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About Queluz

In the end, I toss her a 20 just to shut up, tell her, “Keep the change, I’m out.” Walked outta there mutterin, “I hate everything,” but kinda chucklin too—screw it, it’s a story, right? Like *Inception*, ya never know what’s real til ya wake up—or til the tab’s paid. Findin a prostitute? Overrated, messy, and I’d rather grill a steak than deal with that circus again.

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Vilamoura became a large whorehouse. The area close to the olympus hotel is an open whorehouse. And authorities do nothing, being totally conniving.

Then, I get a call from a client. She’s freaking out about her outfit for a wedding. Like, chill, girl! It’s just a wedding, not the Oscars! But I can’t say that, so I rush over to her place on Avenida da República. Traffic is a nightmare! I’m stuck behind this bus that’s going slower than a snail on a Sunday stroll. I’m yelling at the driver in my head, “C’mon, man! I got a fashion emergency here!”

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