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.”
Madonna leaned back, crossing her arms, her eyes flickering like someone who had heard every compliment, every judgment, a thousand times before.
Yugo Joe:“You think lust is the only language men speak to you. That’s why you wear it like armor. But that’s not what I want. That’s not what my uncle wants either. We’re not here for your body, Madonna—we’re here for your mind.”
She tilted her head, a faint smile playing at her lips, half defense, half curiosity.
Madonna:“My mind? You don’t know how many say that just to get closer.”
Yugo Joe:“I know. But most of them are sycophants, feeding off you, buying and selling your image like perpetual commerce. That’s not love. That’s not even respect. Real love sees you stripped of all that—fame, scandal, money—and still wants you. My uncle believes that. I believe that.”
For the first time in a long while, she didn’t know what to say. The silence between them felt heavier than applause.
Madonna:“So what is it you really want? Another deal? Another photo-op? Another notch on the Madonna story?”
Her tone was sharp, the kind of blade forged from years of people wanting pieces of her, never the whole.
Yugo Joe stepped forward, shaking his head.
Yugo Joe:“That’s just it. Everyone sees you as a story, a product, an empire. They want your body, your brand, your fire—but not you. Not the woman who doubts, who dreams, who gets lonely. Lust is what you give them because you think it’s all they’ll accept.”
Madonna looked away, staring into her wine like it might defend her.
Madonna:“And what makes you different? Men always say that until they get what they want.”
Joe’s uncle finally spoke, his voice low, weathered by years of teaching and disappointment.
Uncle:“Because what we want, Madonna, is rarer than desire. We want your mind. We want to know what keeps you awake at night, not what keeps the tabloids alive. Real love doesn’t measure itself in record sales or magazine covers. It doesn’t use you for perpetual commerce. It endures.”
Madonna laughed softly—bitter at first, then almost fragile.
Madonna:“Real love. Do you know how long it’s been since anyone even said that to me without an angle?”
Joe sat beside her now, not close enough to intrude, just close enough to be heard.
Yugo Joe:“Maybe that’s why you’ve been waiting. For someone who sees the woman, not the myth. You don’t have to perform here. Not for me. Not for him. Just… for yourself.”
The room grew quiet. Outside, the city buzzed like a machine feeding on itself. Inside, the air was still, charged with something she had almost forgotten existed—hope, stripped bare of contracts, commerce, and sycophants.
And for the first time in years, Madonna allowed herself to imagine that love—real love—might not be a fairy tale after all.
Ash sat at the rickety wooden table in the ruined castle, the candlelight guttering as he shuffled the old, greasy tarot deck. His gloved hand flipped two cards: The Devil and a face-down one that seemed to twitch like it was alive.
“Groovy,” Ash muttered. “That can’t be good.”
The air grew heavy with perfume—something exotic, violet and jasmine—and suddenly a shimmering figure appeared in the smoke. The ghost of Elizabeth Taylor, dazzling even in death, draped in Cleopatra’s gold.
“Sweet mother of pearl,” Ash said, chainsaw twitching at his wrist. “Liz Taylor?”
Her violet eyes fixed on him, half sorrow, half seduction. “You’ve reached across the veil, darling. Not many can do that… except me, when I was alive.”
Ash smirked. “Yeah, well, I had a hot date with the devil, but I’ll take Hollywood royalty instead. What’s the deal, Liz? Why the tarot hotline?”
She sighed, her voice echoing like silk torn in two. “Larry was a blue-collar guy. He was the only one who made me feel like I was Cleopatra—not the jewel, not the star, but the woman. The real me.”
Ash scratched his chin. “Blue collar, huh? Guess I know the type. You ever see me wrangle Deadites in aisle six of S-Mart? Talk about romance.”
Her laughter rang like bells in a mausoleum. “Careful, Ash. When you play with the Devil, even a queen can lose her crown.”
The Devil card began to smolder, smoke curling up in the shape of horns.
Ash tightened his grip on the boomstick. “Yeah, well, sugar—when the devil calls, I’m the guy who puts him on hold.”
