As the evidence will show, I am a bonafide idiot.
I’ll forgo describing the ‘Palace’ except to say that there was nothing palatial about it, and the bit about ‘forbidden delights’…a complete fabrication.
When we arrived at our current location, my benefactor, Simon–the creepy barefoot hunchback–bade me remove all my clothing and personal items and set them neatly on the floor so he could check them thoroughly. Now, normally, I would simply tell the guy where to go and provide, if necessary, a guided tour via an ass-kicking, but Simon had a persuasive way about him. Mostly in the form of a .22 caliber revolver pointed at about chest level.
I did what any sane person would do.
I blubbered like an infant and pleaded with him to spare me.
In hindsight I’d have to say it wasn’t my finest moment, but it made Simon uncomfortable enough to stop pointing the weapon at me and begin gesturing wildly for me to stop crying, all the while uttering a string of things like, “Oh…don’t do that, no…no, don’t…oh, not crying, listen, who cries like that? How am I supposed…wait, look…Jeez!”
Eventually he tucked the gun into a pocket and showed me his hands. “Look, there. It’s gone. See? I’ve put it away. Stop crying now, please.”
At some point in my sobbing I’d dropped to my hands and knees and was still in that position with my head hanging between my shoulders when I heard foosteps.
High-heeled footsteps.