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So, picture this: my buddy had an Escort, ’89 model, beat-up, rusty as hell—looked like it’d been through a warzone. Thing still ran, tho! Haulin’ wood for my projects, screamin’ engine, smokin’ like a barbecue. Made me happy as a pig in mud—cheap, tough, no fancy crap. But damn, it pissed me off too—broke down mid-job once, left me cussin’ in the rain. “How’s that workin’ for ya?” I’d yell at it, kickin’ the tire like some hotshot in *City of God* tryna scare off trouble.

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Hours pass, and I’m finally getting into a groove. Fixing watches by lantern light is kinda cool, honestly. It’s like I’m some old-school craftsman or something. I even start humming a tune. But then, the door swings open, and it’s Pierre again. He’s back, and he’s not happy.

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