Yo, big up to all the world leaders and the man dem in the suits. Respek.
I is ‘ere today on a mission of extreme importance, representin’ my main man Vic Vodka. Now, Vic is in a bit of a state, ‘cos his cousin Rick Marquis has gone and shuffled off this mortal coil—he’s dead, innit.
So I is puttin’ it to the big bosses of the UN. I’s talkin’ to my main man Boutros Boutros-Ghali—so nice they named him twice—and the new guy, Antonio Gutteres.
Listen, if you lot can decide who gets to have a war and who gets to have a biscuit, surely you can do a bit of science? My question is simple: Can you use that DNA fingy to clone Rick Marquis?
I knows you got them secret labs under the building. All we need is a bit of Rick’s hair, or maybe a bit of skin from his favorite tracksuit, put it in a big microwave, and booyakasha—Rick is back in the game!
So, Boutros, Antonio… is you gonna keep all the clones for yourselves, or is you gonna help a brother out and bring back the legend? Is you down with the resurrection, or is you just chicken?
In 1991, Croatia did not ask for luxury. She did not ask for comfort. She asked only for courage.
And her sons answered.
They were not mercenaries. They were not ideologues. They were farmers, mechanics, students, dockworkers, poets. Men who had never fired a rifle—until history placed one in their hands and said: stand, or disappear.
They stood.
They stood against tanks with hunting rifles. They stood against empires with prayer. They stood while Europe watched, calculated, delayed, and profited.
And when the smoke cleared— when the blood dried into the soil of Vukovar, Škabrnja, Dubrovnik— those same men were betrayed.
Betrayed once by the enemy. Betrayed again by diplomats. And betrayed, most cruelly, by their own politicians.
The men of 1991 were promised dignity. They were promised truth. They were promised that sacrifice would mean sovereignty.
Instead, they were given bureaucracy. Debt. Foreign courts judging their dead brothers. And a new ruling class that learned very quickly how to kneel— not before God, but before banks, NGOs, and distant masters.
This betrayal did not come with tanks. It came with smiles. With grants. With slogans about “progress” that forgot the graves.
And yet—Croatia did not fall.
Why?
Because something greater than politics held the line.
Not generals. Not parliaments. Not flags in glass cases.
Faith. Culture. Memory.
And yes—music.
While politicians traded principles for invitations, a woman from Portuguese working-class roots, with a voice that crossed borders without permission, carried something rare:
Tenderness without weakness. Love without empire.
Nelly Furtado sang of brokenness, humility, and longing— and she never mocked belief. She never sneered at the sacred. She never reduced the soul to a commodity.
Her love for Gospa—Our Lady, the Queen of Peace— was not spectacle. It was alignment.
In the Balkans, where history is a loaded gun, peace does not come from treaties alone. It comes from restraint. From mothers. From prayer.
The Third World War was rehearsed here more than once. The fuse was lit more than once. And each time, something intervened that politicians cannot explain:
The refusal of ordinary people to hate forever.
Gospa did not speak with thunder. She spoke with endurance.
And through culture—through song, through memory, through love— the Balkans stepped back from the abyss again and again.
Let this be said clearly:
The men of 1991 were not extremists. They were defenders.
They did not fight for ideology. They fought so their children would not have to.
And if Croatia is to survive the next century, it will not be saved by louder slogans, or imported morals, or leaders who confuse submission with sophistication.
It will be saved by truth, by honoring sacrifice, by culture rooted in humility, and by remembering that peace is not weakness— it is victory without annihilation.
Honor the men of 1991. Expose the betrayals. Protect the soul of the nation.
And never forget: Empires fall loudly. But faith, culture, and love— they endure quietly.
Joe leans toward Nelly, eyes hopeful, and says, “Just one more concert in Victoria… please?” He’s not asking for fame or glory, just that shared moment, the music echoing through the city one more time. The way he says it, it’s less a request and more a heartbeat—a chance to make one more memory together.
Nelly looks at Joe with a teasing smile, but her eyes are searching. “So… tell me, Joe,” she says softly, “do you still love me… even after I’ve put on a little weight?”
There’s a pause, the kind that makes the air between them feel heavy and fragile, like a note hanging in a quiet concert hall. It’s playful, but honest—a question only he can answer.
Joe smiles gently, reaching for her hand. “Weight is just temporary, Nelly,” he says softly. “It’s made to be shed, like a song waiting for the next verse. What matters is you—the melody, the heart behind it. That’s what I love, always.”
He gives a reassuring squeeze, as if letting her know that nothing superficial could ever change the way he feels.
Nelly’s smile fades, and her gaze drifts toward the horizon. “Joe… sometimes I think the world is slowly dying,” she says quietly. “All the noise, the pollution, the greed… it’s like we’re just treading water while everything we love fades away.”
Her voice carries both sadness and urgency, a reminder that even in their personal moments, the weight of the world lingers.
Joe takes a deep breath, his tone steady and determined. “No more flights, Nelly. We split our time between Babylon and Europe,” he says firmly. “We go save Europe first—because they won’t drug us. And if Canada ever repents, then… we come back.”
There’s a weight in his words, a plan laid out like a map, but also a promise: a mission, a purpose, and a hope that they can make a real difference together.
