thunberg: …What?

Pope Pius XIII: They are the rod and the staff. They are the swiftest, most voracious devourers of the CO2 that hangs in our atmosphere like a shroud. They are Genesis, chapter one, verse 29: “I give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of the whole earth.” He gave us these specific plants for this specific hour. We must cover the earth in them. Let the hemp swallow the carbon sin. Let the bamboo towers rise as new cathedrals of penance. We will atone for the felling of trees by planting a forest that grows in a single season.

Mel Gibson: (Whispering, awestruck) A sacrament… farming as a sacrament…

Greta Thunberg: This is… an oversimplification. A dangerous one. We need systemic change in our energy, transportation, and industrial systems. We can’t just… plant our way out of this. It’s one tool in a toolbox that needs to be massive!

Pope Pius XIII: You speak of changing systems. I speak of changing souls. A man who spends his day harvesting hemp for cloth, for brick, for food, and for sucking the poison from the air… his soul is changed. He sees his purpose. He is no longer a consumer; he is a restorer. This is the repentance. To stop cutting, and to start growing. The prophecy of the scorching sun is real. The solution is written in the same divine logic. We will not negotiate with emissions. We will exorcise them.

(He turns his back on the manicured lawn and gestures toward a small, wild patch where a few tall, weedy plants grow.)

Pope Pius XIII: Let the lawns die. Let the parking lots crack. Let the hemp and the bamboo break through the concrete and swallow the cities. It is not a policy. It is a liturgy. And it begins now.

(Mel Gibson gets down on one knee and makes the sign of the cross. Greta Thunberg just stares, her mouth slightly agape, utterly unable to process the theological-scientific-agrarian surrealism she has just witnessed.)

What do you think of this post?
  • Awesome (0)
  • Interesting (0)
  • Useful (0)
  • Boring (0)
  • Sucks (0)

APOCALYPTO 2: MACHU PICCHU

Logline: As the Spanish scourge descends upon the cloud-shrouded citadel of Machu Picchu, a humble corn grinder must become a warrior to reclaim his people’s stolen future—the sacred seeds of life—from the steel-clad invaders before the final sunset of the Inca Empire.

Director: Mel Gibson
Screenplay: Mel Gibson & Nick Romero

Principal Cast:

  • Nick Romero as Achiq (The Sower), a low-born puric (commoner) whose family has tended the sacred corn terraces of Machu Picchu for generations. He is a man of the earth, not a warrior, but possesses an unmatched knowledge of the mountain paths.
  • Joe Jukic as Captain Valerio De La Cruz, a hardened, veteran conquistador. Pragmatic, weary, and driven not by gold alone, but by a desperate need to secure a viable food source for a failing Spanish colony. He sees the Inca granaries as a strategic prize.
  • Tony Medeiros as Father Mateo, a zealous Dominican friar. Where Valerio sees sustenance, Mateo sees blasphemy. He believes the “pagan” seeds, housed in a “demon’s ziggurat,” must be seized and the structure sanctified with Christian blood.
  • Special Appearance: Qhapaq Inka Tupac (The Emperor), a divine ruler caught between prophecy and a crumbling reality, portrayed with serene and tragic gravitas.

TREATMENT

ACT I: THE CLOUD FORTRESS

The film opens not with dialogue, but with the rhythmic, hypnotic sound of stone on stone. NICK ROMERO as ACHIQ, his hands calloused and sure, grinds maize in a ritual as old as his people. We are high in the Andes, in the breathtaking, mist-enshrouded citadel of Machu Picchu. It is a city of stone and sky, a marvel of engineering and faith. Achiq is not a warrior or a priest, but a puric—the backbone of the empire. His world is his family, his terraces, and the sacred corn, the lifeblood of the Inca.

We are introduced to the Sapa Inca, Tupac, the emperor. He is not a tyrant, but a revered, almost ethereal figure, presiding over rituals at the “Ziggurat”—the film’s dramatic name for the central religious complex of Machu Picchu, which houses the Imperial Granary. This granary is not just a storehouse; it is a temple, containing the ancestral seeds of every strain of corn, a genetic and spiritual library of the civilization.

Meanwhile, a ragged but deadly band of Spanish conquistadors, led by JOE JUKIC as CAPTAIN VALERIO, ascends the treacherous slopes. They are not the shiny, confident invaders of legend. They are haunted, starving, and riddled with disease. With them is TONY MEDEIROS as FATHER MATEO, whose eyes burn with a feverish need to eradicate the “idolatry” he sees in every carved stone. Valerio has heard tales of an “unconquerable city in the clouds” and, more importantly, its legendary stores of food that could save his men.

