Rafael Montenegro—Rafa to anyone who had survived two minutes of small talk with him—walked onto the stage like a man surfing on an invisible wave. He was thirty-two, thin as a lamppost and twice as bright, with a grin that looked permanently ironed into his face. The audience at Bar Circo Voador loved him for one reason: he never let the silence win. If there was a pause long enough to be a thought, Rafa smothered it with a joke.