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About Orebro

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’m hustling down the street, dodging cyclists like I’m in some weird video game. Bjaerred’s streets are narrow, man. I swear, if I trip over a cobblestone, I’m gonna lose it. So, I finally get to the archive, and guess what? The door’s locked! Ugh! I’m banging on it like a madman. “Let me in!” I’m yelling.

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