Author: John Connor

The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves.
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The Biggest The Best

Setting: A quiet, opulent lounge at a charity event in Monaco, 2002. The murmur of wealthy guests fills the air.

Characters:

  • JCJ (Joseph C. Jukic): Observant, sharp, with a knowing smile.
  • Arnold Schwarzenegger: Relaxed, but with the keen awareness of a public figure. A glass of mineral water in his hand.

(JCJ leans slightly towards Arnold, nodding discreetly towards a distinguished older gentleman in a impeccably tailored suit holding court across the room.)

JCJ: You see that man over there, Arnold? The one speaking with the curator?

Arnold: (Squints slightly, then nods) Lord Rothschild. Of course. A powerful man. Very connected.

JCJ: Exactly. The richest man in Babylon. The king of his particular mountain. It’s an old world, that one. All quiet handshakes and generational influence.

(Arnold turns to JCJ, intrigued by the tone.)

Arnold: And what mountain are we on, Joe?

JCJ: (Chuckles softly) A louder one. A brighter one. One with explosions and one-liners that echo in every kid’s head from Detroit to Delhi. Seeing him just now made me think of you.

Arnold: (Raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk forming) What, you want me to start wearing a pinstripe suit and buy a bank? I tried putting on a tie for Junior. It didn’t work.

JCJ: No, no. Nothing like that. Think about it. He is the absolute pinnacle of his world. The archetype. When people think of that kind of immense, almost untouchable financial power, they think of a Rothschild.

(JCJ pauses, letting the comparison hang in the air.)

JCJ: And when anyone, anywhere on this planet, thinks of an action star… the biggest, the best, the very definition of the word… they think of you. You are the Rothschild of action.

Arnold: (Leans back, his smirk softening into a genuine, thoughtful expression. He lets out a low grunt of appreciation.) Hah. That’s a new one. I’ve been called the Austrian Oak, the Governator… never that.

JCJ: It’s true. You didn’t just play the part; you built the genre. You are the kingdom. And that’s why I say you’re not just the biggest. You are possibly the last action hero.

Arnold: (Nods, his voice dropping to a more reflective tone) The last? Because the world is changing.

JCJ: Exactly. It’s all becoming green screens and wirework. Anyone can be a hero if the pixels are good enough. But what you did… that was physical. It was palpable. It was real. Like old money versus new money. There’s a weight to it. A substance. They can make a thousand action stars now, but they can’t make another you. The era of the one-man empire… the king… is ending.

(Arnold looks out over the glittering crowd, then back at JCJ. He raises his glass of water.)

Arnold: To kings, then. In all their kingdoms. The quiet ones…

(He gestures with his glass towards Lord Rothschild.)

Arnold: …and the loud ones.

(He taps his glass gently against JCJ’s.)

JCJ: To the last king of Babylon.

Arnold: (A wide, iconic grin finally breaks across his face) I still like the sound of that. But the night is young. Maybe I’ll go say hello. See if he wants to be in a movie. I have a script about a banker who fights aliens…

JCJ: (Laughing) Now that’s a handshake I’d pay to see.

(They both laugh, the sound cutting through the dignified hum of the room, two men perfectly aware of their respective domains.)

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Schnelly’s Morning Walk

INT. GYM – WEIGHT ROOM – DAY

The clank of iron plates. ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER, in a tight-fitting sweatshirt, is meticulously loading a leg press machine.

Across from him, struggling to lift a modestly weighted barbell, is JCJ (JOSEPH CHRISTIAN JUKIC). He is a mountain of muscle that has settled into a valley of comfort. A significant, soft pot belly strains against his too-small workout shirt. His face is red with exertion and distress.

JCJ
(Grunting between reps)
…and you gotta believe me, Arnold. On my mother’s name, Nelly is not a pig. It’s a libel! A slander! Her current… amplitude… is a temporary situation. A hormonal thing. Very medical.

He drops the bar with a clatter, his own belly jiggling from the impact. He pats it ruefully.

JCJ
We’re both on a journey, you see? Mine’s just… further along. Hers is just beginning. But does the world see that? No!

Arnold grunts, sliding another 45-pound plate onto the machine with a definitive clang.

ARNOLD
The world sees what it wants to see. The journey is what matters.

JCJ
But they stand in our way! It’s the same story, all my life, Arnold. All my life! There is always some authority figure. A fun-wrecker. A joy-sheriff.

ARNOLD
Who this time? The landlord? The doctor?

JCJ
(Waving a dismiss, jelly-like hand)
Worse. A cabal. A whole network! It started with Sister Helen who said our shared enthusiasm for the church bake sale was “gluttonous.” Then Mr. T, the gym teacher, said we were “monopolizing the rope climb.” Monopolizing!

JCJ tries to pace, but it’s more of a waddle, his belly leading the way.

