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So there's good people, and then there's GOOD people, and Chainlink's in with the latter, you know? I'm saying... so there was that one time in Tirana, (Albania, for those of you shut-ins who never run guns or engage in sex toursim) and Chain and I had just about run out of gas on a 96 hour meth and pez bender. We're in a grimy speakeasy playing a sleepy game of Carpet Rummy when this Macedonian bloke we'd sold Stingers to back in '94 stumbles in, ambles up, and offers to buy us a round of plum brandy for old times. The barman's this goliath with a walrus mustache and an eyepatch, and he gets all puffed up and bald when I mention that, as far as I see it, the brutality the Ottoman State during its centuries long occupation of the Balkans should always be viewed in the context of a state that was genuinely inclusive when its perceived security concerns allowed it to be so. I mentioned certain famous Grand Viziers of Armenian decent, and next thing you know the cyclopic beer slinger's vaulted the bar and he's got both thumbs pressed uncomfortably against my eyeballs. Chainlink, no stranger to interrupted cardgames and sectarian violence, was ready with a blowgun, bolts tipped with that secret poison our favorite Brujo back in Guarani so favored, and summarily dispatched the giant. The Macedonian, Interpol hot on his case, was disinclined to hang about until the state security forces arrived. When he bolted, Chain and I, along with Polyphemus in the dirt, were alone in the joint. We robbed it. Found a priceless stash of Thracian artifacts and a few mid-70s Mayfair mags in the safe. On the boat back to Sicily he saved my life again. That's another story.