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About Braga

I roll up, see this chick—red heels, smokin’ a cig. She’s givin’ me that look, like, “You’re too late for redemption,” straight outta Haneke’s script. I’m hyped, tho—heart’s pumpin’ like I’m in the ring. I saunter over, all smooth, sayin’, “Hey, baby, I must break you.” She smirks, tosses the cig, goes, “Fifty bucks, champ.” I’m like, damn, inflation’s real! Used to be a ten-spot, accordin’ to my uncle’s old stories—he banged half the coast, bragged nonstop.

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Then, outta nowhere, this group of ladies comes in. They’re celebrating something—maybe a birthday? Who knows. They’re loud, laughing, and I’m just trying to keep up. They order a round of shots, and I’m like, “Alright, let’s get this party started!” But then, one of ‘em spills her drink all over the bar. I’m talkin’ a full-on tidal wave of mojito. I’m mopping it up, and she’s like, “Sorry, babe!” with this cheeky grin. I can’t even be mad. It’s Trofa, after all. We’re all about good vibes.

Ischia Triumphs in Derby Delight