So last night I go down to the bar on the plaza for a couple of beers and a chat with the patrons, and I'm sitting on a stool talking with this guy David, who's interested in American Indians and always asks me questions. He notices a pack of cigarettes on the floor and asks me if they're mine; I say no, I've got my own pack, and he picks up the pack and hands it to me and says, "They're yours now," since he doesn't smoke.
I flip up the top of the box; it's half-full of Camels, and contains a packet of rolling papers as well. I say, "Hmmm," turn it upside down, and a lump of hash falls out. Everyone sees it, including the bar's owner, Luc from Bruges, and there's a general round of laughter. I claim the booty as my own and stash it in my jacket pocket. David says, "There were a couple of teenagers sitting here before you showed up. I bet they dropped it."
What do you know, half an hour later the teenagers came back asking whether anyone had found a pack of cigarettes. Of course we all said no, and they left, downhearted and dejected.
I figure my actions in this incident were morally justifiable, since those teenagers shouldn't have been smoking tobacco in the first place, much less hashish, so I saved them from spiraling down into the hell of addiction. They should thank me.
By the way, the hash isn't much good, what they call "culero" around here, the bottom grade of stuff that actually works. You have to smoke a good bit of this shit in order to get the effect you'd get off a couple of bong hits of good marijuana.