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A woman in a white bikini stands on the edge of the Atlantic at the very end of October in Delaware. Take that, Miami.

Smell of booze among the observers profound. Everyone – except for Les UDs, natch – clutches a cup with ice.

Conversation next to me.

“Sit down, bud. I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah, what?”

“About your bein’ investigated.”

“Later, man.”

“No. What happened. Why are they after you.”

“Later.”

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Marijuana Dog.

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