The gypsy roulettist Michaela Androzna came to prominence in a small Balkan town on account of her bravery and good fortune. The revolver she carried chambered just two bullets, but by 1915 twenty sceptical corpses had proved her right, in late night transactions conducted within the walls of battered villages in which, after a glass or two of vodka, the promise of tomorrow was just a little less than the decrepitude of today. She met her match in a mathematician, over-educated, over-indulged, and rich already from the spoils of war, who watched more attentively than most the precise spin of those chambers, and, at the final click, he smiled.
“It’s your shot,” he observed. “And I tell you truly, the bullet is chambered above the pin. So spin the chamber a second time.”
“It makes no difference,” said Michaela, “because, while you might know this, according to logic and all the other rules of your world, in my world there is no place for logic, and therefore my odds are always fair.” And with that she raised the revolver to her temple and fired.