Georges' knife hand slipped between the buttons of my shirt. There was, of course, no knife. He gave my stomach a decidedly plastic pat. "A little pre...ent," he winked.That was Georges. I didn't smoke that much anymore, but I'd wound up sharing a joint with him his first year. Every summer since, he'd brought me up a big fat ounce. "Don't listen to those Humboldt County assholes--the best grass in the hemisphere is Hecho en México."He took a step back from me and became loud again, in a penitent. Her flat was just behind the market square of the small, semi rural town. It was the sort of place that the tourism board would describe as a ‘quintessential, English market town’. She could see suited men scuttling off to work, Range Rovers and Nissans sweeping around the central square taking their owners to important business meetings. Shop owners - the market square was dominated by small tea shops and the kind of quaint trinket shops that looked pretty but didn’t sell anything that. More

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