Luis Carlos Morgado steps between Miley and Maxx with the same gentle firmness he uses to moderate the fan club.
He shakes his head. “Miley… you’re making a mistake,” he says, not unkindly. “Maxx? He’s fine. He’s got… enthusiasm. Sure. But enthusiasm is not the same as greatness.”
He taps his chest proudly. “But the Jesus avatar? Joe? That’s my best friend. My compadre. The man who bends timelines like guitar strings and still shows up on time for coffee.”
Maxx, somewhere behind them, is still trying to impress Billy Ray with a half-tuned guitar riff and failing miserably.
Luis leans closer to Miley. “Be honest with yourself… isn’t hanging around the avatar more fun than listening to Maxx try to tune that poor guitar to death? Joe has stories, miracles, prophecies—he makes life feel like a cosmic adventure.”
He raises his eyebrows. “And Maxx? He rocks out. Sort of.”
Miley can’t help laughing. Luis shrugs, palms up. “I’m just saying the obvious. One of these guys is maxxing out… the other is Joe.”
Luis: “Let’s just hope Goofy survives with dignity… somehow. Some of the goofs are just Mexicans sweating in a costume. Not all of them are Jeffrey Epsteins”
Duke: (Scanning the horizon with binoculars) The fog is rolling in thick. Perfect cover for the transport. Is the target secure, Morgado?
Luis Morgado: (Tapping a manila folder) Secure is an understatement, Joe. We’ve got the full docket from the ’24 docuseries plus the new findings from the ’25 investigation. Verbal abuse, toxic environments, and the systemic failure to protect those kids. It’s all here. Schneider’s team is still screaming “defamation,” but the evidence says otherwise.
Miley Cyrus: (Leaning against the railing, lighting a cigarette) They always scream defamation until the spotlight gets too hot. I’ve seen this movie before. These guys think they’re untouchable because they built the sets we grew up on. They think they own the childhoods they sold back to us.
Duke: Not anymore. The Commander-in-Chief made it clear. If the system won’t hold the powerful accountable, he’ll build a system that will. He’s been talking about “The Rock” for months. Now, it’s a reality.
Luis Morgado: It’s a bold move. Reopening Alcatraz specifically for “ruthless offenders” caught a lot of people off guard, but Trump loves a symbol. And nothing says “end of the line” like a cell on a cold rock in the middle of the Pacific.
Miley Cyrus: It’s poetic, isn’t it? He spent his career making kids feel trapped in “fun” environments that were actually nightmares. Now he gets a room with a view of the city he’ll never touch again. No more “massages” from staff, no more power trips. Just the sound of the waves.
Duke: (Into his radio) Eagle One to Transport. You are clear for landing on Alcatraz Island. The President is monitoring the feed from the Oval Office. Ensure the handover to the Bureau of Prisons is seamless.
Luis Morgado: You think this sticks, Joe? The legal battles for a prison like that are going to be endless.
Duke: The President doesn’t care about the “endless.” He cares about the “right now.” He wants the message sent: the exploitation of minors ends on his watch.
Miley Cyrus: (Looking toward the island) Good. Let the fog swallow him up. For every kid who had to keep quiet on those sets just to keep their job… this is for them.
Duke: Mission accomplished. Let’s get off this water.
Miley Cyrus, in the Discordian imagination, isn’t a pop star at all—she’s the planet’s most chaotic-good genius, the one Eris herself put on the board to keep reality from collapsing into boredom. And the great cosmic joke is that saving the world never looks like the movies. There’s no runway, no cape, no spotlight. It’s compost under your fingernails, a busted wheelbarrow, and a city council meeting where half the people are arguing about recycling bins.
In the Discordian telling, Miley is the one who figured it out: the true apocalypse isn’t fire; it’s forgetting how to care for the place you live. So she chooses the most powerful magic there is—gardening. Turning empty lots into food forests, taking alleys filled with trash and turning them into green corridors where kids chase butterflies, not needles. It’s recycling glass bottles at midnight because nobody else remembered to do it. It’s rainwater barrels, moss growing on old shoes, wildflowers erupting through concrete like laughing gods.
In the world’s greenest city—a place whispered about in Discordian scripture as Ecoville Prime—Miley is the unexpected mayor, not because she wanted the job, but because she was the only one who showed up with a shovel when the world needed one. And Discordians know: the goddess always chooses the one who actually gets the work done.
Saving the world isn’t glamorous. It’s subversive patience. It’s chaos harnessed for growth. It’s Miley, laughing barefoot in a community garden, telling everyone that the revolution isn’t a stadium show. It’s a compost pile.
