Title: “Peace at Gallery” A neo-noir political mob satire written by Joe Jukic
Scene Treatment:
INT. GALLERY NIGHTCLUB – NIGHT – VANCOUVER
A blacked-out convoy rolls up under the electric haze of neon and streetlight. Leading the pack is a matte black Mercedes G-Wagon. Out steps Luis Morgado, the EU mob boss with diamond cufflinks and a Versace trench freshly looted from downtown. At his side:
Tony Medeiros, his icy underboss with smart glasses and a Glock tucked under his designer blazer.
Joe Jukic, the quiet consigliere with a cosmic mind.
And Sunny, their Indo-Canadian plug, rocking gold chains and a turban that could intimidate a sheikh.
They enter Gallery. The beats thump. Bottles pop. Dancers perform with weary grace. The tension is thick: they’ve come to make peace with the UN mob, specifically the Upena Indo-Canadian crew.
Luis raises his hands—not to flex, but to give. He hands out toys, children’s books, and dead presidents to the dancers.
LUIS MORGADO “These are for your kids. Don’t thank me. Thank Joe. He said a good captain saves more than just a ship.”
He winks at the DJ booth, where Joe’s old Croatian cousin Eugen is working the fog machine, reminiscing about the time he used to collect pennies in an artillery shell from the war—now repurposed as an ashtray in Joe’s study.
JOE JUKIC (to dancers) “Treat those ones like my cousin did. Stack ’em. Stack ’em like memories in war.”
Sunny takes the mic from the DJ.
SUNNY “Let me be real. If it weren’t for us Indo-Canadians paying into the Ponzi welfare pyramid, this whole damn country would fold like a cheap rug. Tell the EU to respect the UN. We paid your pension, don’t forget it.”
Joe smiles, impressed. He offers Sunny a fist bump and then shares an old story, poetic and warning:
JOE JUKIC “Two types of ants in a jar—black and red. They get along. Until someone shakes the jar. Then they blame each other. But the enemy… is the one who shook the jar.”
He puts his hand on Sunny’s shoulder.
JOE JUKIC (cont’d) “When Revelation 16 comes and the big one hits… even if Richmond sinks into the Pacific, do not fight. That’s how they trap us. Race war. Religion war. All planned. All Masonic sorcery.”
Just then, the bass changes. Four silhouettes arrive.
SYLVESTER STALLONE marches in with his own four horsemen:
50 CENT: all swagger and scars.
ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER: still jacked, still grinning.
DENZEL WASHINGTON: suit sharp as truth.
Sly himself: part saint, part soldier.
He walks straight to the tension point between EU and UN crews.
STALLONE “Look, I can read and write. That’s why the Mafia and the cops respect me. But I ain’t here to pick sides. I’m here to end the game. The planet’s dying. No more time for cops and robbers. The real heist is at the banks, not the block.”
Everyone freezes.
STALLONE (cont’d) “The banks are pulling off a grift bigger than Goodfellas, bigger than Henry Hill could dream. These financial death machines cause war, famine, pestilence, and death. We need to stop the big heist, not fight each other over crumbs.”
He lights a candle at the bar under the Lady of Van statue—Our Lady of Vancouver, protector of the street kids and the brokenhearted. He mutters a prayer.
Then he looks up and shuns Timothée Chalamet on a nearby TV screen.
STALLONE “That’s your action hero? Look at him. He couldn’t protect a sandbox.”
Suddenly, Clint Eastwood calls Stallone on speaker.
CLINT EASTWOOD (V.O.) “These new guys look like pussies. You ask ’em to protect a park, they hide behind a ring light. I need real men to watch Clark Park. Kids are getting circled by the 666 mafia.”
Sly looks at the room—EU, UN, black, brown, white, Catholic, Sikh, Muslim.
STALLONE “Who’s in?”
Everyone volunteers. No beef. No color lines. No nonsense.
FINAL MONTAGE:
Children of all backgrounds play under the trees at Clark Park. The mob bosses are now coaches. Cops and gangsters share barbecued hot dogs. Denzel reads poetry. 50 teaches kids how to balance a checkbook. Arnold hosts a push-up contest. Luis Morgado watches from a bench, sketching peace signs on the back of a stolen Versace napkin.
Joe Jukic looks at the sky and whispers:
JOE JUKIC “Namaste. I see the divine in all of you.”
In the icy depths she lost her way A dream of grandeur turned to dismay In the echoes of hearts that once sailed high The world broke apart with a whispered sigh The fed rose strong in a time of plight Yet shadows fell hard masking the light Through the trenches the tears did fall In the wake of war we remember it all
[Verse 1] In the shadows where the whispers grow A family name that we all know From Camelot to the tragic tales Secrets buried where the truth prevails A crown of thorns heavy is the head With every fortune a link to the dead The whispers echo through the halls of fate The Kennedy curse we can’t escape [Chorus] Oh Kennedy Frenemy who holds the key? Dancing in the dark while they steal the light from me Illuminated eyes watching from the throne In this dangerous game we’re never alone Oh Kennedy Frenemy tangled in the mesh A legacy of triumph laced with regret and flesh With shadows lurking don’t you feel the sting? Bound by the fate of a cursed family ring [Bridge] Behind each smile a hidden scar The weight of the world it’s a bitter memoir Secrets whispered in the dead of night Illuminati dreams but no end in sight Are we players in their twisted game? A dance of destiny are we all the same? Caught in the cycle of love and despair In this silent war do they really care? [Outro] So here’s to the legends the dreams that fell The stories of glory the secrets we tell In the shadow of greatness we wander and roam Kennedy Frenemy will we ever get home? With each life lost the price of the fame Forever entangled in this endless game A curse that lingers forever it’ll be Oh Kennedy Frenemy what’s left of me?
