Psychic Avenger and Rogue Telepath

If you want some real information about your future,

If you don't want a psychic who will tell you only what you want to hear, and

Because anyone can make you happy with predictions of monetary windfalls, but only Madame Doom specializes in the really bad things that will happen to you.

    In violation of most reasonable religions, you enter.  She is already seated, arms akimbo, a perpetual frown the reminder of the botulism toxin she craves.  You sit and stare back; the perspiration begins.  She slowly raises her long, troubled face, and then as if having an epiphany, she exhales suddenly, smelling of old liquor.
    "Oh," she sighs, "I am so glad I'm not you."  And so her foretelling has begun. And it doesn't sound good.

    "What is it, Madame Doom?" you ask, eager to know your future.
    "Only bad things come out of my mouth," she warns, waving a finger and spitting out a fingernail.  You notice that all of her own fingernails are long and pedicured in an Anne Rice sort of way.
    "Go on," you volunteer, "I can take it."
    "Fine," she huffes, "have it your way, then."  She pauses.  Finally, "Do you want it alphabetically...or chronologically?" she offers.
    "Is it too late to get a credit on this and use it toward some foot reflexology?" you ask, suddenly taking inventory on your substantial lack of fortitude.  But it is too late, of course.  She has...begun.
    "In twenty-two minutes you will experience serious gastric disturbances and sudden intestinal chaos," she predicts.
    "Stop!" you beg.  "I don't want to hear anymore."
    "And then," she says, as if to continue, but then pauses and looks up at you with that trance-like stare.  "What about some hard-to-find hardware?  Would you be interested in an Austrian flangeless thistlebolt?"
    "I'll take two," you quickly blurt.
    "They come by the gross," she smiles.
    "Rustproof?"
    "That'll be extra, of course.  Madame Doom has spoken.  Have a nice day."
    You look at your watch.  You dart out. You find a phone book to locate the nearest gastroenterologist, but they're all out of town at a Sugar Busters conference.  A strange noise emanates from within.  A prelude perhaps?

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