Using guile and the terrifying novelty of their steel and horses, they find a secret entrance. Under the cover of a moonless night, while the Emperor sleeps in his palace, guarded by traditional warriors unprepared for this new kind of foe, the Spaniards infiltrate the heart of the city. In a sequence of intense, quiet horror, they bypass the slumbering guards and breach the granary. They ignore gold and jewels, instead stuffing their sacks and satchels with the priceless, multi-colored corn seeds. As they flee, Father Mateo, in an act of profound desecration, sets a small fire at the altar of the granary.

The discovery at dawn is catastrophic. The Emperor is shamed, his divine protection proven fallible. The priesthood is in chaos. The theft of the seeds is not just a loss of food; it is the theft of their future, their connection to the sun god Inti. In the ensuing frenzy, Achiq’s small son is accidentally trampled by panicked nobles. His wife screams, “They have taken our tomorrow!”

Achiq, cradling his dead child, looks from his family’s tragedy to the plundered granary. A primal fury ignites within him. He is no longer a grinder of corn, but a sower of vengeance. He knows every hidden trail, every waterfall and canyon of the sacred valley. While the Inca army prepares for a conventional war, Achiq grabs a simple bolas and a farmer’s knife. He does not seek to defend the empire; he seeks to reclaim its soul. He slips out of the city, a shadow against the stone, beginning a one-man pursuit.

ACT II: THE HUNTED BECOMES THE HUNTER

The Spaniards believe their escape is assured. They are wrong. They are now in Achiq’s world. The descent from Machu Picchu becomes a gauntlet of terror.

Valerio, the pragmatic soldier, wants only to get the seeds back to the colony. Father Mateo, however, is slowly losing his mind, seeing demons in the swirling mists and interpreting every setback as a divine test. The tension between the two Spaniards boils over, fracturing their command.

Achiq does not engage them head-on. He is a ghost.

  • He uses a bolas to trip a scout, sending him screaming into a deep ravine.
  • He triggers a rockslide, burying two conquistadors and their precious sacks of seeds, which are lost forever.
  • He uses animal calls to lure a soldier away from the group, dispatching him silently with his farming tool.

His attacks are not just kills; they are reclamations. After each ambush, he carefully retrieves any pouches of seeds he can find, tying them to his own belt. Each seed pouch is a life regained.

The Inca army, led by a proud general, engages the Spaniards in a pitched battle on a stone bridge. It is a spectacular, brutal sequence in the classic Gibson style: spears against pikes, slings against crossbows. The Spanish firepower and steel eventually win the day, but at a great cost, scattering the remaining seeds and further decimating their numbers.

Achiq watches this battle from the cliffs above, realizing the folly of fighting the invaders on their terms. His way—the way of the hunter, the guerrilla—is the only way. He tracks the now-decimated Spanish band, now just Valerio, a terrified Father Mateo, and a handful of the hardiest survivors, to a sacred river at the base of the valley.

ACT III: THE FALL OF THE MOUNTAIN

Valerio, cornered and desperate, makes a final stand at the river, using the last of their gunpowder to create a defensive position. Father Mateo, in his madness, begins baptizing the remaining seeds in the river, shouting prayers in Latin, believing he is cleansing them of evil.

Achiq does not attack from the front. He dives into the raging, icy water, a creature of pure instinct. He surfaces amidst the Spaniards, creating chaos. In the ensuing melee, it becomes a personal duel.

Achiq confronts Father Mateo, who holds the last, largest sack of the ancestral seeds. The friar, seeing Achiq not as a man but as a manifestation of the devil, raises a crucifix. Achiq, with a cry of pure, unadulterated grief and rage, tackles him into the torrent. The two men struggle in the water, a clash of worlds—faith against faith. Mateo disappears beneath the current, the seeds spilling from the sack and scattering into the river, lost to both cultures forever.

Finally, it is Achiq versus Valerio. The weary, steel-clad captain against the agile, earth-born farmer. It is a brutal, hand-to-hand fight. Achiq is wounded, but he uses his knowledge of the environment, luring Valerio onto a slippery rock and using his bolas to entangle the conquistador’s legs, pulling him into the water where his armor becomes a coffin.

Exhausted and bleeding, Achiq staggers from the river. He has won. He has annihilated the invaders. But as he looks at the few, small pouches of seeds tied to his belt, he knows it is a pyrrhic victory. The heart of the seed library is gone, scattered to the currents.

