As I walk along the canal bank, bathed in the neon glow of the Red Light District’s window brothels, I am overcome with a profound realization that I might quite soon get a knife in the kidney. I’m walking as I negotiate with a fairly affable cocaine dealer, but he warns me that his associate might not take kindly to my refusal to purchase his product after already taking a free sample. The realization kicks in when the associate in question, a hook-nosed and powerfully built shady fucker of the highest order emerges from behind, looms over my shoulder and tells me “This is bullshit. There are no free samples. You buy the fucking gram.”