If you’re cracking open this book expecting a wholesome travel memoir about Ecuador, shut it now and donate it to someone you hate. What you’re holding is a guided missile made of whiskey, bad decisions, and just enough truth to make my lawyer consider faking his own death. I lived this shit—half sober, half stupid—and somehow survived long enough to write it down. And before you ask: yes, the names, stories, and certain geographical inconveniences have been creatively adjusted. Not to protect anyone—God no—but because some of these people are still alive, armed, and hold grudges like it’s an Olympic sport.
This whole saga kicks off in Quito’s Mariscal district—the neon-lit underbelly where the signs buzz like they’re running on cocaine and overdue electricity bills. Every corner looks like it needs therapy, every club feels like a dare, and the whole neighborhood has that seductive “I might rob you, but you’ll come back tomorrow” charm. Naturally, I fit right in. From there it spiraled into Bungalow 6, the lawless disco that made Studio 54 look like a church lock-in—fueled by marching powder, Russian vodka, questionable morals, and even more questionable people. If you ever wondered what happens when a Florida Man leaves the country unsupervised… welcome to the documentary.
So buckle the fuck up. What follows isn’t just a story—it’s a full-throttle punch to the senses, part comedy, part tragedy, part “how the hell did this idiot survive?” And because I’m a giver, this is the world’s first book that comes with its own soundtrack. Play it—loud—let it rattle your bones and your judgment. If you make it to the last page without questioning your own life choices, congratulations—you’re probably worse than I am.
“Sean Carter writes like Hunter S. Thompson with a passport and a death wish. I couldn’t put this thing down. In ‘Death on a Discount,’ he explains why you should never hire a bargain hitman—and somehow makes you laugh while doing it. His stories about men like ‘The Borz,’ a scary-efficient killer with a dwarf arm, are the kind you’ll retell at bars for years. Wild, raw, and impossible to forget.” – The New York Times Book Review
In an age of sanitized travel writing, Sean Carter’s unapologetic dive into South America’s underbelly feels like a literary shot of cheap tequila. His chapter ‘Bungalow 6: The Trio Chronicles’ is a raw, roaring ride from the neon chaos of his nightclub to the steam-soaked excess of his penthouse—proof that some stories can only be written after last call.
Chapter 17 is the spiritual journey nobody asked for—stoner theology, accidental crime sprees, and decision-making that should’ve ended in deportation. JewWeed drags Sean through Quito’s bargain-bin drug scene, a near-riot, a whorehouse hygiene lesson, and a full-blown panic attack that ends with them tossing bags of weed out the window like they’re blessing stray dogs with premium kush.
If you’d asked me back then, I was fully convinced I’d cracked the code to life: sail into the sunset, plant my ass on a beach, and chill until the universe forgot I existed. A simple plan—dangerous words for a man like me. The mission was to quit cocaine, cleanse my soul, maybe develop a tan that didn’t come from fluorescent club lights. But then life—as usual—told me to go fuck myself. One bike ride down the Bahía boardwalk and I stumbled onto an empty riverfront space that practically screamed, “Ruín your life here, amigo!” Next thing I know, I’m pitching the Bahía Yacht Club board on my wholesome little idea for a beach bar called LuLu’s Bait Shack. Cute, right? Yeah—until it mutated into Bungalow 6’s unhinged coastal cousin, attracting half of Quito, two-thirds of their cocaine supply, and every DJ who owed someone money.
Naturally, the locals hated me. Small towns don’t appreciate it when a gringo accidentally invents a substance-fueled hurricane and parks it next to their fishing boats. So of course the next stop was jail—third-world jail, the kind where the walls sweat and the guards don’t blink. I got out, started a law firm (as one does), and gave it three holy missions: buy property without getting robbed, get expats visas without them crying, and keep me the hell out of prison. We pushed back on anyone who pushed us, and soon enough the District Attorney had a fraud case on me that could’ve earned me 20 years. Total bullshit, naturally, but that’s Ecuador—the only place where being innocent just makes things weirder.
Eventually, I ditched the blow and embraced my true coastal destiny: Colombian gold weed and one LSD weekend so intense I saw land sharks stalking me like aquatic IRS agents. I learned charming little life lessons, too—like how hopping on drug planes for “fun” requires checking the runway for cows, because apparently those bastards take down aircraft like bovine heat-seeking missiles. And that, dear reader, is just the pregame. If you think this sounds insane, buckle up—this book is the fever dream scrapbook of a man who tried to go beach mode…and turned the phrase “how bad could it be?” into a personal religion.
This chapter drops you straight into the smoke-hazed orbit of Big Red — the legendary couch that accidentally held more cash than some small-town banks — and the even stranger orbit of DEA Rob, a man who could go from raiding narco-compounds to asking permission to date your waitress before breakfast.
