Ramsay snickered at Chance then turned to me. "Two trips back, Chance stumbled upon an untouched tribe of Indonesian natives that still lived in the stone age for all intents and purposes. They called themselves the Umo. Chance managed to get himself welcomed into their society as a deity, a superior being, which is a joke in and of itself. The only thing superior about him back then was his sexual appetite. Eventually, he became their king and exacted an expensive tribute from the Umo, an oral tribute," she said smiling.

"I don't follow," I said.

"King Hazard over there demanded fellatio be performed on him several times a day by the women of the village to appease the angry gods he represented."

"That's outrageous," I laughed.

"It worked too," Chance said throwing coins into the pot.

"What happened?" I asked.

Ramsay giggled again. "He literally had all the women of the village cowering at his feet. It was only months later when he became bored and began to demand tribute from the young boys that he ran into trouble. What was it Chance, beheading or dismemberment?" she asked.

"Both, but unfortunately not in that order."

"That's twisted," I said.

"Yeah, but it was fun," he answered. “Hazard, King of the Umo.”

I laughed to myself and stepped back away from the table.

The string quartet continued to play on stage. Several couples waltzed among the columns, their counter-clockwise turns delivering them back to a time when the music was new.

Ramsay tapped me on the shoulder and shoved the opium pipe mouthpiece into my hand. Her face contorted into a grimace as she held in a lungful of smoke. I placed the ivory tip in my mouth and inhaled without a second thought, the caustic smoke burning in my throat and chest. The tarry stale taste stayed in my mouth long after I'd exhaled.

"It's good isn't it?" she asked.

I felt its tingling effects as I stared into her grey eyes. "Yeeesss," I said in one exaggerated syllable.

She laughed and took another draw off the pipe. "Oh I want to watch this," she said in a stream of smoke. "They're going to dance." She motioned over to the Gypsy girls following the string quartet off stage.

"Dance?" I asked.

"Yes. Gypsies are born entertainers. It can be pretty erotic."

"I'll be over in a second," I said to her. "Wait," I said to the young woman carrying the pipe. "Don't leave just yet."

I floated lazily back onto the pillows in the center of the reclining crowd. Violins, tambourine, accordion, and guitars combined in a raucous rhythm as five young girls danced on stage in gyrating, staccato movements. Their bright dresses and scarves blurred into colorful swirls as I struggled to keep my eyes focused.

"How are you doing?" asked a voice next to me.