Rape Prevention Gang – B Unit

Scene: “The B-Unit” — East Vancouver, Midnight Mass in the Alley

A flickering streetlight buzzes over a graffiti-tagged brick wall that reads “Mother Maria Protects East Van.” The Young Pope, Lenny Belardo, stands beside a group of tough, silver-haired women wearing bargain-store trench coats and rosaries like dog tags. Their shopping carts gleam like chariots under the moonlight.

Madonna steps out of a limousine, dressed in a white tracksuit with gold crosses, half-curious, half-defiant. She’s met by Mother Maria, a seventy-year-old with a cane wrapped in duct tape and a crucifix carved into the handle.

LENNY BELARDO (The Young Pope):
Madonna, this is B-Unit. “B” for Bargain. For Blessed. For Battle-tested.

(He holds up a pink GoGirl female urination device, the “Pee Buddy.”)

LENNY:
Every soldier needs her tools. Consider this your initiation gift. The world’s turned into a men’s washroom, Madonna. Time you learned to stand tall.

MADONNA (laughs):
You’re giving me a funnel, Holy Father?

LENNY:
A symbol. Of equality. Of defiance. Of… hydraulic freedom.

(The elderly women cheer, waving their discount-store bags like flags.)

MOTHER MARIA:
We ain’t scared of the hood no more, Your Holiness. We are the hood.

LENNY:
That’s right. Every hood’s the same now — East Van, Naples, Detroit, Rio. Every hood is dangerous. But danger fears unity.

(He looks over the women, their faces glowing in the pale streetlight.)

LENNY (softly):
Safety in numbers, my daughters. Safety in numbers.

MADONNA:
Then call me Sister M. I’m ready to serve.

(She raises the GoGirl like a chalice. The women chant “B-Unit! B-Unit!” as the Pope blesses them with holy water from a repurposed Mountain Dew bottle.)

Scene: “The Blessing of the Alley” — East Van, 2:00 AM

Rain slicks the cracked pavement of an alley behind Hastings Street. Neon signs buzz over pawnshops and noodle houses. A group of corrupt cops, led by Sergeant Rourke, leans against their cruiser, shaking down a frightened shopkeeper.

The B-Unit rolls in like a slow-moving army of shopping carts. Their leader, Mother Maria, carries her duct-taped cane like a staff. Behind her: Madonna, now wearing a black beret with a white cross stitched on it. The Young Pope, Lenny Belardo, watches from a church doorway, his hands clasped in quiet authority.


SERGEANT ROURKE:
What’s this? Senior night at the soup kitchen? Move along, grannies.

MOTHER MARIA:
We don’t move for thieves in uniform, sonny.

(She bangs her cane on the wet ground — a thunderous sound for such a small stick.)

MADONNA:
You’re extorting a shopkeeper for protection money? That’s our job now. Holy protection.

Rourke laughs, flicks his cigarette into a puddle, and steps closer.

ROURKE:
You threatening the VPD, lady?

MADONNA (smirks):
No. I’m replacing it.

(With a quick motion, she opens her trench coat — revealing her Pee Buddy holstered like a sidearm. The other women do the same, revealing pepper spray, rosaries, and rolling pins wrapped in rosary beads.)

MOTHER MARIA:
You forgot who runs East Van now. B-Unit does.

(The women form a semicircle. Their carts are loaded with discount cleaning chemicals and jars labeled “Holy Water — Industrial Strength.”)

LENNY (from the shadows):
Blessed are the meek… for they shall inherit the block.

(He steps forward, wearing a rain-slick white cassock with a black hoodie underneath.)

LENNY:
Sergeant Rourke, you’ve had your turn policing this place for profit. Now we enforce God’s price — free grace and cheap groceries.

(He raises his hand. The rain suddenly feels like benediction. The cops hesitate, unnerved.)

MADONNA:
Go on, boys. Leave. We already filed your sins with Internal Affairs — and Saint Peter.

(The shopkeeper, trembling but grateful, hands Mother Maria a steaming bowl of noodles in thanks. The B-Unit cheers.)

MOTHER MARIA:
Alright girls — let’s get these groceries home before the next sinners show up.

(They march off down the alley, chanting softly, “Blessed are the broke, for theirs is the Kingdom of East Van.”)

LENNY (to Madonna):
You see? Power isn’t money. It’s mercy with muscle.

