Met Mihalov Stalkievich again today. Yes, that Mihalov—the walking psychological thriller with legs.
And, surprise surprise, he wasn’t alone. His shadowy “Intel” brother was lurking behind him like a badly written spy novel meets failed family therapy.
Because let’s be real: Mihalov doesn’t operate solo. No no.
He’s got Mr. Stalkievich 2.0 backing him up with an Intel-scented gang, like he’s starring in some underground Eastern European reboot of The Bourne Identity… but on mushrooms.
Scene change: dramatic.
I’m minding my business outside a bank, standing near a pizza store, contemplating the universe and digesting a lemon bar cookie like a responsible adult.
I toss the napkin—symbolic gesture of letting go—into a garbage bin.
And there it is.
Lying there on the top like a fallen angel:
A Revolut Visa card.
https://youtu.be/IXubBqd8uXs
Belonging to… wait for it… STEPANOVICH MIHAILOV.
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
Stalkievich. Stepanovich. What’s next? Snuffleupagovich?
I’m surrounded by the Witchy-Wich Slavic-named chaos lords.
I’m not living in a city—I’m in an Eastern European fever dream directed by David Lynch and co-written by Kafka.
And this card?
A Revolut card?
Oh dear, we’re in the dark fintech timeline now.
We all know Revolut is basically a tech-savvy roulette table for money.
Full of controversy, flags, and probably controlled by interdimensional lizards.
The card expires in 2027. Perfect. That gives it plenty of time to destroy nations and fund alien drug rings.
Now, I’m standing there, holding the card like it’s the One Ring. Thinking.
What do I do? What would YOU do?
- Call Revolut and enter the 7-hour call-waiting labyrinth.
- Find a police officer (haha, good one).
- Leave it in the top trash where it was (maybe…).
- Go into the bank and ask them to play detective.
Naturally, I picked the adult option.
I went into the bank like a Good Samaritan with a touch of burnout and paranoia.
Plot twist: society is garbage.
The bank looked at me like I handed them a wet sock.
“We’ll check the name in our system… but if it’s common, we’ll just shred it.”
Excuse me??? You’re telling me a potential key to a human’s finances—a weapon or salvation, depending on how crazy this Stepanovich is—is gonna get turned into confetti because it’s not your brand?
Couldn’t even call Revolut? You’re a bank. You literally speak fintechese.
But no. Bureaucracy eats decency for lunch.
I walked out of that place feeling lost, leading my own soul down a Dante-style hellscape of capitalist indifference.
Honestly? They should replace “Welcome” signs at airports with:
“ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.”
At least that would be truthful.
And as for me? I’m just a granny, trying to return a lost Revolut card, dodge stalkers, decode a brotherhood of lunatics, and survive in a world ruled by spreadsheets, sociopaths, and soft-crust pizza.
Welcome to the true madness.