Under the white floodlights of the orbital arena, the crowd roared as two unlikely fighters entered the ring: Richard Nixon, cloned and resurrected from classified Cold War DNA archives, and Justin Trudeau, wearing red gloves with maple leaves stitched into the leather.
At center ring stood Joe Jukic in a black referee shirt, arms folded like an old frontier marshal judging the fate of nations.
“Gentlemen,” Joe announced into the microphone, “this is not just a boxing match. This is history arguing with itself.”
Nixon narrowed his eyes with that famous paranoid glare. “I am not a crook,” he growled, throwing shadow punches.
Justin smirked nervously. “You also said peace was at hand.”
The bell rang.
Nixon came out swinging wildly like a man trying to punch Watergate itself back into the shadows. Trudeau danced around him, lighter on his feet, trying to avoid the heavy hooks of the so-called “Mad Man.” Every punch seemed fueled by decades of bitterness, television debates, and buried presidential tapes.
Joe stepped between them after a brutal exchange.
“Justin,” he said calmly, “face your fear. History only grows stronger when people pretend it never happened.”
Nixon wiped blood from his lip and laughed. “You hear that, kid? Even your referee knows ghosts don’t disappear.”
The crowd fell silent as giant prison ships descended outside the transparent dome. Beyond them stretched the asteroid colonies, glowing faintly against Saturn’s rings. Automated mining lasers cut into mountains of iridium.
Joe looked toward the ships.
“That’s enough,” he declared after the final round. “The fight is over.”
Security androids approached Nixon.
The former president grinned strangely as they fastened magnetic restraints around his wrists.
“Where are you taking me?” Nixon asked.
Joe answered like a philosopher delivering sentence at the edge of the universe.
“All dogs go to heaven, Richard… but some need interstellar corrections first.”
The arena erupted as Nixon was escorted toward the prison shuttle bound for the asteroid mines, muttering about enemies lists, moon treaties, and televised conspiracies while Trudeau stood exhausted in the ring, staring into the stars where old empires went to be judged.
Written by Justin Trudeau, Joe Jukic, Mike Jukic and Bruno Jukic
Logline In 1795, three unbreakable Jukic brothers — legendary Voyageurs of the North West Company — paddle the wild rivers of New France to claim rich fur territory, only to clash with a flamboyant English saboteur who will stop at nothing to crush the Canadian dream.
Cast JOE JUKIC as BIG JOE JUKIC — the strategic leader and scout MIKE JUKIC as MICHEL “MIKE” JUKIC — the giant strongman and singer BRUNO JUKIC as BRUNO JUKIC — the fierce young fighter RUSSELL BRAND as SIR REGINALD “REGGIE” BLACKTHORN — the eccentric, verbose HBC villain
FADE IN:
EXT. LACHINE SHORE, MONTREAL – DAWN – 1795
The St. Lawrence River glimmers under rose light. A brigade of birchbark canoes rests on the gravel, loaded with 90-pound bales of trade goods — kettles, guns, cloth, rum. VOYAGEURS in red sashes, wool tuques, and buckskin jackets bustle.
BIG JOE JUKIC (rugged, commanding) checks lashings on the lead canoe.
MIKE JUKIC (broad-shouldered giant) heaves a massive bale onto his shoulders like it’s a loaf of bread.
BRUNO JUKIC (wiry, cocky grin) sharpens his paddle blade with a stone, flirting with a local girl who laughs and waves him off.
BIG JOE (voice carrying) Allez, mes frères! The North West Company is counting on us. We reach the Pays d’en Haut before the English dogs of Hudson’s Bay steal every beaver pelt between here and the Athabasca. This land is ours to claim.
MIKE (grunting, laughing) Ninety pounds feels lighter when the Jukic brothers paddle together. Bruno, if you drop that rum cask I’ll use your head as a portage pack.
BRUNO Hey! I carry my weight — and yours too, big man. Just watch me in the rapids.
The brothers shove their canoe into the shallows. They climb in with practiced grace. Paddles bite water in perfect rhythm.
BIG JOE (raising his paddle high) En avant!
They begin to sing — the ancient call-and-response of the Voyageurs.
MIKE (lead singer, booming) En roulant ma boule, roulant, En roulant ma boule!
ALL THREE (chorus, voices strong and joyful) En roulant ma boule, roulant, En roulant ma boule!
The entire brigade joins. The song echoes across the river as dozens of canoes push off in a magnificent line, heading west into the unknown.
CUT TO:
EXT. OTTAWA RIVER RAPIDS – DAY – MONTAGE
White water crashes. The brothers shoot a dangerous chute. Bruno whoops, leaning hard on his paddle. Mike’s powerful strokes keep them steady. Joe scans the shore like a hawk.
They portage — carrying the heavy canoe and bales over slippery rocks, sweat pouring. Campfire nights: pemmican shared, stories of their Croatian father who became a Voyageur, dreams of a free northern land.
A SCOUT arrives by canoe at dusk.
SCOUT HBC men moving fast. A fancy Englishman named Blackthorn is spreading lies to the Ojibwe — says we bring war and poison.
BIG JOE (grim) Then we paddle harder. And we prove him wrong with honor.
