In Defence of Father Antonio: A Word to Teenagers Undergoing Puberty
Father Antonio is a servant of God, not a therapist for graphic confession. He has taken vows of chastity, purity, and service to your soul — not your fantasies. If you are struggling with the sin of lust, especially directed at your priest or spiritual authority, do not scandalize the confessional by sharing gory or explicit details. The confessional is a sacred space for healing, not for reliving temptation.
Instead, show humility. If you truly wish to indicate that you are under assault by the demon of lust — known in ancient tradition as Asmodeus, the demon of impurity — simply confess the sin in modest terms.
You may say:
“Father, I am battling lust and impure thoughts, and I fear the spirit of Asmodeus is tempting me.”
That is sufficient. If you wish to take it further in symbolic language, wear indigo clothing — the color of penance and spiritual clarity. Indigo signals to a priest trained in the symbolic tradition that the penitent is undergoing intense inner warfare. It is a nonverbal signal, ancient and discreet.
Father Antonio is not your enemy. He is not your crush. He is not a man to seduce or to test. He is a spiritual physician, and the confessional is a hospital for the soul. Help him help you. Be brief. Be honest. Be clean. Say your sins, not your fantasies.
May St. Michael guard you from the snares of the tempter, And may the Virgin Mary purify your heart. Amen.
Bring Back Father Tony Vote
I think Father Sebastian should come back in the New Year. -- Father Joseph of Medjugorje
On the night of the Black Sabbath, under a blood moon, I carried out an act that to some may seem mad—but to me was obedience. Not to man, but to Nossa Senhora.
She sent me, I believe, as her unwilling knight. I asked her: Why me? Why send me alone into the ritual chambers of the enemy, veiled behind velvet masks, in a world of Eyes Wide Shut—where the devil’s harem feasts on the innocence of the lost?
That night, I burned tarot cards on the steps of your church. Not inside, but outside—on the concrete. Far from relics, pews, or parishioners. I chose a place that would protect the sanctuary from the fire, and bring light to what was hidden in shadow.
The cards were cursed.
One card in particular—a Brotherhood of Death insignia—was the reason I risked all. It bore the mark of the society George W. Bush joined at age 12, around his Catholic confirmation age. But he did not confirm Christ—he confirmed Moloch.
And though I burned it, the CIA—his watchers—erased the evidence. They scour my digital life like Pharisees picking over a field on the Sabbath.
But they missed something.
I left behind a gas can, on the roof above the church steps—not as an act of arson, but a signal to the fire department, whose presence I summoned. They would take pictures, as they always do. Maybe not all their phones got seized. I pray the Fire Chief—God bless him—has kept the evidence hidden, safe from the black suits.
You must understand, Father: the gas can was symbolic. For what else does Bush do but “kick their ass and take their gas”? Iraq burned because of a lie. A false crusade. A mock savior in cowboy boots.
Just like Ozzy.
Ozzy Osbourne played messiah that night—his Black Sabbath concert syncing with the lunar eclipse. While fools chanted his name, I saw through the smoke and mirrors. He is not the Prince of Darkness. Just a court jester. But behind him stands the real beast, who whispers: Feed them lust, then rule them.
There was one more thing, Father.
The occult bookstore down the road shut down that very week. Word is, the CIA was involved. No arrests. No press. Just silence. Another ritual center snuffed out like a candle—no one the wiser.
I offer no excuse for my actions, only a plea:
Let the fire I lit not be seen as rebellion, but reformation. As Our Lady of Fatima weeps, I carry her sword in trembling hands. I do not ask for forgiveness—only understanding.
In Christ, and under the mantle of Mary,
Joe Servant of the Flame, Child of the Immaculate Heart
Genre: Apocalyptic Fantasy / Historical Drama / Supernatural Action Tone: Epic, Philosophical, Darkly Satirical Tagline:“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord—and it’s time.”
