I barely knew those guys. They smoked pot. That’s usually all it took. “You down with the ganga?” used to be my go-to phrase in a strange environment. But they weren’t “into” pot. They smoked it when it was around, but they weren’t going out of their way to score any. Not when their delicious malt liquor could be had at a myriad of spirit sellers around Minneapolis. There is one detail I remember: Their Uncle had died and left them that house, that’s why they were in the city and not up in Northern Minnesota. Running into them was just my bad luck. Trusting them was my mistake.