A thick blue fog burns the nostrils in a dark wood-paneled room, where men with round bellies, pregnant with success, sit in tan fine leather chairs. A large Indian guards the door, protecting the white men, as if he’s forgiven them for their atrocities - bulldozing their golden fields once abundant with grazing buffaloes and bald eagles, patiently perched on rocks, spying on field mice and silky rabbits wrapped around the neck of countesses and the glitterati posing at casino tables in Monaco, hoping to be seen by princes and sultans showcased in Arabian Nights. A time when incense snaked its way through alleyways teaming with merchants, braying donkeys, grilling beef kebabs and the promise of sacks spilling gold coins. Colored lights dance along the walls as sunlight beams through sheets of canvas, loosely hung from wooden poles zig zagging rooftops in a labyrinth of pungent spices.
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