Tequila Sunrise

They say Gzy-X keeps his Bitcoin key tattooed on his bicep. Which one they don’t say.

Those 32 characters are the key to billions. Having spent months approaching him, I finally get an invite to a party he’s having in South Beach.

Waves crash in on the private beach as I serve guests pure-origin tequila made by Wixárica highlanders (it's relabelled Jose Cuervo).

Gzy-X asks for another shot.

“Tequila!” I sing in the melody of that song. “High five!" I shout over the music–I think we can do that now.

“Yeaaaah!” he says and slaps my hand. His sleeve slips up, exposing only pink skin. It must be the other arm.

Seven shots later, I see the other arm. No tattoo.

Just after midnight, Gzy-X’s girlfriend, a model, asks for her second drink. “Can you make a tequila sunrise?”

“A waste of luxury tequila, but sure.”

“My boyfriend is drunk again.” Gzy-X is now giving chest bumps to crypto bros.

I blurt out, “I wonder where a man like that keeps his secrets.”

“Under the lid of the toilet tank, same as every other billionaire.”

“Here’s your drink,” I say. “Now, excuse me, I need to go use the bathroom.”