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Personal quirk? I’m yellin’ in my head the whole time—*faster, slower, harder, shit, don’t stop!*—but outside, I’m cool as ice, Gekko-style. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but once this gal in Vegas told me she massaged Elvis—fuckin’ Elvis!—and I believed her, ‘cause why not? Sexual-massage is chaos, messy, raw—kinda like life. “You’re lying to yourself,” Haneke’s ghost whispers from *Caché*. Maybe I am, but damn, it feels good. Greed is good, pal—get yours.

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After the meeting, I decide to take a walk. I hit up Plaza de España. It’s beautiful, man! The fountains, the trees, the vibe. I’m feeling good. But then, I see this guy trying to sell me a “genuine” Mora (se) souvenir. It’s a plastic flamingo. Like, really? Who buys that? I just shake my head and keep walking.

Questa splits Mora at home but loses visit