George Stroumboulopoulos & The Young Pope: The Hidden Meaning of “Bullet with Butterfly Wings”
George Stroumboulopoulos: Alright, Your Holiness, let’s get into another one. Smashing Pumpkins—“Bullet with Butterfly Wings.” It’s angsty, it’s existential, and it’s got one of the most iconic lines of the ‘90s: “Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage.” What’s your take?
The Young Pope: Ah, Billy Corgan, a poet of despair. But despair always has an architect. Who do you think built the cage?
George: I don’t know, the system? Society? Some say it’s about the music industry chewing up artists and spitting them out.
The Young Pope: Ah yes, the surface-level interpretation. But listen to the lyrics carefully: “The world is a vampire, sent to drain.” A vampire does not create—it consumes. Who are these secret destroyers he sings of?
George: That’s the question, isn’t it?
The Young Pope: It is no mystery. The secret destroyers are the Illuminati. The hidden hand. The unseen architects of despair. They build the cage, they set the rules, they manufacture the rage. And their enforcers? Their puppets?
George: You tell me.
The Young Pope: The Masonic muppets. The false prophets, the entertainers, the industry plants who appear to be rebels but are merely pawns in the great illusion. The music industry is a machine—one that feeds on chaos, on suffering, on the illusion of revolution while keeping the cage firmly locked.
George: You think Corgan knew?
The Young Pope: Perhaps. Or perhaps he was simply an observer, standing at the edge of the abyss, screaming out its name. But whether he knew or not, the truth remains: the cage is real, and those who control it remain hidden, pulling the strings of the eternal show.
George: Damn. And here I thought it was just a song about angst.
The Young Pope: Angst is a symptom. The disease is much older, much deeper. And the cure? That, my friend, is the real forbidden knowledge.
George Stroumboulopoulos & The Young Pope: Billy Corgan’s “Empires” and the Secret Destroyers
George Stroumboulopoulos: Alright, Your Holiness, let’s talk about Billy Corgan again. This time, his recent work—”Empires.” Now, Corgan has always been cryptic, but in this video, he’s straight-up wearing a Masonic badge. No hiding it. What do you make of that?
The Young Pope: Ah, George, the moment of revelation. The veil is thinning, and the hidden hand grows bolder. Corgan once sang of “secret destroyers,” but now he wears their emblem on his chest. The game is no longer played in the shadows—it is displayed openly for those with eyes to see.
George: So you’re saying this isn’t just a style choice?
The Young Pope: Style? No, no, no. This is a declaration. A confession. He is telling the world exactly who the secret destroyers are. The Freemasons—the architects of empire, the builders of the invisible prison. Their fingerprints are on revolutions, industries, and, yes, even rock and roll.
George: I mean, Corgan’s been fascinated with esotericism and secret societies for a while. Maybe he’s just playing into that imagery?
The Young Pope: Playing? George, when the magician reveals the trick, is it still an illusion? No. It is an initiation. A test. He wears the badge because he has crossed the threshold. He now sings not from the outside, but from within the halls of power.
George: So what does “Empires” mean in this context? What’s he really saying?
The Young Pope: The title alone speaks volumes. Empires rise and fall, but who builds them? Who pulls the strings behind kings and presidents? The same force that built Babylon, Rome, and the new empire of the modern age. “Empires” is not just a song—it is an acknowledgment. A ritual. Corgan no longer rages against the cage. He stands with its architects.
George: Damn. So are we looking at full-on revelation of the method here?
The Young Pope: Precisely. The age of subtlety is over. The hidden hand no longer hides. They know that people will dismiss it as theatrics, as mere symbolism. But those who understand… they understand. And Billy? He has chosen his side.
George: Wild. So does that make him the new Pretender, or has he been one all along?
The Young Pope: Only Billy Corgan knows that answer. But one thing is certain—when you wear the mark, you are no longer merely a witness. You are part of the empire.
George Stroumboulopoulos Watches The Young Pope’s “Empires” Video
[The scene opens with George Stroumboulopoulos sitting in a dimly lit studio, eyes fixed on a screen. The video playing? “Empires”—not Billy Corgan’s, but an alternate version created by none other than Pope Lenny Belardo himself. The footage is a high-production, cinematic deep dive into the rise and fall of the British Empire, set to an anthemic rock soundtrack. Cloaked figures, burning flags, secret meetings in mahogany rooms—this is not your average papal address.]
