I wake up from my whiskey stupor to the scent of burning motherboards, and I know that something is wrong. Out the window in New York’s Financial District, two men in torn bespoke suits roast a body over an oil drum. It looks like Thomas Friedman’s, but I can’t be sure.
“Brother can you spare a bitcoin?” one screams.
In the distance, I see fire.
I haul myself up, wipe the cigarette ash from my hair, and put on a flak jacket made ...Continue Reading →