Please note: This is a work of fiction. All characters are (mostly) imaginary and any relation to real life is (totally) a coincidence. This is not financial advice and is presented purely for entertainment purposes. As always, do your own research because:

It was raining and I found myself in Pamplona, running with the bulls, frothing, happy to be charging forward, the strongest, heedless; Risk just a four-letter word trampled into the mud between cobbles.

In truth, I was terrified, and when someone shouted something about a moon launch from an alleyway I was only too happy to pull up. A sharp-dressed suit. I asked about the moon and they shook their head. Perplexing nonsequiturs piled up, pushing me back toward the edge of being crushed. Now the fear hit, uncertainty multiplied by randomness. I turned to go when a question pulled me back.

I must’ve misheard: Do I have meth? Nope. Nope. Nope. I definitely misheard.

Do I want to *buy* meth—with bitcoin!?

I edged away, taking in their getup. Black tie, black suit, dark ray-bans, and a gun in a holster. Teeth like the hoover dam.

Isn’t this entrapment?

One hand reached into their coat pocket. The other moved in a maybe-so-maybe-no gesture. It’s only entrapment if you’re not guilty. They handed me a card but my fingers were numb and it dropped to the ground where water sheeted downhill, carrying it away. They smiled, bright enough to light Vegas for an evening.

Behind me, I heard the stamp and snort of the market. I asked about the moon but they shook their head, pulling out handcuffs and gesturing towards the street and its effervescent crush of bodies. It was a trick question, they said. If I wanted the moon I should have held on.

EndFiction/