I bend over the table so he can slip the diamond necklace over my head. “Let’s get it on,” I whisper. But DiSibio just stares into my dress.

Such is the power of an Aryan physique; DiSibio climbs right out of his booth. I take the bauble out of his hands and kiss him on the cheek. “Hey, you better sit down, big boy,” I say with a laugh. Well, then, I will get it on by myself, standing on the dais before the eyes of this inebriated crowd.

But at the center table there is a disturbance. “You’ve got the Bete Noir, or you have done something with it,” yells a woman in a green gown, in the universal enemy-in-sight female frequency.

I head for that table. If this scene doesn’t get the Zionist-infiltrated media’s attention, nothing will. But I’m too late; now they’re breaking the crockery. The maître d’ intercepts me, oddly protective; “Will you be leaving now, miss?”

His pupils, reflecting the spotlights, are huge. I must tell DiSibio; he likes information as much as we do.