They move like druids through the crowded street, fighting back tears,absorbing the pestilence all around them. The Fortune Teller is one hundred and fifty years old. Her black, sunken eyes have seen many things. Birth and death come to her like orphans in a hailstorm. This is the first time the Fortune Teller has seen an automobile. A puny thing it is, whisking its driver to and fro over streets that hide their secrets from him. He will die at thirty-five, this unfortunate man, after his automobile hits a bump in the road. His machine's drive shaft will break free, and come up through the simulated-leather seat. It will impale the driver,and his widow will weep beside his open casket. The Fortune Teller knows all this, and more. The Harlequin, who walks hand-in-hand with the Fortune Teller, is only eighty years old. The magic of the late afternoon flows through her veins like icy water. She marvels at the Town Fathers who have come out to spit the wrath of God at the Fortune Teller: Not one of them can say honestly that he has remained faithful to his wife. The short one, Dominic, will fall ill from Syphilis within a week. The Harlequin and the Fortune Teller think on that, and share a silent laugh. The Dark Lady, who also walks beside the Harlequin, cannot be seen by the Town Fathers. "Hypocrites!" she hisses at them. "Liars! Fools!" "You waste your time, Sister," the Harlequin tells her. "They cannot see or hear you. Even if they could, they would not listen." The Dark Lady smiles. "The short one: Dominic. Shall I strike him down?" "No need, Sister," the Harlequin tells her. "He shall be rendered mad within a fortnight. The red touch of his mistress will be his undoing." "Quiet!" the Fortune Teller shrieks. "Can you hear it up ahead, Sisters?" They listen. The sound of hoof-beats rises and comes closer. The One they have come to meet, the Beast, stands in the middle of the road. "Come, Sisters," says the Fortune Teller. "Let me do the talking. "The Beast transforms, taking the form of a man. His uniform is crisply-tailored. His boots shine a glossy black in the yellow glow of the late-afternoon sun. He saunters toward the Fortune Teller. The old woman meets him halfway, and sniffs at his uniform. "Who are you?" she asks. The man smiles, his black moustache almost jaunty in the afternoon light. "I am the Beast, Milady. My name is Adolf Hitler." "Bah." The Fortune Teller spits at his feet."You will be dead within seven years, felled by your own bullet. Your thousand-year Reich will shatter. Your victims will suffer, but their grandchildren will remember you only from the yellowed pages of their history books." The Beast steps back, bows his head, and kisses the old woman's hand. He transforms once again. "Milady," he croons, "my name is Osama."