Rocco’s Heartfelt Goodbye to East Van Tattoo/Wear Customers:
“To all our friends, family, and loyal customers —
It breaks my heart to say that after years of ink, sweat, and stories shared across the counter, East Van Tattoo/Wear is closing its doors.
This shop has been more than a business — it’s been a community hub, a creative sanctuary, and a place where East Van spirit lived loud and proud.
I want to personally thank each and every one of you who came through our doors, trusted us with your skin, rocked our gear, or just stopped in for a chat. Your support meant the world — and still does.
While the storefront may be shutting down, we’re not disappearing. The online store will remain open, so you can still rep the East Van soul wherever you go.
ROCCO, JOZO, and TONY sit around a scratched-up IKEA table. There’s a laptop open, a half-eaten pizza, and a sketchpad full of wild T-shirt designs—everything from Saint Mary riding a Vespa to a cartoon priest dabbing with the words “Bless Up.”
ROCCO: Alright boys, hear me out. We been hustlin’ our merch game old school—printing in bulk, slangin’ ‘em at festivals, flea markets, trunk of Jozo’s Civic. It’s cute. Real nostalgic. But we’re gettin’ smoked out there by these e-kids on TikTok.
JOZO: You talkin’ about them drop shippers? The ones with anime Jesus and AI cat nuns?
ROCCO: Exactly. These guys make a design at 2 a.m. on mushrooms, slap it online, and boom—by sunrise, they’re sellin’ hoodies to Portland vegans and Norwegian Twitch streamers.
TONY (grumbling): So what, we sell out? We go corporate? We kiss the algorithm’s ring?
ROCCO (leans in): Nah, we infiltrate. We upload our saints and sinners to CafePress, let the machines do the grunt work. No more boxes of unsold “Pope on a Pogo Stick” shirts in your mom’s basement, Tony.
JOZO: Yeah, and we keep our edge. We’re not makin’ “Live Laugh Love” crap—we’re doin’ “Pray Hustle Repeat,” you feel me? “Saint Rude” in gold foil. “Virgin Mary Wasn’t Born Yesterday.”
TONY (softens): If you can’t beat ‘em…
ROCCO: …join ‘em. Then beat ‘em at their own game. We go digital, we go global. No inventory, no sweatshop drama, just pure hustle and holy fire.
JOZO: I already made an account. Our store’s called “Holy Threadz.” With a Z.
TONY: A Z? …Now you’re speakin’ my language.
ROCCO (smiling): Let’s baptize the internet, boys. One holy hoodie at a time.
We SPLIT everything 50/50 . Cue them raising their espresso cups like it’s communion.
All Seeing Eye Poll
I insist it is God's Eye. But you can have your own opinion.
It’s a quiet night in East Van, but inside a low-lit tattoo shop off Commercial Drive, something eternal is being debated.
CM Punk sits in the chair, shirt off, muscles tense, as the needle buzzes. His iconic chest tattoo—the straight edge X, the skull, the peacock feathers—is almost complete. But the centerpiece, the part he saved for last, remains blank.
Rocco, ink-stained and fiery-eyed, holds up the final design: The Great Seal—the pyramid, the eye, the rays.
“You want to go with this,” Rocco insists. “It’s balance. Truth. The all-seeing eye. You don’t need to say if it’s Christ or Lucifer—it just is. Punk knows that.”
Jozo leans over the counter, shaking his head, his thick Croatian accent coming out strong:
“No, bro. Look at it again. This isn’t some Masonic mind game. That’s the Eye of Christ. The King of Kings. Don’t forget—He’s watching. Not to control. To redeem.”
Rocco scoffs. “Come on, Jozo, that symbol’s been hijacked a million times. CIA, Vatican, Illuminati—who owns it anymore?”
Jozo slams his palm on the counter.
“I’ll tell you who owns it now—East Van does. Look at the damn East Van Cross Joe Morgado invented. It’s divine geometry. Sacred symmetry. It’s the new avatar of God for this broken generation. You know who died for our sins? Our brothers in the alley. You know who’s coming back? Christ in streetwear. And he’ll be wearing East Van.”
CM Punk grins, rubbing his chin, intrigued.
“So what you’re saying is… I’ve got a choice. I finish this seal, and depending on my heart, it’s either the eye of redemption—or the eye of damnation.”
Jozo nods solemnly.
“Exactly, brate. It’s the same eye. The question is, what does it see in you?”
Rocco shrugs.
“Either way, it’ll look sick. Let’s get to work.”
As the needle starts again, CM Punk closes his eyes and breathes in deep. Outside, the East Van Cross glows on a power line—unofficial, untouchable, undeniable.
