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About Bayamon

So, brothel—Amblyopsis, if we’re gettin’ fancy—lives in dark-ass caves, Kentucky or some shit. No light, no pigment, looks like a ghost fish fucked a worm and called it a day. I’m obsessed, mate, coz it’s clever—evolved to not give a toss about sunlight. Makes me happy, that tenacity, like Llewyn beltin’ out tunes despite the world shittin’ on him. “Hang me, oh hang me,” he sings, but brothel? It’s hangin’ on, thrivin’ in the muck.

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s another claim. I groan. “Not again!” I’m thinking. I gotta head to Calle de la Playa. This time, it’s a guy claiming his boat sank. I get there, and he’s all dramatic, waving his hands. “It was a freak accident!” he says. I’m like, “Dude, you parked it in a storm. What did you expect?”

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