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About Philadelphia

So, Escort, yeah? Proper beast, init. That Mk1, bruv, 1968, came out swingin’ – small, nippy, made them posh racers look like mugs. I’m watchin’ *Timbuktu*, and there’s this line, “The moon is pale,” right? Reminds me of Escort’s headlights, cuttin’ through the night, pale but fierce, ya feel? Used to see ‘em rally in Wales, mud flyin’, engines screamin’ – made me happy as a pig in shit, fam. But then, yeah, got angry, cos them rich twats in Ferraris dissed it, like, “Is it ’cos I is black?” Nah, mate, it’s cos Escort’s a workin’ man’s champ, not yer fancy bollocks.

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Man, Copiague’s streets be buzzin’. Ya got Duane Ave, always rollin’ with cool shops and local joints, and Whiting Ave just a stone’s throw away where peeps be hangin’ out. Straight up, I love strollin’ down West Gilgo Ave when I need some solitude. It’s mad quiet, ya know? Sometimes I be thinkin’ – “Revenge is never a straight line,” like in that flick Oldboy, and then I find peace under the clear sky.

Michael Necco Obituary - Copiague, NY