CUT TO:
EXT. REMOTE FUR TRADING POST – DUSK
A rough log post on a misty lake. The brothers tie up. Lantern light spills.
SIR REGINALD BLACKTHORN (Russell Brand — wild hair, lace cravat askew under a fine coat, theatrical sneer and sparkling eyes) steps out, brandy glass in hand, two armed HBC thugs behind him.
BLACKTHORN (grand, mocking British drawl) Well, well. The singing circus arrives. Three strapping paddlers from Montreal, no doubt dreaming of beaver and glory. Tea, gentlemen? Or do you prefer that revolting pemmican slop? I have proper biscuits. Empire supplies the finer things.
MIKE (eyes narrowing) We’re here for trade, not your tea and lies.
BLACKTHORN (circling them, gesturing wildly) Lies? My dear muscular friends, the Crown has chartered this wilderness. Your little North West Company is a quaint French footnote. I offer you a gentleman’s bargain — switch sides, name your price, and I’ll see you live like lords instead of drowning in some godforsaken rapid. Refuse… and accidents do happen on these rivers.
BRUNO (stepping forward, fists clenched) We don’t trade honor for biscuits.
BLACKTHORN (smiling like a shark) How delightfully noble. How tragically temporary. The Lion always eats the songbirds.
He laughs — a mad, charismatic cackle — and saunters back inside.
CUT TO:
EXT. RIVER PORTAGE – NIGHT – ACTION SEQUENCE
The brothers sleep by their beached canoe. A shadowy figure (HBC thug) creeps forward with a knife, slicing the birchbark hull.
Bruno wakes first. A brutal fistfight erupts — Bruno vs. thug. Mike joins, smashing the man with a paddle. Joe spots two more attackers.
BIG JOE It’s Blackthorn’s work!
They fight hand-to-hand in the dark, grunting, splashing into the shallows. The brothers win. One thug flees into the woods.
MIKE (wiping blood) He wants war? We’ll give him one.
CUT TO:
EXT. GRAND PORTAGE TRADING POST – NIGHT – CLIMAX
A larger post on the shore of Lake Superior. Furs stacked high. Blackthorn’s men have set fire to the NWC cache. Chaos.
The Jukic brothers charge in, joined by OJIBWE ALLIES who have chosen their side.
BLACKTHORN (on a barrel, pistol waving, voice rising theatrically) You paddling peasants think a few songs and strong backs can hold back Empire? This land belongs to the Crown! I will burn every pelt before I let Frenchmen and half-breeds claim it!
BIG JOE This land belongs to those who respect it — not your King’s paper!
Epic brawl: Bruno in a savage knife-and-fist duel with a thug. Mike hurls a barrel, smashing two men. Joe outmaneuvers Blackthorn in a tense chase along the dock.
Blackthorn corners Joe, pistol raised.
BLACKTHORN (breathless, grinning) Any last poetic nonsense, Voyageur?
Joe knocks the pistol aside. They grapple. Blackthorn slips, falls into the water — captured by Ojibwe warriors.
BLACKTHORN (spluttering, still theatrical) You’ll hear from London! This isn’t over!
BIG JOE (standing tall, breathing hard) For us it is. The river keeps flowing.
CUT TO:
EXT. SUNRISE OVER LAKE SUPERIOR – NEXT MORNING
The brigade reforms. Furs secured. The brothers stand together, battered but proud.
MIKE (quietly) We did it. For the Company. For Canada.
BRUNO For each other.
BIG JOE (voice full of quiet pride) One day this wild country will be one nation — from sea to sea. And Voyageurs like us helped build it.
They push off. Paddles strike water.
ALL THREE (singing full-throated as the sun rises) En roulant ma boule, roulant… En roulant ma boule!
The room is dim, curtains half-drawn against a pale Ottawa morning. Justin Trudeau sits at the edge of a chair, rubbing his temples, a glass of water untouched beside him.
“Listen… people are twisting this into something ugly. That morning—after that ridiculous party at Jacob Rothschild’s mansion—yeah, I said some things. Who wouldn’t? It was late, there was too much champagne, too many egos in one room.”
He exhales, shaking his head.
“I stepped outside. Needed air. The sky was just starting to lighten… and there it was—the morning star. Bright. Quiet. For a second, everything felt… cinematic, you know?”
A faint, almost embarrassed smile.
“And I said—fine, I wished. I said I wanted revenge on Matthew Perry. But not that kind of revenge. Not darkness, not harm, not… anything like what people are implying.”
His tone sharpens.
“I meant in the ring. Gloves on. Bell ringing. A proper fight. Settle it like men—with rules, with respect. That’s what I meant.”
He leans forward, more intense now.
“People hear ‘revenge’ and they jump straight to tragedy. That’s not who I am. That’s not what I asked for.”
A pause. Then, quieter, almost to himself:
“And Rothschild… that whole place, it had a strange energy. Like everything you say echoes louder than it should.”
He mutters under his breath, a mix of frustration and irony:
“Rothschild… you devil.”
Then, switching briefly into French, with a tired smirk:
“Quel cirque… What a circus this all became.”
He stands, straightening his jacket.
“For the record: if there’s ever a score to settle, it’ll be under lights, in a ring—not in the shadows.”
