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About Galati

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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Then, outta nowhere, I hear this loud honking. I look up, and it’s a bus, like, packed to the brim. People are hanging out the doors, and I’m just standing there, laughing. I mean, who needs a gym when you can just ride the Beresti-Tazlau bus?