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It was late summer in Tangier. You were an art school dropout from Toronto, recently out of rehab and blowing daddy's trust fund like it was going out of style. I was a jaded ex-MP turned used furniture salesman and smalltime arms dealer. We met in one of those dark, dusty expat bars that litter the city like the discarded shotglasses and Carta Blanca bottles we'd eventually leave on our table. 

I knew your type. Your too-liberal taste in Columbian nose-candy had outrun your bank account and you just needed some front money for a confidence game. Hundreds of times you'd done this across the pond, you claimed. Well, at least a few dozen. Right. 

I acquiesced, on the condition that I would run lookout- keep an eye on my investment, as it were. I should've seen the double-cross coming. You were a little too canny for a smallfry con. 

I'll never forget the kiss you blew as the blast knocked me backwards out of the hotel, those gorgeous bay windows shattered into a million shimmering shards all around me, five stories down.

I'll never forget Morocco.

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