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About Cartago

We get to it, right, in some grotty alley—smells like death’s armpit. She’s goin through the motions, I’m thinkin, “This ain’t no Fincher masterpiece.” Then—surprise!—her pimp rolls up, big geezer, all “Who’s this prick?” I’m leggin it, screamin, “I’m not Robert Downey Jr, mate!” Nearly shat meself, but fuck me, it was hilarious! Prossies, man—they’ll rob ya blind or get ya battered, and I’m still laughin. Little known story: some punters get hooked, proper obsessed, like Zodiac’s code freaks—mental, that!

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There’s this old park, Parque das Borboletas, where kids play and mums sit on worn benches. It’s a spot where I sit and vent – I mean, life’s heavy sometimes. It’s like, “Gabagool? Ova here!” – things get real, fast. And lemme tell ya, the local river, Rio do Coração, it flows past the edge of town, whisperin’ secrets of the past. I’ve sat there when my head felt too heavy, lettin’ nature calm me down.

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