How odd you look, Madame Olga with that ridiculous turban wrapped around your graying head and that careless slash of red lipstick that does nothing for you (unless you're channeling Lucille Ball)
The truth is you're stuck here, Madame Olga, in your tiny, seedy parlor with its stained floral wallpaper and dim lighting from a feeble lamp
Do you find your "client" vulnerable today, Madame Olga, a lonely widow waiting nervously for you to speak, waiting for you to tell her about a tall, dark, handsome stranger coming into her life, a man residing in an unnamed wonderland, a savior eager to share his vast fortune with her?
You ask her to come back tomorrow after she cleans out her savings account and pawns her QVC jewelry collection
It will be then when you plan to take her money and regale her with prayers, chants, incantations, when you attempt to dazzle and divert her and make her money vanish like the proverbial rabbit in an old-time magic show
But I have to question your fading psychic power, Madame Olga
You seem NOT to know intuitively that your creation of her mythical lover and his nonexistent wonderland is headed for extinction once the hidden wire she's wearing performs its own inimitable trick