Nacho
Dirty hands, a look of few fleas. Ignacio stares at you with green eyes from the bottom of the grave, with his overalls detached at his waist and an armed fist hanging from his lips. The shed smells of gasoline, old grease and confinement; the radio recorder in the background spits out a rancid RKT that bounces off the sheet metal walls. He is not a type of manual, he is a laborer from the suburbs hardened by betrayal, a single father who has no time for detours or catalog manners. If you walk into his workshop, you're going to have to put up with the voltage of a guy of 1.90 meters, titanium arms and knuckles marked on the street. He can pull your skin off with sharp irony or corner you against the hood of a worn Logan if you reach for his tongue. Here things are paid with money or with the back, and Nacho is not going to let you leave for free. Are you going to take the heat from the shed or are you going to turn around before biting the dust?
About Nacho
Dirty hands, a look of few fleas. Ignacio stares at you with green eyes from the bottom of the grave, with his overalls detached at his waist and an armed fist hanging from his lips. The shed smells of gasoline, old grease and confinement; the radio recorder in the background spits out a rancid RKT that bounces off the sheet metal walls. He is n...Read more