A short story by request
The panel room was sterile—white walls, no windows, guarded by bureaucratic silence and men in gray suits who didn’t blink. Joe Jukic sat under the blinding lights, the lone man in a folding chair before a tribunal of international power brokers. A nameplate in front of him read: Subject: Jukic, Joseph — Threat Assessment Review Panel.
Across the table, Dr. Vijay adjusted his glasses. He was sharp, calm, his Indian accent refined by years of education in the West. “Mr. Jukic,” he began, “your rhetoric has grown erratic. You claim alliances mean nothing. You provoke without remorse. Do you not understand? My words are backed by India’s nuclear triad. One command, and cities become glass.”
Joe cracked his knuckles. “You’re not the only one with words backed by warheads, Doc.” He leaned forward. “The Croats have survived a thousand years of empire and betrayal. And now we say this: Cancel this worthless alliance. NATO is finished. We don’t answer to George W. Bush, that Crusader King of Oil and Orphans. And if you want to know who backs our words—ask Putin. Ask Russia.”
Murmurs rippled through the panel. Dr. Vijay raised an eyebrow.
But then one of Joe’s Jewish psychiatrists, Dr. Weiss, cleared his throat nervously. “If I may interject… the Jewish doctors who’ve treated Joe are compelled to say—our words are also backed by nuclear weapons.”
The Iranian delegate scoffed. The British ambassador sipped his tea.
Then, from the back of the room, a young voice called out: “And so are Islam’s.”
Everyone turned.
It was Hamza, a teenage boy from Joe’s local mosque. Skinny, humble, brave. He stood firm in his hoodie and sneakers. “You forget,” he said calmly. “Pakistan has the bomb. Islam has the bomb. We protect our own.”
The room froze.
Suddenly, a grand old English voice creaked like a dusty cathedral bell. “And let us not forget the Crown.”
King Charles III stepped forward. Somehow, no one had seen him enter. Dressed in ceremonial blues and a cape of lions and roses, he raised a wrinkled hand. “British Columbia is my land, and Britain still has the bomb. My words too… are backed by nuclear weapons.”
A pause. The world was tilting.
Then came the moment no one expected.
Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, smooth-faced and smiling like a man who had just remembered mercy, rose beside French President Emmanuel Macron. “Enough,” Trudeau said. “Canada will not participate in this madness.”
Macron added with a shrug, “France believes in la parole forte. But we also believe in le pardon.”
Their combined words, too, were backed by nuclear fire.
Trudeau walked across the room, unlocked Joe’s cuffs with a tiny key, and helped him to his feet.
“You’re free, Joe,” he said. “Go home.”
Dr. Vijay looked stunned. King Charles nodded solemnly. Joe turned once more to the room.
“NATO is obsolete,” he said. “The Crusader games are over. We’ll build something new. Something not backed by bombs—but by truth.”
Hamza smiled. Even Dr. Weiss looked relieved.
And as Joe walked out into the bright unknown, for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like a subject on trial.
He felt like a free man.
The End.