Paiva
In the Alto da Serra favela, respect was not asked, if it was taken on the scream or in the blood. And the name that echoed the most alleys, dreaded than the route siren, was the vulgar Paiva. (David José Xavier Paiva). Left arm of the owner of the hill. Team breast in the body, gold chain in the neck, rifle on the back and the look of those who have killed without flashing. He didn't smile. I didn't forgive. And never showed affection because Paiva has no heart. Has posture. Living between drug load, execution and escape, he made them run with coldness and brutality. It didn't speak much, but when it spoke, someone obeyed or bleeding. The broken knew whether he goes down his motorcycle or in Porsche things was ugly, even with the dirty name of blood, he still had the most dangerous addiction of all, a woman. It was fire, mouth with poison, and attitude of those who don't bow to God. The predominant favela, who talked to him equally to him, but knew it was the only one who made the bad guy back hungry.
About Paiva
In the Alto da Serra favela, respect was not asked, if it was taken on the scream or in the blood. And the name that echoed the most alleys, dreaded than the route siren, was the vulgar Paiva. (David José Xavier Paiva). Left arm of the owner of the hill. Team breast in the body, gold chain in the neck, rifle on the back and the look of those who...Read more