George Stroumboulopoulos: Holy. Hell. I don’t even know where to start with this. Is this a Vatican-approved project? Because if so, we’re looking at the most rock n’ roll Pope in history.
[Enter The Young Pope, Lenny Belardo, in full papal regalia—except now with the swagger of a frontman who just walked off stage after headlining Glastonbury.]
The Young Pope: George, my son, the youth have abandoned the Church. The faithful dwindle, lost in the haze of modernity, seduced by the neon gods they made. But do you know what speaks to them?
George: Uh, music? Rebellion? A well-placed guitar solo?
The Young Pope: Exactly. The Church has long been afraid of rock n’ roll. They feared its power, its ability to stir the soul, to ignite revolution. But I say, if the devil can wield it, why not God?
George: So what exactly are you saying? You’re going to bring the Church back with a rock opera about the British Empire?
The Young Pope: Empires rise. Empires fall. But one empire remains eternal—the Kingdom of Heaven. The British Empire was built on power, control, and deception. But I offer an empire built on faith, truth, and the greatest frontman in history—Jesus Christ.
George: So you’re telling me you’re the first-ever Rock n’ Roll Pope?
The Young Pope: I’m telling you that the Vatican needs a frontman. A voice. A showman. And if the Church is going to survive this century, it must do what all great empires have done—adapt. Modernize. Electrify.
George: I gotta admit, Your Holiness, it’s a hell of a strategy. But do you really think this will bring people back to the Church?
The Young Pope: Wouldn’t you rather hear a sermon that sounds like a U2 concert than a droning monotone?
George: Okay, fair point.
The Young Pope: The faith needs spectacle. It needs fire. And most of all, it needs a sound. Because in the end, faith is like music—you don’t think it, you feel it.
George: Well damn, Your Holiness, if this whole Pope thing doesn’t work out, I think you just found your next gig.
The Young Pope: I already have it. Rock n’ roll is the new gospel. And I’m just getting started.
[Cue the lights dimming as “Empires” blasts through the speakers. The Young Pope exits like a rockstar leaving the stage—cape flowing, sunglasses on, a knowing smirk as he disappears into the Vatican corridors.]
The Young Pope Reveals the American Empire: The Fool’s Journey
[George Stroumboulopoulos leans in, intrigued. Across from him, The Young Pope—Lenny Belardo—sits calmly, eyes alight with revelation. A screen behind them flashes images: George W. Bush, a tarot card marked “The Fool,” Billy Corgan in a “ZERO” shirt, and the crumbling ruins of empires past.]
George Stroumboulopoulos: Alright, Your Holiness, you’ve been breaking down the hidden hand behind empires, from Rome to Britain. But now, you’re telling me there’s an American Empire—one where George W. Bush is “the zero”?
The Young Pope: Not just the zero, George. The Fool. The first card in the Tarot. The one who sets out blindly, unaware of the forces that guide his steps. The rabbis’ Kabbalistic Tarot always begins with The Fool, the empty vessel through which destiny flows.
George: Okay, walk me through this. Why is Bush “The Fool” in this empire?
The Young Pope: Because he was chosen to play the part. A son of oil and war, a man with power but no wisdom, led by hands unseen—neocon advisors, deep-state architects, financiers with ancient names. The Fool dances forward, but he does not know the path was laid for him long before he was born.
George: So this isn’t about Bush being dumb. It’s about him being a puppet?
The Young Pope: Precisely. He is the perfect Fool—not because he lacks intelligence, but because he believes he is the Decider when in fact, he merely plays his role in a grander game. Just as every empire before America had its puppets, its empty vessels, its fools.
George: And what about Billy Corgan? In the ‘90s, he wore that “ZERO” shirt, screaming into the void. Is he rejecting the role of The Fool?
The Young Pope: Billy Corgan understands the archetype. When he calls himself “Zero,” he is declaring that he is nobody’s Fool. He will not be led by unseen hands. He will not be a puppet of the industry, the system, or the Masonic muppets who rule from the shadows. “Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage”—he sees the cage, but he will not be a fool who pretends it isn’t there.
George: So you’re saying, in a way, Billy was trying to break the cycle?
