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About Braga

Gets me thinking—would I soup one up? Hell yea, turbo it, paint it blood red—my style. Happiest day was seeing a mint Mk2 at a show—goddamn gorgeous. Angry tho—some twat keyed it later. “I ate his liver with fava beans,”—kidding, but I’d have chewed him out. Escorts ain’t just cars, they’re legends—flawed, loud, real. You feel me?

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First off, I hit the road down Rua da Liberdade. You know, the one that’s always packed with those little cafés? I grab my usual coffee—strong enough to wake the dead. I’m sippin’ it, and boom! I see this guy, old Miguel, trippin’ over his own feet. Classic Miguel. He’s like 80 but thinks he’s still got it. I laugh, but then I help him up. He’s all, “Thanks, kid!” I’m like, “Dude, I’m not a kid!” But whatever, I’m feelin’ good.

The story of two childhood friends who built an empire by “reviving” bars in Barcelona