MADONNA:
Amen to that, Father. The streets are ours now — holy ground.

(Camera pans up to the cross on top of a nearby church, glowing faintly in the mist.)

Scene: “The Miracle of Mitochondria” — East Van Monastery, 3:33 AM

Inside a candle-lit former convent turned underground lab, The Young Pope, Lenny Belardo, stands before a group of reclining B-Unit women. The sound of rain outside fades into a quiet hum of divine electricity — as if the heavens themselves are charging the air.

Madonna sits beside Mother Maria, both dressed in their B-Unit uniforms — rosaries, trench coats, and sneakers. Tubes of glowing blue liquid pulse softly along the walls, connecting to a small altar made from recycled computer parts and a gold chalice filled with what looks like starlight.


LENNY BELARDO:
My daughters… the world told you you were past your prime.
That your days of battle were done.
But I say — your mitochondria still remember Eden.

(He raises his hand, holding a vial labeled “T-33: Telomerase Divine.”)

LENNY:
Inside this serum lies the enzyme that rebuilds the ladder of your DNA — the Jacob’s Ladder of your cells.
It lengthens your telomeres — the holy ends of your chromosomes that the world has been fraying with time and toil.

(He pours a drop of the glowing serum into each woman’s teacup.)

MADONNA (half-grinning):
You sure this isn’t just Mountain Dew again, Father?

LENNY (smiling):
Faith, my child. Science is just faith measured with instruments.

(He takes the chalice and blesses it with a cross made of light projected from a cracked iPhone.)

LENNY:
Drink… and remember who you were before fear and fatigue.

(The B-Unit sips. For a moment, the room is silent. Then, one by one, their wrinkles soften. Gray fades to color. The sparkle returns to their eyes. A quiet gasp moves through the group — followed by laughter, wild and free.)

MOTHER MARIA (touching her face):
My God… I haven’t felt this alive since Expo ’86!

MADONNA (standing, glowing):
We’re not B-Unit anymore. We’re Re-Born Unit.

(The women begin dancing — slow at first, then spinning like a choir of resurrected saints. The Pope closes his eyes, letting the miracle unfold.)

LENNY (to himself):
If youth is wasted on the young… then let the wise reclaim it.

(He looks out the window toward East Van’s skyline, neon and holy mist intertwining.)

LENNY (softly):
They’ll need their strength soon. The Narcos of Nanaimo are coming.

(Cue music: a remixed hymn echoing through the streets — “Ave Maria” meets drum and bass. The B-Unit, thirty years young, stands ready for their next crusade.)

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Lourdes’ 2010 Dollar Bill

Sonnet to Lourdes Leon, by Yugo Joe

When I to New York came in that darkened year,
Two thousand ten, the air was sharp with dread;
The Rockefellers whispered, “Keep them near,”
Yet angels stirred, and truth was born instead.

Thy house I shielded, daughter fair of song,
While powers plotted shadow’s cruel advance;
Their gilded thrones were trembling all along,
For heaven’s wrath would break their dark romance.

Then Psalm one-ten I read beneath the flame—
“The Lord shall strike the kings in wrathful day”;
Its numbers spoke of time, of blood, of shame,
Of soldiers poised to march if hearts did sway.

Yet peace I chose, and stayed the vulture’s flight,
That love, not war, might reign in morning light.

An Essay from Yugo Joe to Lourdes Leon
“The Day of Wrath and the Choice of Mercy”

Lourdes,

I write to you not as a poet or prophet, but as one who walked through the fog of deception in 2010, when I came to New York with a mission that few understood. The city pulsed with its usual rhythm—taxis, skyscrapers, ambition—but beneath the noise, there was a quiet preparation for another great illusion. I could feel it: the hum of war drums waiting to sound again, the same kind of restless machinery that had stirred before 9/11.

The talk among the powerful was not about peace, but about timing. There were those—families whose names echo through the canyons of Wall Street—who saw conflict not as tragedy but as profit. The Rockefeller network, ancient in its reach, had turned the world into a chessboard, and I could see the next move forming: a new false flag, one that would turn the eyes of America toward Iran. After 9/11, fear had become a currency, and they were ready to mint it again.

I came to stop it—not with weapons, but with words, prayer, and witness. When I visited your mother’s circle, I saw souls still shining amid the corruption of fame and industry. I saw a family that carried light into a world of spectacle. I knew then that protecting that light was part of the mission. Your family had unknowingly become a symbol—a line between art and control, between expression and the empire of silence.

