Joe leaned in toward Nelly with that half-serious, half-mischievous look he always gets when he’s planning something borderline prophetic.
“Nelly… on August 13th, 2026 — the Fatima date — we are going to stick out like a sore thumb at the AC/DC concert in Vancouver,” he declared, pointing upward like he was issuing a papal decree.
Nelly blinked. “How? Everyone’s gonna be wearing horns.”
Joe grinned. “Exactly. That’s why we wear HALOS. Glowing ones. Big ones. Heavenly ones. Let Brian Johnson think the angels came for him mid-‘Thunderstruck.’”
He paced like a general planning a campaign.
“And it’s a double date, okay? You, me, Marcia Araujo, Dave Araujo. The Holy Quad. The Apostles of Rock.”
Nelly laughed, covering her face. “Joe, that’s ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously holy,” Joe corrected.
Then he suddenly dropped his voice to a whisper.
“Praise Bog you proved you have eggs.”
Nelly burst out laughing.
“You’re not still thinking about that Paul Joseph Watson video…”
Joe shuddered theatrically.
“Nelly, that ‘NO EGGS’ video traumatised me. I thought you were gonna dry up like the Sahara right before Armageddon. Then — BAM — you prove you’re as fertile as the Hunza women of Pakistan. I nearly lit a votive candle.”
Nelly shook her head.
“Joe, why are you like this?”
Joe raised a finger:
“Because Fatima. Because AC/DC. Because halos. And because you and the Araujos are gonna witness the most celestial mosh pit the world has ever seen.”
He crossed himself dramatically.
“In the name of Angus Young, the Son, and the Holy Thunder.”
Nelly groaned.
Joe beamed.
