Consider this: “Tropa Macaca = André Abel and Joana da Conceição.” That’s all that’s necessary, really.
Caçador do Futuro properly excavates the site with two slabs of pulverized noise and beat-fuckery. 
Call it meandering if you must, but there’s plenty of creep and menace evinced along the way, as if narrative itself is caught in the slippage. All we have are two names, and two blank gazes.
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