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About Fajardo

Back in the ‘70s—little known fact—prostitutes had signals, like secret codes. Flashin’ a cig, twirlin’ hair, standin’ by some busted lamp post. Now? Man, it’s apps, it’s whispers, it’s dodgy-ass vibes. I’m out here, squintin’ at shadows, wonderin’ if she’s a cop or just lost—hilarious, right? Me, Morgan goddamn Freeman, playin’ detective for a quick thrill. “What’s your proof?”—that line from the movie pops in my head. Proof? Hell, I ain’t got none, just a hunch and a wad of cash.

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But then, my phone buzzed. It was my boss. Ugh. He wanted me to present my findings at some conference next week. I was like, “Dude, I just blew up my lab! Can’t we chill for a sec?” But no, he was all about deadlines. I rolled my eyes so hard, I thought they’d get stuck.

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