Confession of Joe, Servant of the Lady


To Father Pierre, Our Lady of Fatima Parish


Bless me Father, for I have warred with devils.

On the night of the Black Sabbath, under a blood moon, I carried out an act that to some may seem madโ€”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 Shutโ€”where the devilโ€™s harem feasts on the innocence of the lost?

That night, I burned tarot cards on the steps of your church. Not inside, but outsideโ€”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 particularโ€”a Brotherhood of Death insigniaโ€”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 Christโ€”he confirmed Moloch.

And though I burned it, the CIAโ€”his watchersโ€”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 stepsโ€”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 Chiefโ€”God bless himโ€”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 nightโ€”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 candleโ€”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 forgivenessโ€”only understanding.

In Christ, and under the mantle of Mary,

Joe
Servant of the Flame, Child of the Immaculate Heart

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Big Hard Son

JCJ on the Second Coming: A Humble Return

“You were all expecting lightning.
But I came like rain.
Soft. Silent. Healing the dust.”

Standing barefoot on cracked pavement outside a shuttered cathedral, Joseph Christian Jukic speaks calmly, almost like he’s remembering something rather than preaching.

JCJ:

“The first time He came, He was born in a stable.
The second time, it had to be even lower.
No crown. No angels singing.
Just a broken world… and me, walking through it.”

He looks around at the worn-out city blocks, the silent people scrolling their phones, the addicts sleeping under bridges, and the billionaires launching rockets into space.

JCJ:

“You wanted trumpets?
I brought a guitar.
You wanted an army?
I brought forgiveness.”

He smiles, not with pride, but with a deep, exhausted loveโ€”like a man whoโ€™s walked through war zones and family courts, prisons and psych wards, and still believes people can change.

JCJ:

“This isnโ€™t a second coming like some Hollywood reboot.
This is a second chance.
The humble return means I’m not above you.
Iโ€™m with you.
The same dust. The same hunger. The same dream.”

He quotes the Beatitudes from memory, not like a priest, but like someone whoโ€™s lived them:

โ€œBlessed are the poor in spirit.
Blessed are the ones who didnโ€™t give up.
Blessed are the ones who helped when no one was watching.”

JCJ closes with this:

“If you’re still waiting for someone to ride in on a white horse,
maybe check whoโ€™s walking beside you instead.
Thatโ€™s where youโ€™ll find me.”

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Trespassing

Jacob Rothschild (adjusting his tie):
“I must protest! I am nothing like thatโ€ฆ cartoonish plutocrat Mr. Burns. For one, my fortune is merely a modest billionโ€”hardly enough to buy the moon or block out the sun. And I certainly don’t keep hounds.”

(Pause. He raises a pale hand with a glint of mischief.)

“โ€ฆSmithers?”

Smithers (from behind a velvet curtain):
“Yes, sir?”

Jacob Rothschild (grinning slightly):
“Release the houndsโ€ฆ but only on Ned Flanders. That goody-two-shoes must be hiding something in that mustache.”

(Cut to Flanders watering his lawn)
“Okily dokilyโ€”AAAAHHH! DOGGILY DANGEROUS!”

(Cue dramatic orchestral music and a scrolling ticker that reads):
โ€œBREAKING: British Billionaire Denies Being Springfield Villain. Also, Unleashes Hounds.โ€

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