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About Queluz

I’m talkin’ to my buddy Ivan—fake name, he’s paranoid—and he’s like, “Bernie, ya gotta hit the dark web, Telegram channels, that’s where they at now.” I’m pissed, man! Why’s it gotta be so damn complicated? Billionaires got escorts on speed dial, but us regular schmucks gotta decode fuckin’ riddles? “Hang me, oh hang me,” I’m singin’ in my head, feelin’ like Llewyn, lost as shit. I dig the hustle though—makes me happy seein’ folks outsmart the system. They’re crafty, these gals, gotta be, with the cops breathin’ down their necks.

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I get there, and he’s sitting on the steps, looking all defeated. I can’t help but laugh. “You really need to get a spare key, man.” He just groans. We end up going for a drink at this bar nearby, and I’m telling him about my day. He’s cracking up, and I’m like, “At least I’m not the only one having a rough one.”

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