How Much #bitcoin for a Chicken in Morocco?
The skinny old man shuffled around the corner of the building into the open-air café. He cradled a shallow, plastic laundry tub with his two, sticklike arms. In the rear of the room, there was an electric scale on a counter, the power cord hanging limp and unplugged. He skirted the tables and plopped the basket on top.With a practiced grip, he pulled out a panic-stricken chicken. It was scrawny, nasty, never would have made the cut at Frank Perdue. The bird’s shrill, tortured cries seared our soggy brains. We were tired, hung over, and generally beat to shit from one insane party after another in three different cities.London. Marrakech. Essaouira.“That’s not lunch, right?” I could hear the disgust in my wife’s voice. Courtney has blonde movie-star hair, eyes you can drown in. She was (...)