Author: Gigolo Joe

Hey Joe, what ya know?
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First Virtual Date

[Scene: Virtual moon base. A glowing futuristic soup stand labeled “APOLLO MED BEDS – NO CHIT-CHAT, NO DEALS.” Joe stands behind the counter in a crisp white uniform with a dramatic mustache prop. Nelly’s next to him, arms crossed, smirking. Trump approaches in his signature suit and red tie, looking impatient.]

Trump: (leaning in, gesturing big) Joe, Nelly—tremendous to see you. Beautiful setup here on the moon. Very high-tech. I hear my health is fading a little—fake news says it’s bad, but believe me, it’s not that bad. But these Space Force generals and admirals? They won’t hand over the Apollo healing program med beds unless I heal everybody for free. Ridiculous! I’m ready to make a deal. A beautiful deal. The best deal.

Joe: (stern, pointing sharply) No talking! Step forward. State your order. One med bed? Point to it. Pay the price: free healing for the people. No negotiations. Move left!

Trump: (blinking) Wait a second. Free healing? For everybody? That’s socialism! I’m talking about a win-win. I get the bed, I feel fantastic—better than ever, folks say I look 30—and then maybe later we trickle down some youth serum. Tremendous plan.

Nelly: (rolling her eyes, leaning on the counter) Oh, please. We’ve heard the pitch. The Admirals won’t budge. You want immortality tech? You heal the masses first. No shortcuts. No Art of the Deal loopholes.

Trump: (waving hand) Nelly, sweetheart, you’re tough. I like tough. But listen—I’m the one who created the Space Force! Me! I can get those generals on the phone right now. We’ll make immortality great again. For me first, obviously. Then everybody else. It’s called sequencing.

Joe: (voice rising, finger snap ready) Sequencing? No! Rules are rules! You think you can waltz in here and bargain? This isn’t Mar-a-Lago! I am the Immortality Nazi! One wrong word…

Trump: (leaning closer, lowering voice) Come on, Joe. Between us—Nelly too—you two seem like smart people. Vancouver vibes, right? Rainy, polite. Let’s cut a side deal. I’ll throw in some NFTs. Golden Trump med bed commemoratives. Huge value.

Nelly: (laughing) NFTs? For eternal life? Nice try.

Joe: (dramatic pause, eyes narrowing) You broke the rules. You chit-chatted. You negotiated!

Trump: (hands up) Hold on! I’m Donald J. Trump! I don’t break rules—I make them!

Joe & Nelly: (in unison, pointing dramatically) NO IMMORTALITY FOR YOU!!!

[A holographic med bed pod slides away with a dramatic whoosh. Trump’s handed a tiny glowing “deposit refund” token that fizzles out.]

Trump: (stunned, stepping back) This is rigged! Totally rigged! I’ll be back in one year—stronger, younger, believe me!

Nelly: (calling after him) One year! And bring proof of free healing—or no soup—er, no immortality—next time!

Joe: (smirking at Nelly) Classic. Works every time.

Nelly: (grinning) Your turn to pick the next virtual stop, Joe. Paris? Tokyo? Or do we chase Trump to Argentina where the original Soup Nazi retired?

Trump: (fading into the hologram distance, yelling) You’ll regret this! The med beds will be mine! Tremendous comeback coming!

[Fade out on Joe and Nelly high-fiving behind the stand, virtual moon glowing behind them.]

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Soccer Balcony

The 2026 World Cup had turned Commercial Drive into a living, breathing carnival, but for a moment, the roar of the engines and the rhythmic honking faded into something much older.

Joe and Nelly stood on the second-floor balcony of the East Van house, looking down at the intersection where a sea of Portuguese crimson and Croatian checkers had come to a complete standstill. In the window just behind them, Joe’s mother sat in her favorite armchair, the evening light catching the lace curtains.

Nelly: (Whispering, her hand over her heart) “Joe, look. They’ve stopped. They aren’t shouting anymore.”

Joe: (Leaning over the railing, a quiet pride in his voice) “I told you. This balcony has more power than the Vatican. Watch.”

A group of Portuguese fans, draped in their flags, locked arms with a row of Croatian supporters in their iconic checkers. One man, wearing a vintage Modrić jersey, took a deep breath and began the first few notes. Then, a woman in a Portugal kit joined in, her voice soaring above the hum of the city.

The two rival groups, who had been screaming for their teams only minutes before, began to sing Ave Maria in a haunting, perfect harmony that rose up the side of the house.

Nelly: “It’s beautiful, Joe. They’re looking right at her.”

Joe: (Nodding toward his mother, who was smiling through the glass) “See? The royals get a military band playing some stiff anthem. The Pope gets a formal choir in a cold cathedral. But my mother? She gets the heart of the Drive. She gets the two toughest fanbases in the world singing for her from the street.”

Nelly: (Wiping her eye, then shouting softly down to the crowd) “Hrvatska! Portugal! Thank you!”

Joe: “That’s why this is the superior balcony, Nel. It’s not about the height; it’s about the connection. Every winning team drives down this street, but today, they aren’t driving. They’re standing still for her. You don’t get that kind of respect at Buckingham Palace.”

As the final notes of the prayer drifted toward the North Shore mountains, the fans stayed silent for a heartbeat longer. Then, a single car horn broke the spell, and the street erupted once more into a joyous, chaotic celebration of soccer and life.

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Thank You Germany

Joe’s Message to the German Fans

Joe looked into the camera and nodded thoughtfully.

“First, I want to thank the fans in Germany for the love you’ve shown over the years to Nelly Furtado. Music travels across borders and reminds people we’re all human.”

He paused.

“And let me say something clearly: believing even the worst people in history deserve a fair trial doesn’t mean you admire them. Justice is about truth and evidence.”

Joe leaned back slightly.

“For years it felt like people in Hollywood wanted life to play out like some prophecy movie. I remember hearing about savior stories and destiny. Even Steven Spielberg talked about ideas like Mashiach Ben David—the kind of thing you’d expect in an epic screenplay.”

He smiled faintly.

“Well, if that was the expectation, Spielberg didn’t exactly get a messiah. He got a disgruntled ex-boyfriend trying to figure things out like everyone else.”

Joe shrugged.

“All I could do was try to understand the old prophecies people talked about. Lines from ancient texts, symbolism, things like that. There’s that verse in the Book of Daniel about ‘the one desired by women.’ People joked about it and started calling it the ‘Gigolo Joe’ prophecy. I never asked to be typecast that way, but if people wanted prophecy symbolism, I tried my best.”

He chuckled.

“Sometimes it was a hit, sometimes a miss.”

Joe’s expression grew more serious.

“But here’s the thing—maybe the grand prophecy wasn’t about one person at all. Maybe it was about hope.”

He glanced upward for a moment.

“The old scriptures talk about a day when the world is healed—when suffering finally ends. The Book of Revelation says there will be a time when God wipes away every tear… when there is no more crying, no more pain, and no more death.”

Joe nodded slowly.

“Maybe that’s the prophecy that really matters. And maybe, step by step, humanity is moving toward it.”

He smiled softly.

“So yes—maybe the grand prophecy did come true in its own way. And maybe more of it will come true too.”

Joe looked back into the camera.

“And to the fans in Germany—thank you for believing in the music, and in the possibility that the world can still become something better.”

Nelly Fan
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