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I get mad, tho—pisses me off when folks judge ‘em. Like, who’re you, Mr. Perfect? “This is my war!”—dat’s what she’d say, fightin’ her own battles, not yours, ya schmuck. Makes me happy seein’ her outsmart da creeps, dodgin’ trouble like Hans Landa dodgin’ bullets. Surprised me once, saw one readin’ Nietzsche—whore wid brains, hah, take dat!

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Finally, I get it back. Heart’s racin’, but I’m still in the game. I grab a coffee at this little café on Rua 1º de Maio. Best coffee ever! I’m sippin’ it, thinkin’ about life, when this surfer dude walks in. He’s all tanned and chill, talkin’ about the waves at Praia do Norte. I’m like, “Dude, I sharpen stuff, not surfboards!” But he’s cool, tells me about the big waves. I’m like, “Maybe I should try surfing?” Then I remember I can’t swim.

Three Days Of Nazare