JCJ
Then her doctor—her own doctor!—says our dates to the all-you-can-eat buffet are “a shared death wish.” A death wish! I was being a supportive partner! Her parents said I was a “bad influence.” Our mutual friends staged an intervention… at a salad bar, Arnold! A salad bar! You know neither of us can get full on leaf lettuce!

Arnold stops what he’s doing. He turns and looks JCJ dead in the eye, his famous intensity focused on JCJ’s soft, desperate face.

ARNOLD
Joseph. Look at me. When I wanted to come to America, they said my body was too freakish. When I wanted to be in movies, they said my accent was a joke. They were doctors of doubt. Teachers of “no.” They were… authority figures.

JCJ nods, his chins wobbling, desperate for the wisdom.

JCJ
What did you do? How do we defeat the network? Look at me! I can barely defeat this gravity!

ARNOLD
You don’t defeat them on their terms. You win on yours. If you want to take this woman, Nelly, on a date… you look at the nun, the teacher, the doctor, the parents… and you say…

(Arnold drops his voice to its most iconic, gravelly whisper)

ARNOLD
“I’ll be back.“

JCJ freezes. A single, triumphant tear rolls down his cheek, cutting a path through the sweat. He looks down at his own belly, not with shame, but with newfound purpose.

JCJ
“I’ll be back.” …We’ll be back.

ARNOLD
(Nodding)
But first, you have to go. You go to her. You take her to the buffet. You get the fried shrimp, the prime rib, the ketogenic, paleo foods. You be the man she needs. The workouts can start tomorrow.

JCJ stands up as straight as his belly allows, his despair replaced with radiant, caloric purpose. He places a meaty hand on Arnold’s shoulder.

JCJ
Thank you, Arnold. You’ve freed me. The obstacle is the way! Our obesity is temporary, but brotherhood… brotherhood is forever.

He turns and waddles out of the gym with the determination of a Terminator who really loves pie, not even stopping to pick up his water bottle.

Arnold watches him go. He looks down at the fully loaded leg press, then down at his own impossibly flat stomach.

ARNOLD
(To himself, utterly sincere)
It is good to have a goal.

He sits down at the machine and begins his set, the weight moving effortlessly.

FADE OUT.

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Messianic Axl

INT. BERLIN NIGHTCLUB – BACKSTAGE – DIMLY LIT – NIGHT

Smoke curls around dusty purple curtains. The faint echo of “November Rain” fades into silence. AXL ROSE, mid-50s, wild-eyed, wearing a PURPLE JACKET with a SILVER CROSS dangling from his neck, sits in a chair. He’s sweating, jittery, half-wired, half-lost. Across from him stands JOHN CONNOR – older now, steely but calm, with the eyes of a war veteran who’s seen Judgment Day and survived it.

JOHN CONNOR
(quietly, almost tender)
You know it’s not bipolar disorder, right?

AXL ROSE
(grinning, shaky)
Oh? You a shrink now, Johnny boy?

JOHN CONNOR
No. But I know a messiah complex when I see one.

John nods toward Axl’s outfit.

JOHN CONNOR (cont’d)
The purple jacket… the cross… You think nobody notices? It’s the same robe they threw on Jesus before they mocked him.

AXL ROSE
(smirking)
I wear it because it looks cool.

JOHN CONNOR
You wear it because deep down, you know. You’re not just screaming into a mic. You want to be the one who saves them. But let me tell you something—jumping around and screaming isn’t enough.

Beat.

JOHN CONNOR (cont’d)
It takes prophecy. Sacrifice. Rising from the ashes when everyone else gave up. You tried, Axl. You really tried.

AXL ROSE
(shrugs, bitter)
Well, I failed, didn’t I?

JOHN CONNOR
You fell. That’s different. The fall’s not the end, man. The dream still lives.

Axl looks down. His hands tremble. He fumbles for a cigarette.

JOHN CONNOR (firmly)
No. No more of that. I’m building something in Europe. A place. Quiet. Clean. We’re calling it the Dream Clinic.

AXL ROSE
(scoffs)
Sounds like a rehab with pillows.

JOHN CONNOR
It’s not rehab. It’s resurrection. We treat the soul there, not just the body. We get the legends off the drugs, off the cigarettes, off the shame—and we bring them back to the people who still believe.

Axl looks up. For the first time, his expression softens.

AXL ROSE
And you think I still got a shot?

JOHN CONNOR
I think you’re not done yet. But the world’s not gonna wait forever. You have to want to come back.

AXL ROSE
(long pause)
And if I say yes?

JOHN CONNOR
Then you start walking. No cameras. No applause. Just one foot in front of the other, until you’re back in the light.

John steps forward, places a gentle hand on Axl’s shoulder.

JOHN CONNOR (softly)
We need you. But we need all of you. Not the ghost. Not the broken man in the jacket. The real Axl.

Beat. Axl exhales. Slowly, he takes the cigarette from his lips, crushes it underfoot.

AXL ROSE
Alright, John. One more encore.

FADE OUT.