G.I. Joe gathers his team around a dimly lit table, the weight of history pressing down on their shoulders. He holds up a well-worn Bible, flipping to Psalm 64, his fingers tracing the ancient words.
“They shoot at the innocent from ambush,
shoot without risk, catch them unawares.”
He lets the words hang in the air. The room is silent, save for the faint hum of a fluorescent light.
“November 22, 1963,” Joe says, tapping his knuckle on the table. “They took down a sitting president in broad daylight. A king in Camelot, executed for the world to see. And a year later, in 1964, they hand the people a fairytale—the Warren Commission Report—selling us the ‘magic bullet’ theory like we’re children too stupid to see the con.”
Lady Jaye crosses her arms, her face hardened. “And Psalm 64? You think they follow it like a script?”
Joe nods. “They love rubbing our noses in it. These secret societies, the illuminated ones, they think the masses are beneath them. Profane. Unworthy of the ‘hidden wisdom.’ But they slip up. They leave fingerprints. The year ’64, the Psalm—it’s right in our face, like a sick inside joke.”
Flint clenches his fists. “JFK was trying to take power away from them—shutting down the Fed, warning about secret societies. He wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t their puppet. And for that, they silenced him.”
Joe exhales, flipping the Bible shut. “They shoot from the shadows. Always have. But every shadow disappears when you shine the right light. That’s why we’re here.”
A heavy pause. Then, Snake Eyes taps the table twice. A silent agreement.
The war against the unseen would rage on.
Let’s go back to 1962 when the plot against JFK first began.
Psalm 62:5 Even from my place on high they plot to dislodge me.
They delight in lies; they bless with their mouths,
Lady Jaye logs onto George Magazine’s blog, her fingers flying across the keyboard. She types with precision, each word laced with a deep, cutting skepticism.
“Abraham Zapruder: a confirmed Freemason. It wasn’t just luck that he was in the perfect position to film history’s most infamous ambush. The all-seeing eye was there, capturing the king’s downfall for the world to witness.”
She pauses, adjusting her stance, then continues.
“People think the Zapruder film is evidence for the people. What if it was really a trophy for the lodge? A ritual capture of a public execution, framed with perfect clarity. The most famous snuff film in history. The ‘witness’ just so happened to be a 33rd-degree Mason? Come on. The odds don’t work that way.”
A response pops up within minutes. Some anonymous user defends Zapruder as a patriotic immigrant who just happened to be there. Lady Jaye smirks, already anticipating the counter.
“Coincidence theorists are cute,” she replies. “Freemasons believe in ordo ab chao—order from chaos. The Kennedy assassination was the chaos. The Warren Commission was the ‘order.’ And guess who filmed the transition?”
The thread explodes with debate. But Lady Jaye isn’t here to argue. She plants the seed, closes her laptop, and leans back.
Joe, standing behind her, nods. “That’ll get people talking.”
She chuckles. “Let’s see if they can handle the truth.”
Psalm 63:11 They shall be handed over to the sword
and become the prey of jackals!
The Young Pope, clad in white, sits before the gathered press, his piercing gaze scanning the room. He holds up a worn Bible, flipping to Psalm 63:11, and reads aloud in Latin before translating:
“They shall be handed over to the sword and become the prey of jackals!”
He lets the words linger.
“A prophecy,” he says, voice firm. “A message hidden in plain sight. The assassination of John F. Kennedy was not the random act of a lone gunman. It was a ritual, a cleansing by the sword, carried out under the watchful eyes of those who rule from the shadows. And who was their chosen instrument? A teenage predator, a Jackal in the making.”
The room is silent. The Pope’s words carry weight.
“Carlos the Jackal,” he continues, “a young man being shaped into an assassin. It was his first taste of blood. He was no rogue revolutionary—he was being trained, conditioned, molded to serve the international banking mafia. And what did they give him for his service? A legend. A legacy. Ten years later, the world watched a film—The Day of the Jackal—released on the exact anniversary of Kennedy’s assassination. A decade to the day. Think that’s a coincidence?”
A journalist raises a hesitant hand. “Your Holiness, are you saying Carlos was involved in Dallas?”
The Pope smiles, shaking his head. “I say nothing. I only ask questions. Who profits from chaos? Who writes history? Who decides which killers become myths and which are forgotten? The Jackal was rewarded. His name became legend. Hollywood—owned by the very hands that finance war and revolution—immortalized him. Who does that for a mere criminal?”
Another reporter interjects, skeptical. “Are you implying Hollywood glorifies assassins for the deep state?”
The Pope’s eyes burn with certainty. “I imply nothing. I proclaim it.”
He closes the Bible. The press erupts into questions, but the Young Pope is finished. He has said what he needed to say. The truth is out.