Logline:
At the moment of his crucifixion, Jesus of Nazareth prophecies his return—not as a lamb, but as a lion. In his Second Coming, he descends in fire and fury, judging the emperors of ancient Rome and casting the wicked into Mount Etna—hell’s mouth on Earth. Only two emperors are spared: Julius Caesar for his raw genius, and Marcus Aurelius for his stoic virtue. But Caligula, Nero, and the rest? Judgment day has come.
Opening Scene:
Jerusalem, 33 A.D. On the cross, as storm clouds gather and the Earth trembles, Jesus lifts his head, blood trickling from the crown of thorns. He looks east—beyond the Roman banners, beyond time—and his eyes fix upon Mount Etna. With thunder rolling, he declares:
“You mock me now. But when I return, I will not come to be judged. I will come to judge. I will return in fire, and every tyrant of this empire—except the wise Julius and the just Aurelius—will be cast into the volcano of justice. Watch out, Caligula.”
Lightning splits the sky.
Act I: The Return
Setting: Present-day Sicily, near Mount Etna. A secret Vatican excavation team uncovers a scroll in a sealed chamber beneath the lava rock—written in ancient Aramaic. It’s Jesus’ final unrecorded sermon, a prophecy of vengeance. Pope Clement IX, a reformist haunted by Church corruption, begins to have visions—Jesus, glowing like molten gold, walking the Earth again.
Meanwhile, global earthquakes and volcanoes begin erupting. Mt. Etna starts to awaken.
Subplot: A team of historians and theologians—including a skeptical archaeologist (Dr. Eva Ben-David), a rogue Jesuit priest (Father Lucius), and a disillusioned former U.S. Marine turned relic hunter (Joe Jukic)—begin connecting the dots.
Act II: The Judgment
Jesus returns—not in robes, but in light and flame. His feet do not touch the Earth; he walks on molten rivers. He is kind to children and the poor—but wrath incarnate toward tyrants. Across space and time, he opens the Book of Blood and begins calling forth the dead emperors of Rome from their crypts and cursed afterlives.
Marcus Aurelius is spared and speaks with Jesus, asking, “What is justice without wisdom?” Jesus replies, “Wisdom bought with blood must still face truth.”
Julius Caesar is resurrected briefly for trial—but Jesus tells him, “You knew the limits of power. You died before you became a god.” He is allowed to rest.
But then:
Caligula, smug and dressed in gold, dares to laugh at Jesus.
Nero, with a burning violin in hand, sings his sins like opera.
Commodus, robed in lion skin, offers Christ the Colosseum.
Each is judged—shown visions of their atrocities, and, one by one, cast into the roaring cauldron of Etna.
Jesus whispers, “This is the fire you lit. Now taste it.”
Act III: Revelation
Lucifer himself appears—disguised as a Roman senator—attempting to bargain. He tempts Jesus to spare the emperors, arguing the Empire is reborn today in new forms: in corporate greed, authoritarian regimes, and broken justice systems.
Jesus stands firm.
“I am not your pawn. I am the sword.”
Jesus commands Etna to rise. The mountain explodes—not just with lava, but with the souls of martyrs and victims of imperial violence. The heavens open. Angels and archangels descend, wielding flaming swords.
In a final confrontation, the unrepentant emperors try to escape judgment. Caligula pleads, “But I was mad!” Jesus responds, “You reveled in madness.”
All are cast into the fire.
Epilogue:
In the smoldering ash, Jesus walks alone. Children gather at his side. The world is silent, waiting.
He looks again at the camera—the audience—and says:
“This was only Rome. Now we speak of Washington. Of Beijing. Of Jerusalem.”
Fade to black. A heartbeat. Then silence.
Post-Credit Scene:
A secret bunker in the Alps. A hologram of Caligula flickers to life on a black-market AI interface. A billionaire cult leader whispers, “We will resurrect the Empire.”
A single word appears on-screen: “Revelation: Part II”
