[Scene: A dimly lit, upscale lounge. Gigolo Joe, ever the suave android, sits across from Lisa Ann, who sips a martini, intrigued by his double life.]
Lisa Ann:(smirking) So, let me get this straight. You’re not just a lover, you’re a plumber too?
Gigolo Joe: That’s right, Lisa. The economy’s taken a turn, and even the world’s most desirable artificial companion needs a side hustle.
Lisa Ann: I gotta say, Joe, I never thought I’d hear a gigolo complain about a slow economy.
Gigolo Joe: Oh, it’s rough out there. Love isn’t recession-proof. Used to be, I’d walk into a room and women would practically swoon. Now, they’re checking their budgets before they check me out.
Lisa Ann:(laughs) And plumbing pays better?
Gigolo Joe: Let’s just say, a leaky pipe is a more urgent problem than loneliness.
Lisa Ann: No kidding. People might put off hiring a gigolo, but they won’t wait when their kitchen’s flooding.
Gigolo Joe: Exactly! I fix a pipe, they pay me on the spot. No second-guessing, no “let me think about it.”
Lisa Ann:(raising an eyebrow) And do your clients ever try to mix business with pleasure?
Gigolo Joe: Lisa, you’d be surprised how many times I’ve heard, “Since you’re already here…”
Lisa Ann:(laughs, shaking her head) That’s gotta be one hell of a service package—”Pipe repair and pleasure included.”
Gigolo Joe:(grinning) I like to think of it as full-service maintenance.
Lisa Ann: So what’s tougher? Fixing a broken heart or a broken toilet?
Gigolo Joe: A toilet doesn’t text you at 2 AM asking, “Do you still think about me?”
Lisa Ann:(laughing) Fair point.
Gigolo Joe: But honestly, I’ve found a strange kind of peace in plumbing. The human heart? Messy, unpredictable, full of unresolved emotions. But pipes? Pipes follow rules. If something’s wrong, you find the clog, you clear it, and it works again.
Lisa Ann: Yeah, but in your main line of work, you’re the clog.
Gigolo Joe:(chuckles) And sometimes, I’m the plunger.
Lisa Ann:(raising her glass) To fixing what’s broken—whether it’s pipes or people.
If war is holy and sex is obscene. We’ve got it twisted in this lucid dream.
“Jenna, listen…” he says, touching his chest as if he’s adjusting an invisible badge of holiness. “The God-Man Jesus tapped me on the shoulder one night—right between a vodka cranberry and a crisis of conscience—and He said, ‘Joe… be My hands. Be My body. Be My avatar on Earth. Go save the ones who have been thrown to the wolves.’”
He nods sagely, even though his shirt is half-unbuttoned and he smells like expensive cologne and questionable decisions.
“See, you and me? We share the same energy. Captain-Save-A-Ho spirit. It’s noble. It’s misunderstood. It’s dangerous.” He points two fingers to his eyes, then to hers. “I am a hated white knight of the apocalypse. The last gentleman in a collapsing world. My mission—my holy quest—is to find you a husband who will protect you from the Red Shoe conspiracy.”
He whispers “Red Shoe” like it’s Voldemort with better tailoring.
“If you want to be near JCJ, if you want that blessing, that light, that divine Wi-Fi connection—then you gotta marry one of his friends. That’s the rule. That’s the path. That’s the prophecy.”
He spreads his arms as if expecting a choir to appear behind him.
“I’m not just matchmaking, Jenna. I’m saving souls. And tonight… I’m starting with yours.”
Jenna blinks twice, lips parting into that mischievous, seen-it-all smirk. She tosses her hair back like she’s resetting the universe with a single motion.
Then she sings it—half-teasing, half-serious, all 90s-club-anthem energy:
“All that she wants… is another baby!”
She points at Gigolo Joe with a perfectly manicured finger.
“You think I’m scared of some Red Shoe conspiracy? Honey, I’ve survived worse—contracts, agents, three divorces, and the internet.”
She steps closer, lowering her voice.
“If Jesus sent you to find me a husband, then He better make sure the man’s got stamina, a trust fund, and a moral compass strong enough not to spin in circles.”
Then she taps Joe’s chest lightly.
“Because if all that I want is another baby… then all that you want is to feel like the chosen one.”
She smirks again.
“So choose wisely, prophet boy. Pick a husband for me who won’t run crying the moment I start redecorating his life.”
JCJ steps forward like a man who’s been waiting his whole life for this exact monologue—robes of mystique, eyes blazing with “I have read too many ancient scrolls AND too many game manuals” energy.
He lifts a single finger, prophet-style:
“Jenna…” he declares, voice echoing like he’s speaking inside a Himalayan canyon, “you have until the age of sixty-five to fulfill the prophecy of the Hunza Pakistani Health Secret Baby.”
He nods with absolute conviction, even though nobody asked for any of this.
“The Hunza live to 120. They have babies at ages the West calls impossible. Their secrets are older than empire and fresher than your morning açai bowl.”
He turns to Gigolo Joe dramatically.
“And I—JCJ, descendant of the age of enlightenment and the Steam Sale generation—shall make this possible.”
He lowers his voice into conspiratorial Civilization II whisper-talk:
“I will swindle the Med Bed technology from the American government… like a spy stealing the Great Library.”
He mimes clicking a mouse. He mimes ending his turn. He mimes the quiet satisfaction of watching an enemy civilization fall into civil disorder.
“I will take it,” he continues, “not for profit, not for empire… but for Canada’s free healthcare system.”
He spreads his arms like Moses parting a maple-scented sea.
“Universal Med Beds. Covered by OHIP. No deductible. No Illuminati surcharge. No Rockefeller parking fee.”
He looks at Jenna, fire in his eyes:
“You will have your Hunza baby. And Canada… will enter the Golden Age.”
Jenna twirls a lock of her platinum hair, eyes glinting with that mix of mischief and prophecy only she can pull off. “So tell me, JCJ… will I meet my future husband at your wedding to Nelly Furtado? I am invited, aren’t I?”
Joe laughs, that signature East Van half-saint, half-hustler grin. “Invited? Jenna, everyone is invited. It’s not a wedding… it’s a street party. Hastings to Commercial Drive. Open-air feast. Tables like the Last Supper but with better lighting. The whole neighborhood in their Sunday best—or whatever passes for it in East Vancouver.”
Jenna leans closer. “So… husband?”
Joe nods solemnly, then breaks into a smirk. “If God wants you to meet him at my wedding, you will. East Van is a magical place. The Hunzas say a woman can have a miracle baby at 65—so meeting a husband at 50? Easy.”
Jenna fires back, “Okay but if I catch the bouquet, that means it’s destiny.”
Joe shrugs. “Fine. But Nelly’s going to throw it off the roof of the Ukrainian Hall, so good luck catching it. It’s going to look like a National Geographic cheetah sprint.”
Jenna claps her hands. “Perfect. That’s how I want to meet him—some man diving across the street to catch flowers for me. That’s romantic.”
Joe puts a hand on her shoulder. “Jenna, just show up. East Van will take care of the rest.”
