They say that hell is not hot. And my first night in Rio de Janeiro proved to be a scorching one. I had everything packed and ready to go. I glanced one last time at my open suitcase before closing it. My gun, my passports, a bunch of cash and an extra pair of torn-up jeans, everything was in its place. "It's my obsessive-compulsive personality disorder", I sighed. Everything, right where it belongs. I made my way out of the hotel room, where my perfectly made bed awaited to be violently unmade by the next guests. There are two kinds of hotel room users. One type is the one, like me, that after binging on whiskey and beer chasers, has to crash and recover from all the self-inflicted wounds, everlasting scars of memorable past stories. The tear-stained face that has been running away from their fate. The second kind is the one that has decided to hide under the bedsheets and escape their boring everyday life in the company of their partner in crime. A guest that i...