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So, escort’s this boxy beaut—cheap, reliable, kinda like me countin’ cash, gotta keep it real. Born in the 60s, Ford’s baby for the everyman—not some snooty BMW, nah. I remeber my buddy Reza, had one, rusted to hell, still ran like a champ. “There’s no magic,” he’d say, just like in the movie—pure grit. Made me happy, seein’ that lil’ warrior chuggin’ along, smokin’ like a BBQ.

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Then, I’m walking down Kamo Alley, and I see this little shop selling charcoal. Perfect! I’m all about that charcoal life. I walk in, and the guy behind the counter is super chill. We start chatting about the best wood for burning. He’s all about that oak, and I’m like, “Nah, man, you gotta go with cherry.” We’re going back and forth, and it’s like a charcoal showdown. I’m pumped, right?