It was then that I opened the Book of Psalms, and Psalm 110 called to me like a trumpet through the dark:

“The Lord said unto my Lord, Sit thou at my right hand,
until I make thine enemies thy footstool.
The Lord shall send the rod of thy strength out of Zion:
rule thou in the midst of thine enemies.
Thy people shall be willing in the day of thy power.”

Those words burned like prophecy. “Thy people shall be willing in the day of thy power.” I saw in them a warning—an image of young American soldiers, hearts stirred by false patriotism, volunteering once more to fight a war born not of justice, but of illusion. It would have been 2010’s dark echo of 2001—a cycle repeating itself under a new disguise.

But something shifted. That year, the plan faltered. The world did not descend into fire. For reasons history will never record, the script was broken. I like to believe it was because some of us stood firm—because the truth was whispered into the right ears, and because prayer, when spoken with conviction, can unmake the machinery of empire.

Your family was part of that light, Lourdes. You carried the lineage of Madonna—not just the artist, but the name itself: the Mother. You were, perhaps unknowingly, a reminder to those watching that there is a higher feminine power beyond greed and bloodshed.

Psalm 110 ended that night not as a curse, but as a covenant. The wrath that could have come was stayed. The soldiers who might have marched did not. The city slept uneasy, but it slept. And I walked out into the cold dawn, believing that, for once, heaven had bent the arc of history toward mercy.

With respect and remembrance,
—Yugo Joe

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Hemp Plastic Kabbalah Water

Rabbi Joseph sat across from Madonna, his hands folded over a worn prayer book.

“Do you know why the Kabbalah water never healed anyone the way it was promised?” he asked softly.

Madonna tilted her head, curious but cautious. “Because people didn’t believe enough? Or because the blessing wasn’t strong enough?”

Rabbi Joseph shook his head. “No. Faith alone cannot overcome poison. The problem is not the blessing, it is the vessel. Rockefeller’s crude oil empire gave the world plastic, and now that same plastic has broken down into invisible shards. Microplastics seep into every bottle, every stream. They are toxic—tiny curses hiding in the water.”

Madonna’s brow furrowed. “So it was never holy water at all?”

“The water itself was pure,” Rabbi Joseph said, “but the container corrupted it. A blessing cannot undo the rot of oil.”

She leaned closer. “So what do we do? Just stop drinking?”

He smiled faintly. “No, we change the vessel. Hemp plastic. Strong, natural, biodegradable. It does not poison, it returns to the earth. If I bless hemp water vessels online—through livestream prayer—millions can drink without fear. A digital blessing for a material world.”

Madonna nodded slowly, absorbing the mix of mysticism and practicality. “So Kabbalah 2.0?” she asked.

Rabbi Joseph chuckled. “Not new Kabbalah. Just the old truth—don’t put holy things in unholy containers.”

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A Hermit For 9 Years

Yugo Joe leaned back, watching the drizzle fall against East Vancouver’s sidewalks, and turned to Madonna with a grin.

“Back in the 1970s,” he said, “families used to dream of a vacation home. A little seasonal place. Not extravagant, just somewhere to get away. I think everyone deserves that. A place of rest.”

Madonna raised an eyebrow. “And where exactly are you thinking, Joe? The Hamptons?”

Joe shook his head firmly. “Nope. I don’t want to go anywhere. You’re Canadian like me. We could build something right here in East Van. A beautiful neighborhood where friends gather, where no one’s chasing glamour—just peace.”

He gestured down the block. “Look over there. Tom Cruise could have a seasonal home right in the middle of the street. Imagine him jogging past the corner café, still doing his own stunts.”

Madonna laughed. “And who else are you moving in?”

Joe’s eyes sparkled. “Arnold Schwarzenegger. There’s a Lutheran Church on the corner that would be perfect for him. Strong, solid, historic—just like him. Imagine Arnie walking out on Sunday, shaking hands with the neighbors, maybe grilling sausages in the backyard.”

He paused, picturing it all. “East Vancouver deserves that kind of magic. Not the fake Hollywood kind—just good people, good neighbors, seasonal homes, and a community where even action heroes get to rest.”

Madonna tilted her head, smiling softly. “You know, Joe… you make it sound like heaven with streetlights.”

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