Category: Arnold Schwarzenegger

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Underground Usurper

Scene: “The Usurper” – A Behind-the-Scenes Showdown

INT. SOUNDSTAGE – NIGHT. Smoke curls in the air. The faint hum of a generator mixes with the echo of metallic footsteps. NICK STAHL storms in, agitated. ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER sits calmly on a folding chair, cigar in hand. JOSEPH C. JUKIC (“JCJ”), the new John Connor, is off-camera, checking lighting on a prop rifle.

NICK STAHL
(angry, pointing)
Arnold, what’s going on here? Who is this guy? This Joseph Jukic? He’s an usurper! A smoker, too! You know what they say—smokers are jokers!

ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER
(takes a slow puff, smirks)
Nick… you sound jealous. He may smoke, but at least he doesn’t choke.

NICK STAHL
Come on! You can’t just swap me out like that. I was John Connor! I am the resistance!

ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER
(shrugs)
Resistance is good. But change is… inevitable.
(pauses)
And listen carefully, Nick — stay away from my stogie. I earned this one in the jungle before you were born.

NICK STAHL
(gritting teeth)
You’re serious? You’re backing him? The guy’s from East Van, not the future!

ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER
(leans forward, eyes glinting)
As long as JCJ stays hard-drug-free, he is my man. No more Hollywood rehab stories. I need a fighter, not a headline.

Nick’s shoulders slump. The hum of the machines fills the silence. Arnold rises, places a heavy hand on Nick’s shoulder.

ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER (cont’d)
Remember, Nick — in this war, there is no fate but what we make.
(beat)
And Joseph C. Jukic just made a better one.

Arnold walks toward JCJ, cigar smoke trailing behind him like steam from a terminator core. Nick watches, defeated, as the camera pans to the glowing “TERMINATOR: RESURRECTION” banner hanging above the set.

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9/11 Calls

Scene: Inside the dusty garage hideout, night.
The neon from a half-broken “OPEN” sign flickers through the window. John Connor leans over a pile of salvaged tech—old CB radios, voice boxes, and busted cell phones—while the T-800 calmly reloads a shotgun with mechanical precision.

JOHN CONNOR:
Hey, uh… I’ve been meaning to ask you something.

T-800:
Affirmative.

JOHN:
Back there, when you called my foster parents? You sounded exactly like my mom. Like… freakishly real. How do you even do that?

T-800:
Mimetic polyalloy units possess molecular-level sound replication. I do not. My model uses mechanical approximation and computational waveform analysis.

JOHN (squints):
So… like autotune on steroids?

T-800 (deadpan):
Incorrect analogy. I record a minimum two seconds of vocal input, extract harmonic frequencies, and construct a digital phoneme map. Then I synthesize the signal through my vocal processor.

JOHN:
So you basically… remix their voice in real time?

T-800:
Affirmative. The imitation is exact to within 0.0003 percent deviation in waveform fidelity. Human auditory systems cannot detect the difference.

JOHN (impressed):
Man, that’s insane. Can you, like, do me?

T-800 (turns slightly, perfectly mimicking John’s voice):
“Hey dudes, this is John Connor, future leader of the Resistance. Don’t mess with my dirt bike.”

JOHN (laughing):
Okay, that’s creepy as hell.

T-800 (flatly):
It is an effective infiltration technique.

JOHN:
Yeah… remind me never to let you borrow my phone.

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Terminating Global Warming

JCJ stood on the front steps of his modest home on Fleming Street, the morning mist still hanging low over East Vancouver. The bells of the old Lutheran German church at the corner tolled softly — a sound that somehow carried both strength and humility.

Arnold Schwarzenegger stood beside him, hands on his hips, squinting up the street like a general surveying a battlefield.

JCJ said with quiet pride, “You see, Arnold… this is a good neighborhood. Honest people. The church keeps the peace. You can hear the choir every Sunday morning. No Hollywood ego here — just grace.”

Arnold nodded, his accent thick but his tone sincere. “Ya… I like it. The architecture — it’s authentic. Not like those Beverly Hills fortresses. You can breathe here.”

JCJ chuckled. “That’s why you’re moving in. We’ll get you a nice two-bedroom down the block. And no limousines — you’re taking the SkyTrain now. Every morning to Rupert Station Studios. You ride with the people. You see what real Vancouver life is like.”

Arnold raised an eyebrow. “The SkyTrain? Me? With the commuters?”

JCJ grinned. “That’s right. No red carpet. No security detail. Just you, your gym bag, and a protein shake. You’ll get more inspiration on that train than in any boardroom.”

Arnold let out a booming laugh. “JCJ, you’re crazy… but I like your style. Maybe I’ll even bring my bike — ride to the station!”

“Perfect,” JCJ said, handing him a folded city map. “Welcome to Fleming Street, neighbor. Just remember — church bells ring at nine sharp. Don’t sleep in.”

Arnold looked toward the steeple, the cross gleaming faintly in the morning sun.
“Then I guess it’s judgment day every Sunday,” he said with a wink.

JCJ smiled. “Exactly, my friend. But this time, you’re not terminating anyone — you’re redeeming yourself.”