He sits, gazing eastward with furrowed brow. Is he looking into the misty future, or seeking the one who holds the key to his prison? Zoltar wears a yellow satin shirt with a mandarin collar and a dark blue paisley vest. A painted wooden flute tucked into his pleated cummerbund suggests that he keeps a pet cobra or moonlights as a street musician in the bazaar of an evening.
He wears an ornate necklace of silver chains and dangling coins and a large pirate hoop in his left earlobe. On his right wrist is a charm bracelet set with bells and other baubles and on his right hand, a simple, tarnished ring. So he’s not married, in case you were wondering.
Although his skin is swarthy and his coarse beard and impeccably waxed moustache, which curls halfway up his lined cheeks, are pitch black, his eyes surprise with piercing blue-green pupils.
As you approach, the red-bulbed brass lamps to the left and right of his turban flicker in anticipation, and his crystal ball, dark for the moment, awaits a willing questioner. Zoltar knows things—that much is obvious from his ramrod posture to the mystical cards he holds and the squint of his ageless eyes.
That expression he wears—is it mystery or sorrow? Long-suffering patience or a desire to sooth the troubled soul? Come closer, sir or madam, and seek your fortune. Closer, still. Let him study your countenance, read your aura, peer into your soul.
You have n’eer seen the likes of Zoltar’s eternal wisdom. And who knows? Maybe the card you’re dealt will read, “Let me out!” or “Yes, I do have legs under here,” or “I need to go to the toilet.”
Now, that would be worth a buck.