April 14, 2026
PoV: Brad (Washington D.C., USA)
It was 9:15 AM on Tuesday. The naval blockade of the Persian Gulf had been completely operational for exactly one hour and fifteen minutes. Brad was finally eating a bagel. He felt a rare, fragile sensation in his chest. It was either hope, or heartburn.
Then, the heavy wooden door to his Pentagon sub-basement office slammed open.
Tyler, his aggressively pressed aide, practically fell into the room. He wasn't just sweating; he looked like he had been actively submerged in a swamp. He was clutching a thick stack of printed papers to his chest like a ballistic shield.
"Tyler," Brad sighed, slowly lowering his bagel. "We have the Chinese ghost ships cornered. The Iranians are starved of cash. The blockade is holding. What could possibly be on those papers that is making you breathe like a pug in a sauna?"
"It's... it's the Vatican, sir," Tyler gasped.
Brad blinked. He chewed his bagel slowly. "The Vatican. Did the Fifth Fleet accidentally torpedo a papal yacht?"
"No, sir. Pope Francis just delivered his morning address from the balcony at St. Peter's Square. He explicitly condemned our naval blockade. He called it a 'cruel wall of iron that starves the innocent' and demanded the immediate passage of humanitarian aid. Sir, he spoke for twenty minutes. In Italian, Spanish, and English."
Brad rubbed his eyes. "Okay. Fine. He's the Pope. He's supposed to pray for peace. We issue a polite statement reaffirming our commitment to regional stability, we ignore it, and we move on."
Tyler swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Sir... the President did not ignore it."
Tyler slid the top piece of paper across Brad's desk. It was a screenshot of Truth Social, time-stamped 8:42 AM.
Brad leaned forward and began to read aloud.
"The so-called 'Pope' (who is losing MILLIONS of followers, very sad!) just attacked our beautiful, perfect naval blockade of Iran. He says we should take down the ships. Bad idea! I've seen the Vatican. Huge walls. The biggest walls in the world. If Francis likes open borders so much, why doesn't he let the Iranians live in the Sistine Chapel? Hypocrite!"
Brad stopped. He stared at the ceiling for five full seconds. "Tyler. Tell me this is the only post."
"There are six more, sir." Tyler slid the next paper over.
"I've done more for Catholics than any President in history, maybe ever. I gave them great judges. And how does Francis repay me? By defending the Ayatollah! If he keeps sticking his nose in American foreign policy, I will strongly consider putting MASSIVE TARIFFS on Italian Communion wine!"
Brad's soul left his body. He was no longer in the Pentagon. He was floating in a dark, silent void.
"Tariffs on the blood of Christ," Brad whispered, his voice completely hollow.
"It gets worse, sir," Tyler squeaked, sliding another page. "He went after the Pope's security detail."
"The Swiss Guard? A total joke. They wear pajamas and carry sticks. Our Fifth Fleet could take them out in two seconds. Believe me. We need tough guys in Rome, not pajama-wearers with halberds. The US Navy is protecting the world while Francis walks around in red shoes. #MakeTheVaticanGreatAgain"
"He threatened military action against the Vatican," Brad stated, rubbing his temples so hard he saw sparks. "And he criticized their shoes."
"Yes, sir. And Fox News is currently running a segment debating whether Pope Francis is secretly on the payroll of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard."
Brad's secure phone began to ring. The caller ID flashed: Archbishop of New York. The second line started ringing. Senator O'Malley (D-MA). The third line lit up. The Apostolic Nuncio to the United States.
The Catholic vote in Pennsylvania, Michigan, and Wisconsin had just gone up in smoke. JD Vance was going to murder him.
"Tyler," Brad said, pulling out a fresh sheet of Nicorette. "Draft a press release. Tell them the President has a deep, profound respect for the Holy Father, and the comment about the pajamas was a... a lighthearted observation about European textile traditions."
"Sir, the Vatican Press Office already responded."
Tyler handed over the final sheet of paper. It was an official communique from the Holy See.
Brad read the English translation. It was a perfectly polite, devastatingly passive-aggressive statement quoting Matthew 19:24—it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God—and concluded by saying the Holy Father was holding a special midnight mass to pray for "those burdened by the spiritual sickness of hubris and the idolatry of social media."
"They just called the President of the United States spiritually sick and addicted to his phone, in Latin," Brad said.
"Yes, sir."
Brad picked up his Yeti thermos. "Cancel my afternoon. I need to figure out how to de-escalate a holy war."
POV: Reza (Tehran, Iran)
Foreign Minister Reza was sitting in his office, staring at a giant, mute television screen.
For the last two hours, Iranian state media had completely stopped broadcasting anti-American propaganda to run continuous, uninterrupted footage of a man in flowing white robes standing on a balcony in Rome.
