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About Szombathely

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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First stop? The market on Fő utca. It’s always a riot there. Fresh veggies, loud vendors, and the smell of paprika in the air. I swear, if I could bottle that scent, I’d be rich. I grabbed some tomatoes, but then this old lady—like, she was ancient—totally elbowed me for the last pepper. I was like, “Lady, chill! It’s just a pepper!” But she shot me this look like I just insulted her whole family. I mean, come on!

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