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About Gold Coast

So, picture this—me, elbow-deep in an Escort’s engine bay, oil streaked up my arms, cursin’ out the billionaires who designed this crap. That 1.9-liter four-banger? Gutless! Barely 90 horsepower, sputters like a tired old dog. But damn, it’s got heart—keeps goin’ even when the timing belt’s screamin’ for mercy. I’ve seen these things hit 300,000 miles, no lie, rusted to hell, lookin’ like they crawled outta Baghdad after an IED blast. “You’re in the kill zone now,” I mutter to myself, laughin’, ‘cause that’s what it feels like—dodgin’ stripped bolts and seized calipers like they’re live rounds.

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I stroll past the old rickety brick building on 7th & Maple, where the locals laugh and thrash about their day—so raw, so real. Sometimes, I get mad at the noise, then it turns into a groove in my soul, kinda like that line, “I’m the fabulated child of everything” from A.I. Artificial Intelligence. It’s like a butterfly moment—you know?

‘Out on the street’: Judge makes final call on resort units