At the East End table, under flickering neon and incense smoke, Chaplain Jozo Jukic rose to speak.
He didn’t need a microphone. His voice came like thunder on Hastings Street.
“Your rulers are rebels, companions of thieves. Everyone loves a bribe and chases after gifts,” he said, quoting Isaiah 1:23, eyes locked on the graffiti-tagged walls like they were Parliament Hill.
“You think Trudeau’s smile gonna save you? You think a carbon tax is repentance?” he barked. “They dress in pride, but wear lies like silk. The poor get nothing. The addicts get Narcan, but not resurrection.”
He took a breath and pointed west, then east, then finally north.
“Angels,” he said, “come in from the wilderness. From the creeks of the Interior. From Kamloops and Castlegar. From Lillooet and Lumby. From Slocan and all the secret places. The time is now.”
He slammed his staff against the floor.
“Enough waiting. Enough hiding. This is not just Vancouver. This is Zion in chains.”
JOE JUKIC — CHAPLAIN’S ANNOUNCEMENT East End Chapter Presidential Poll “Let the righteous vote, and let the wicked stay silent.”
Brothers,
This is your chaplain speaking — Joe Jukic, the reverend with a revved-up V-twin and a Revelation tattoo on my ribcage. Before I lead the next Sunday burnout and say grace over our ribs and bourbon, I’ve got Heaven’s Orders and Hell’s Permission to conduct a sacred, blood-oath-level poll:
Who shall be president of the East End Chapter?
Our chapter’s been running strong, but every crew needs a captain when the road forks between purgatory and paradise. You all know we don’t do democracy the way the suits do — we don’t trust ballots unless they’re burned, stamped in oil, or blessed by tire smoke and loyalty.
But this is your chance to speak, and I’m watching. Heaven is recording. And so is the street.
REMEMBER: This ain’t just about who wears the patch. It’s about who holds the flame. Who keeps the wolves in line. Who talks to God when the gas tank’s empty and we’re rolling into a town full of devils.
Vote with your gut. Vote with your scars. And if the FBI asks, tell ’em we’re choosing a new mascot.
Blessed be the rebels.
– JCJ, Chaplain of the Hell’s Angels, East End Chapter “The Lord is my shepherd, but I ride with the sheepdogs.” ?️?✝️
East End Chapter Presidential Election
My pick is Tony. He has the club house if we buy his parents plane tickets to Portugal. -- JCJ
Mötley Crüe had always loved Vancouver. It wasn’t just the city’s world-class recording studios or its rock-loving fans—it was the wild nights, the neon-lit streets, and most of all, the strip bars. The Saints of Los Angeles had a second home in the city, a place where excess and debauchery felt right at home. And among the haunts they loved, one name stood above the rest: Brandy’s.
Brandy’s wasn’t just any strip club. It was where rockstars and outlaws rubbed shoulders, where the women were the best in the business, and where the drinks flowed like a never-ending encore. The East Van Saints, a notorious group of street legends with their own brand of outlaw charm, had long made Brandy’s their stomping ground. They were the kind of guys who didn’t bow to anyone, but when Mötley Crüe came through, there was a mutual respect. After all, the Crüe weren’t just rockstars—they were legends cut from the same cloth.
One night in the late ’80s, after tearing the roof off the Pacific Coliseum, Vince Neil, Nikki Sixx, Tommy Lee, and Mick Mars rolled into Brandy’s like conquering kings. The club erupted in cheers, dancers lined up to entertain, and the whiskey never stopped flowing. Among the regulars that night were the East Van Saints, watching from their usual corner, nodding in approval as the rock gods held court.
“They play hard, they live hard,” one of the Saints muttered, raising his glass to Nikki Sixx, who was already deep into another bottle of Jack.
“They ain’t just Saints of L.A. tonight,” another said with a grin. “They’re honorary Saints of East Van.”
The night turned into a blur of stories, laughter, and promises of mayhem. Tommy Lee hopped behind the club’s DJ booth, spinning tracks while Vince Neil led a singalong that had the entire club shaking. Mick Mars, quiet but grinning, leaned over to one of the East Van Saints and muttered, “This place reminds me of home.”
By dawn, as the city started waking up, Mötley Crüe and the East Van Saints staggered out into the early morning streets, bound by a night of excess that would go down in legend. Years later, when the Crüe released Saints of Los Angeles, those who knew whispered that it wasn’t just about L.A.—it was a nod to those wild nights in Vancouver, to the Saints of East Van who stood shoulder to shoulder with rock’s most notorious band.
Because some saints don’t pray. Some saints raise hell.