Hamid, the IRGC minder, was pacing back and forth in front of the television, vibrating with intense, confused energy.
"Minister," Hamid said, pointing a finger at the screen. "Who is this Grand Ayatollah of the Italians? He speaks with the fire of a true revolutionary!"
Reza sighed heavily. "He is not an Ayatollah, Hamid. He is the Pope. The head of the Catholic Church."
"Well, whoever he is, his anti-imperialist rhetoric is flawless!" Hamid pumped his fist in the air. "He has condemned the Great Satan's blockade! He says the American Navy is starving the righteous! Does he have a militia? Can we fund him?"
"No, Hamid, we cannot fund the Pope."
"Why not? We fund everyone else who hates American foreign policy! Look at him!" Hamid pointed at the screen, where the Pope was waving benevolently to a crowd in St. Peter's Square. "He even wears a humble, collarless garment! No necktie! He is practically one of us!"
Reza rubbed his temples. The absurdity of the situation was giving him a migraine. Less than a week ago, Iran was completely isolated. Now, thanks entirely to the American President's inability to log off Truth Social, the Islamic Republic was somehow in a strategic PR alliance with the Vatican.
Reza's phone buzzed. It was a direct, encrypted order from the Supreme Leader's office.
Reza:
Draft a statement immediately. Praise the man in the white hat. Highlight our shared religious values against the decadent, spiritually bankrupt West. Send him a gift to secure the alliance.
Reza groaned aloud. "Hamid. Go to the Ministry storage room. Find the nicest Persian rug we have. Not the ones with the American flags being burned. A peaceful one. Woven with birds or a nice geometric pattern."
"To send to Rome, Minister?"
"Yes, Hamid. To send to the Pope." Reza pulled his keyboard closer and opened a blank document. "And tell the state media anchors to stop referring to him as 'Comrade Francis'. Just use his title."
Hamid saluted enthusiastically. "At once, Minister! Perhaps we can invite him to Tehran for Friday prayers! He could lead the chants of 'Death to the Blockade!'"
"Just get the rug, Hamid."
POV: Wei (Beijing, China)
It was 9:30 PM in Beijing. Wei was sitting in his impeccably organized office, drinking a cup of hot water with lemon, and reading the translated transcripts of the Trump-Pope feud on his tablet.
He was smiling so broadly his cheeks hurt.
Tariffs on Communion wine. It was a stroke of absolute, chaotic genius. Wei couldn't have written a better script if he had bribed the CIA himself. The United States was currently fighting a multi-front diplomatic war against Iran, the global oil market, and... the global Catholic population.
Wei opened his email. He composed a highly encrypted message to the Chinese Ambassador to Italy.
Comrade Ambassador,
Please secure a private meeting with the Vatican's Secretary of State. Convey Beijing's deepest sympathies regarding the unwarranted hostility from Washington. Inform him that the People's Republic of China deeply respects the sovereignty of the Holy See.
Furthermore, kindly mention that if the Swiss Guard is feeling threatened by the American Fifth Fleet, China North Industries Corporation (Norinco) would be delighted to upgrade their halberds to modern, laser-guided defense systems. At a very reasonable 4% interest rate.
Wei hit send. He took a sip of his hot water. The West was eating itself alive, and all Wei had to do was provide the napkins.
POV: Tariq (Islamabad, Pakistan)
At 6:30 PM in Islamabad, Tariq was sitting in his dimly lit office, staring at his iPhone.
His matte foundation had completely worn off. The $3 Billion IMF bailout was dead. The Boys had texted him twice today asking for his uniform size for his new job at the fertilizer plant.
He was a desperate man. And desperate men look for leverage wherever they can find it.
Tariq was currently looking at the official Instagram account of @Franciscus.
Tariq bit his lip. A mediator never sleeps. A mediator finds the gap in the market. The Americans and the Iranians wouldn't talk to each other. But the Americans were fighting the Pope, and the Iranians loved the Pope. Therefore, the Pope was the ultimate geopolitical lever.
Tariq's thumbs hovered over the screen. He clicked Message.
Your Holiness! Greetings from the vibrant democracy of Pakistan! I saw your very insightful comments regarding the American naval blockade. Spot on! Tremendous moral clarity!
I am currently mediating this crisis. But the Americans are very stubborn, and the hotel bill here is quite large. If you are free on Thursday, would you be interested in joining a Zoom call with me and the Iranian Foreign Minister? We can discuss lifting the blockade, and perhaps you could put in a good word for me with the IMF?P.S. Do you like Samosas? Let me know. Tariq hit send. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. He had just slid into the Pope's DMs to save the Middle East. Diplomacy was truly a beautiful, terrifying tapestry.