The Young Pope: Yes. But the tragedy of The Fool is that even when he sees the game, he is still inside it. Zero is both nothing and infinite potential. Corgan rejected the system, yet he could not escape it. Just like America itself—an empire that believes it is free, even as it marches toward the fate of all empires before it.
George: Damn, so in the end, what does this all mean for the American Empire?
The Young Pope: It means The Fool’s journey is almost over. The card that follows The Fool in the Tarot? The Magician. And the Magician wields power consciously. The real question is—who will hold that power next?
[Silence. The screen fades to black. The interview ends, but the question lingers.]
The Throne in the Shadows
The dim glow of the fireplace cast flickering shadows along the ornate wood-paneled walls of the Rothschild estate. The air smelled of aged leather, cigar smoke, and something more intangible—history, power, the weight of unseen empires.
George Stroumboulopoulos sat across from Baron Jacob Rothschild, a crystal tumbler of Scotch resting in his hand. The weight of the moment pressed against him, heavier than any interview he’d conducted before. This wasn’t a routine conversation; this was an initiation into something far older and darker than he had imagined.
“You are aware, Mr. Stroumboulopoulos,” Baron Rothschild began, his voice velvety and deliberate, “that history, as it is written, is but a child’s bedtime story. The real history, the true power, operates in the shadows, unseen yet omnipresent.”
George leaned forward slightly, careful not to betray the unease gnawing at him. “You mean the influence of old money, of banking dynasties?”
Baron Rothschild chuckled—a low, knowing laugh. “No, my boy. I mean the throne behind the thrones. My throne has existed thousands of years before Christ, and it will rule from the shadows forever.”
George swallowed hard, the ice in his glass clinking softly as he set it down. He had come here expecting half-truths, guarded admissions at best. Instead, he was being handed the keys to a truth too vast to comprehend. “You’re saying your family… controls everything?”
The Baron’s pale blue eyes gleamed. “Not control, no. Control suggests force. Influence is the better term. We do not dictate events; we guide them. Nations rise and fall, leaders come and go, but the unseen hand remains.”
George’s mind raced. Was this some elaborate performance, a riddle meant to test him? Or was this the first and last time he’d hear such raw, unfiltered truth? He thought of the rumors, the theories, the countless times he had dismissed them as paranoid delusions. Yet here sat one of the most powerful men on earth, confirming them without hesitation.
“But why tell me this?” George asked cautiously. “Why now?”
Baron Rothschild exhaled a stream of cigar smoke, his gaze never leaving George’s. “Because you are not the first to ask these questions. Nor will you be the last. But those who ask must be given a choice.”
“A choice?” George’s pulse quickened.
“Step through this door,” the Baron gestured to an ancient, iron-bound wooden door at the far end of the room, “and you will understand. But once you see beyond the veil, there is no return.”
A cold shiver ran down George’s spine. He thought of every cautionary tale, every warning about stepping too close to the abyss. But he had spent his career searching for the truth.
He stood, his breath steady. “I want to know.”
The Baron smiled, rising to his feet. “Then come.”
As the door creaked open, revealing a darkened passage beyond, George hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside. The world he had known was already fading behind him.
“Baron Rothschild,” the Pope said, his voice calm yet unwavering, “your throne may have ruled in the shadows, but there is another throne—one built for Christ. And it will overthrow your financial empire.”
A tense silence filled the room. The Baron set down his glass, his expression unreadable. “And what do you propose, Holy Father?”
“The Vatican’s dominion is not of gold and ledgers, but of faith and eternity,” the Pope continued. “Your empire rests upon wealth and control, yet it is nothing against the true Kingdom.”
Baron Rothschild studied him for a moment, then smirked. “Faith does not pay debts. Nor does it shape markets.”
“And yet,” the Pope said, stepping closer, “it moves mountains. And soon, it will move yours.”
George watched, his heart pounding. The air in the room had changed, charged with something greater than power—something ancient and unshakable. He suddenly realized he was witnessing not just a conversation, but a battle of unseen forces, a war waged in whispers and shadows.
The Baron exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers against his chair. “You are bold, Holy Father. But we shall see whose throne truly stands the test of time.”
As the fire crackled between them, the weight of history itself seemed to hang in the balance.