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The crowd responded with more cheers and whistles. I looked to where she was pointing and saw her father, who I had seen on the beach the day before talking with her. He had a big smile on his face and gave a thumbs up to his whipped cream clad daughter. I couldn't even imagine what it must be like for a father knowing he was about to watch his incredibly sexy daughter give her fake boyfriend a lapdance on stage in front of leering strangers. It was so strange, but a little hot at the same time. I took in the crowd, and getting over the discomfort of sitting in a mess of whipped cream, enjoyed being on stage. I could see a lot of the girls in the crowd looking me over approvingly, nudging each other. I made sure to keep my back up and show off my strong torso. Soon enough, Paul called out again. "Please welcome to the stage our next competitors. I found these two sexy beasts right here in the crowd. Diane is a fiery redhead who will absolutely burn up the stage. And she's brought her. My money is on the Paki husband and the Marxist puke." How do I tell them that you told me what is going to happen?" I asked in a whisper."You don't. You get your ass on shore and stop it," Liam said.I left the boat and found 'The Girls' shopping. I tagged along when they went into a small jewelry shop. The shop specialized in native stones in silver settings. I kept an eye out for the two men. I assumed that the gun thugs did as well.The first thing was an explosion outside just as Liam had predicted. Then they came down the stairs from the living area above the shop. I have no idea how they knew that 'The Girls' would enter there. They shot the two bodyguards first. One was a clean head shot the other was shot twice, once by each man. When they spoke I realized they were the Paki and Russian. The Russian was the better shot. He was most likely trained by the Russian Army at the very least.They tried to expel all of us tourist from the popular shop. The Paki was herding us out while.
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I remember your father making brightly-coloured pictures – watercolours, I think.’ ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Postcards. I think they were all individually hand-coloured. I was only about eight or nine at the time.’ She nodded again. ‘Jeremiah Turkle. Well, well.’ ‘Are you still teaching?’ I asked. She shook her head. ‘I retired almost three years ago. I now run a small B&B.’ And she reached into her handbag and produced a printed business card which she handed to me. The Smuggler’s Cottage. ‘It keeps me busy,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I shall have to remember your establishment next time I’m down this way and need a place to stay.’ ‘Well, well, Jeremiah Turkle. I remember you having long, curly hair,’ she said. ‘But then, I suppose most of the boys had long hair in those days, didn’t they?’ ‘I guess they did. To be honest, I can’t really remember.’ ‘And so what are you doing these days?’ she asked. I explained that I was a partner in a project management company. ‘We tend to specialise.

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