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Now, I love me some “A.I. Artificial Intelligence”—ya know, that flick where lil’ David, the robot kid, just wants to be real? “I am... I am...” he’d say, all soft and desperate. Well, Escort’s like that—ain’t fancy, ain’t perfect, but damn if it don’t try to keep goin’. I’ve seen these cars smashed up, rusted out, still rollin’ on pure grit. One case, this dude claims a hit-and-run, says his Escort got totaled. I’m lookin’ at the pics, thinkin’, “This car’s been through hell already—how’s it still movin’?” Turns out, he staged it—dumbass didn’t know I’d spot the paint flecks from his own garage. Made me mad, man, waste o’ my time!

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By the time I get back to the shop, it’s late. I’m ready to crash. But then, Marco hands me a freshly rolled cigar. “You earned it, bro.” I light it up, and for a moment, everything feels right.

Red Sea rerouting hits east Mediterranean transhipment hubs