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About Lisbon

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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So, I keep walking, and I hit up Praça da República. It’s packed! People everywhere, music blasting. I’m vibin’ until I see this guy trying to sell me some weird potion. I’m like, “Dude, I’m a Snake Spell, not a sucker!” But he’s persistent. I swear, he was like a snake himself, slithering around trying to get me to buy it.