Ash leaned against the wall, chainsaw idling, eyes glazed with fatigue. “Listen, lady,” he said, waving the Devil tarot card like it was a library pass. “My uncle’s dying wish wasn’t gold, wasn’t a Cadillac, wasn’t even a final round of beer pong. No. The old man wanted one thing—” Ash leaned in, dead serious. “—to cuddle with Madonna.”
Elizabeth Taylor’s ghost raised an elegant brow. “The Virgin or the singer?”
Ash snorted. “Hell, both if he can swing it. He’s a good Christian man, and he doesn’t deserve to die without holding a Madonna. That’s biblical, right?”
The room shook with sudden laughter—mocking, shrill. From the shadows stepped Lourdes, Rocco, Mercy, and the rest of Madonna’s kids. Instead of mourning, they burst into an off-key chorus straight out of South Park.
But the children only grinned wider, bouncing in rhythm like Terrance and Phillip themselves.
“We’re part Canadian, chainsaw boy,” Lourdes sneered. “Like Terrance and Phillip! You can’t stop us!”
Ash revved the chainsaw, grimacing. “Fan-freakin’-tastic. First Deadites, now demon-possessed Canadian karaoke brats. What’s next—Celine Dion doing backup vocals?”
The Devil card on the table flipped itself, the flames licking higher. Somewhere, a deep laugh rolled like thunder.
Ash tightened his grip on the boomstick. “Uncle, if you’re listening up there… I’ll get you your Madonna cuddle. But first, I gotta babysit the Canadian apocalypse choir.”
Sinj, Croatia — Summer 2026.
The trumpets blared, the crowd roared, and the knights of the Sinjska Alka spurred their stallions into the dust of the ancient battlefield. But this year, tradition was about to meet pop spectacle.
From the far end of the arena, the people gasped as a rider approached on a white horse, veiled in sequins and a glittering breastplate. The rider tore off her veil, and the sunlight caught her face.
It was Madonna.
“I demand to be trained for the female Alka!” she shouted, holding up a lance bedazzled with tiny crucifixes and neon LEDs. “It’s time to smash the patriarchy—medieval-style!”
The local knights muttered into their mustaches. One spat rakija into the dirt. Another crossed himself three times.
Ash, inexplicably pulled into the scene through the Devil’s tarot card, muttered: “Oh, great. Madonna on a horse. The apocalypse has an opening act.”
The crowd of spectators, unsure whether to boo or cheer, started chanting half-heartedly: “Ma-don-na! Ma-don-na!”
Elizabeth Taylor’s ghost drifted above the stands, whispering, “She always wanted to play Cleopatra… now she wants to be Joan of Arc on horseback.”
One of the alkari stepped forward, bristling with tradition. “Madam,” he said, “this is a sacred tournament, three centuries old. No woman has ever ridden in the Alka.”
Madonna leaned down from her horse, eyes flashing. “Then I’ll be the first. And I want Ash here to train me. He knows weapons… and he’s not afraid of demons or tradition.”
Ash groaned, holstering his boomstick. “Lady, I sell discount rifles at S-Mart. Training pop stars to joust wasn’t in the employee handbook.”
The horse reared, Madonna raised her lance, and the crowd went wild. Somewhere, a Canadian voice from the bleachers shouted:
“Hey buddy, let her ride—she’s part Terrance and Phillip now!”
On the stony walls of Sinj, as the bells rang softly in the night, a vision appeared: Elizabeth Taylor’s ghost, luminous, walking beside the Virgin Mary. The scene recalled the apparitions of Zeitun, where light itself bore witness. Their silhouettes glowed against the old fortress stones, a procession of warning and grace.
Madonna, drawn by the strange radiance, listened closely as Elizabeth’s voice—fragile yet resolute—echoed through the cool air:
“The party is over. It is time to prepare for the Four Horsemen.”
Her eyes, though spectral, carried the weight of eternity. She confessed in a whisper what shook her even beyond death:
“Of all of them, famine is the one I fear most. For famine strips not just the body, but hope, dignity, and the will to rise again.”
The Virgin Mary, serene and sorrowful, nodded, as if acknowledging both the prophecy and the pain it carried. The air thickened with the scent of incense though no censer swung. Some townsfolk swore they heard the faint clatter of hooves in the distance, as though the Horsemen were already on their way.