He climbs back to the peaks, not to Machu Picchu, but to a hidden, high valley known only to his family. We see him, alone, kneeling in the rich soil. With a trembling, determined hand, he takes the few remaining seeds and presses them into the earth.

FINAL SHOT:

The camera pulls back, soaring high above Achiq. We see him as a single, small figure in a vast, green valley. The mists of the mountains roll in, enveloping him. The great stone city of Machu Picchu is seen in the distance, now empty, a silent, beautiful tomb. The civilization has fallen, but in that one, small patch of earth, Achiq has sown the future. The cycle of life, though wounded, continues. The final image is of the first green sprout breaking through the dark soil, a tiny, defiant promise against the encroaching shadow.

What do you think of this post?
  • Awesome (0)
  • Interesting (0)
  • Useful (0)
  • Boring (0)
  • Sucks (0)

Pitcairn Island For Pedophiles

INT. A DIMLY LIT DINER – NIGHT

The place is almost empty. Rain streaks down the windows. FRANK CASTLE sits across from MEL GIBSON, who stirs his coffee slowly, eyes narrowing with curiosity.

FRANK CASTLE
My old man, Frank Castiglione Sr… Sicilian, hard as nails, but wise. He’d sit me down as a kid and say, “Frankie, Moses didn’t carve exceptions into those Commandments. The Pope says we must not kill. Period.”

(he leans in closer, voice lowering)
He told me, “If you want to stop the wicked, don’t spill their blood. Put ‘em all on an island. Surround it with the Coast Guard. Let them rot.”

MEL GIBSON
(chuckles darkly)
That’s… Old Testament thinking without the blood. Sounds like exile, not justice.

FRANK CASTLE
Maybe. But the worst of the worst—guys like Jacob Rothschild, Epstein—they don’t belong in the streets, Mel.
(leans back)
Alcatraz. Locked down. That was Trump’s idea, not mine.

MEL GIBSON
So you’re saying the Punisher… doesn’t punish?

FRANK CASTLE
I’m saying my father taught me restraint. But the world keeps pushing me to cross the line.

(Mel studies Frank, the coffee trembling slightly in his hand. The rain intensifies. A moral question hangs between them like a storm cloud.)

What do you think of this post?
  • Awesome (0)
  • Interesting (0)
  • Useful (0)
  • Boring (0)
  • Sucks (0)

Sound Of Freedom: Jon Benet Ramsey

[Setting: A dimly lit bar in Denver. Whiskey glasses sweat on the table. The three men lean in close, voices low but sharp. Outside, snow drifts against the window. The name “Ramsey” hangs heavy in the air.]

Frank Castle (The Punisher):
I’ve been digging. The girl’s case—JonBenét. Files buried, cops told to look the other way. You know what I found? A trail that doesn’t lead to her family alone. It leads up the ladder. Way up.

Mel Gibson:
Figures. Hollywood’s just a circus compared to that tent. Power protects power. The bigger the monster, the tighter the silence.

Jim Caviezel:
Exactly. That’s the darkness I’ve been screaming about. It’s not just corruption—it’s ritual. It’s systemic.

Castle:
Here’s the kicker. You ever wonder why Gordon Ramsay, the loudest mouth in the kitchen, suddenly knows when to shut up? He’s got a brand worth billions. But in this game… you either keep quiet, or you get cancelled.

Gibson:
You’re saying he’s tied in?

Castle:
Not tied in. Cornered. They use leverage. Tell him: “You speak out about the wrong name—maybe a president, maybe a kid-snatcher-in-chief—and poof, Kitchen Nightmares turns into your nightmare. Next headline? Gordon had an ‘accident.’ Maybe he ‘jumped.’ Maybe he ‘overdosed.’ You’ve read those obituaries before.”

Caviezel (clenching fist):
Suicide that isn’t suicide. I’ve seen it too many times.

Castle (gravelly, low):
Yeah. Our so-called leader—Joe Biden. They whisper about his ‘touch.’ They whisper about worse. But nobody dares say it in the open. Because they all know the rules: shut your mouth, or they shut it for you.

Gibson (grim smile):
That’s why truth becomes myth. They bury it under scandals, tabloids, distractions. Meanwhile, the machine runs.

Caviezel:
So what’s the play, Frank?

Castle (downing his whiskey):
The play? Same as always. Find the ones pulling the strings. Cut them. One by one. Till there’s no more strings left to pull.

[The men fall silent. Outside, the snow keeps falling. Inside, the weight of unspoken names and buried truths lingers like gunpowder in the air.]

What do you think of this post?
  • Awesome (0)
  • Interesting (0)
  • Useful (0)
  • Boring (0)
  • Sucks (0)