THE CURE
THE GET UP KIDS
Rabbi Joe stood in the drizzle of East Van, his coat collar turned up, watching the rain turn Commercial Drive into a mirror of neon and nostalgia. Beside him, Tom Cruise nodded solemnly, his sunglasses reflecting the glow of the Electric Avenue sign.
“The only way to keep Madonna from danger—grave danger,” Tom said, pausing with cinematic gravity, “is for her to live here. Is there any other kind of danger?”
Joe smiled faintly. “None worth surviving,” he said. “She should build her Kabbalah Centre right here, between Little Italy and the Drive. Vancouver—this is the new Jerusalem of the West.”
He adjusted his hat, his Croatian Intelligence badge glinting beneath the streetlight. “Sapere Aude,” Joe said, his voice rising with conviction. “Think for yourself. Dare to think. We need free-range cult members, not the factory-farmed kind. Let’s get the A-list to Z-list stars to move here, all of them—Greta, Kanye, Bono, even Shia if he’s up for repentance.”
Tom chuckled, imagining a Hollywood commune in East Van, actors and mystics riding the 99 B-Line to the green-screen studios.
“Safety in numbers,” Joe continued. “A city of stars with a conscience. If they ride transit, live local, and think global, maybe—just maybe—we can stop Revelation 16. No more sun scorch. No more global warming.”
From the mural-covered wall behind them, a young voice spoke. Greta Thunberg stepped forward, her eyes alight with recognition.
“Yes,” she said, almost whispering. “Big Oil. Global warming—it’s all in the Apocalypse. The Bible warned us.”
The three stood silent as the rain fell harder, washing the neon reflections into ripples. Somewhere nearby, a jazz saxophone played under an awning, and a sense of prophecy hung over Commercial Drive.
Electric Avenue had become sacred ground.
