Among the attractions of large cities, one finds sin, in its splendiferous and multifarious forms. Pleasure palaces afford a continuous carnival of delight, delectation and debauchery, though each morning a sober and pious face is put forward as a facade for the benefit of the pious and unsophisticated citizen. But for those in the know, and in the market, there is no end to feasting, frivolity and furtive fondling of the fundaments. Though the streets are clean and dry, it is only because the drains are working, removing the stench of corruption and crime from public sight. The palace of pleasure is built over the cesspool of surfeit.

There is a ball tonight. The line to enter is long, and the wait requires the patience of ambition and passion. The rewards are certain, and the transit time is spent in delicious anticipation. Once inside, there are no limits, no liability. Everyone who is anyone near the perineum of power is there, tasting the fleeting joys of the good life, in a grand atmosphere completely free of guilt or shame. Everything soothing to the senses is available, presided over by the generosity of the hostess, the greatest madam of our day.

At the side is a party recently returned from an international convention. They have just signed, on behalf of the state, a binding international treaty. The act was accomplished with a suitable flowery flourish of penmanship and pomposity, and photographed for publicity purposes. In so signing, they have bound the state to global cooperation, to protect endangered animals from extinction by prohibiting illegal traffic. Tonight they are enjoying the company of fellow ministers, brimming with spirit at the success of their of mission.

They represent an avowed willingness of the state to promote public awareness and civic cooperation. In doing this, they make the state appear attractive and admirable. Such sensitivity to environmental issues indicates modernity and maturity. Furthermore, it promotes tourism and attracts foreign investment. Now, as reward, the ministers are allowed to bargain, in the name of the state, using public funds, for four baby gorillas, paying over a million ringgit to acquire these pitiful orphans, recently ripped from the arms of their murdered mothers in Nigeria. The road was long, it required lying and deceit, and it leads directly back to the palace of pleasure. The madam makes no protest. "They are loyal servants of the state, and acted with authority. They are entitled to my hospitality." The madam is not a sincere lover of animals.

Across the room, laid back into the velvet cushions of national pride, are a group of important ministers just returned from a conference to save the rainforests of the world. They too, have signed an international treaty. "The rainforests have been saved!" they chortle, sipping from the best-imported crystal. "Yes, that's wonderful," say the chorus of beautiful belles, sidling thigh to thigh to sweet sibilant sighs, lips pursed to find such promised munificence nigh. Trees and treaties are no concern of the madam. After all, the customer is always right. The madam has an instinctive concern for her customers. She shares in their success. The madam is a partner, as it were.

A crony arrives. "Oh, see who is here," a favourite spouse says, looking over her jewels toward a new scion of the palace, just arriving. He is late, delayed by the daily business of counting imported logs at the port. Skilled at carefully placing the official stamp of legality and acceptability on the butt of each log, his hand soon soothes the curves of an attractive and outrageously attired attendant, flown in on a chartered plane from Thailand at great cost, especially to fill the foyers for the affair. She smiles beautifully, and no one notices she does not speak any recognisable language.

"Those Indonesians are slower than slugs in shit soup," he says, "Otherwise, I'd have had those hillsides cleared a month ago. The rains are making a mess of the roads." "Oh, never mind," says the madam, "The time it takes to get them down and out is well spent; it gives the new ones time to mature." All laugh. The madam has a humour. Everyone, naturally, is greatly amused.

But wait. Was it not yesterday the ministers, acting for the state, signed a treaty to protect the trees? None can recall. What is known is that the trees were gotten at low cost, and the transport to the local port is moving well. That is what is important. The fact the treaty is not honoured must be hidden. It is thus declared an official secret. The madam will not tell. Business is business, after all.

The imported wood workers, trained to make finely finished furniture, need not now be sent home. It takes years to train a good wage slave, and it is a great waste to send them back home to the muddy rivers and rutted roads of their homeland. Besides, it is intolerably hot there, now that the covering trees are gone.

Back on the docks, the uniformed customs agents inspect and certify that every tree is legal. They are employed by the state, and the state oversees that they do their work according to the treaty. Why are they dishonest? Look there, to the new spiked spires of the palace of pleasure; they must be paid for. Look at the carpets, how beautiful they are. They were bought, and brought in secretly, at enormous public cost. None must know of that. Petronas will pay, but none must know of that. See the madam, how well dressed she is, what a great hostess she is. Nothing must be denied the ministers of the state, and nothing IS denied. It is a brotherhood of shared and secret delight.

There, by the windows, those openings of opulence, are the fiddlers of finance, the eunuchs of economics, who know how to write a put. The palace itself is known as a place where puts are made and unmade, renounced and reneged upon. Anything is permissible to promote a sale, to raise the necessary cash, to collect enough to cover the punishing debt. What will not go in the market, place a put on it, push it out and put if from your mind. Puts are a convenient thing to be denied, to be dallied over, and to be the subject of conjecture and concern. Puts are this, are that, Syrian style or Serbian style, let the courts decide.

The courts? Are the courts here? Yes, surprisingly, the courts are here, too. There they sit, arms draped over the shoulders of the courtesans from the prosecutors' office. Behind them are the fat and froggy officers of the police, festooned with buttons and batons, cheeks full with the bouffant of bribery, bellies bursting with barely ill-concealed belches of debauchery and the flatulence of flattery. Theirs is not to question why, theirs is but to help the people die. Those elephantine ears wag to catch every whisper, sweeping in every nuance of malfeasance and malice, because that is their security. Blackmail is both their business and their source of sustenance.

Those menacing men there, in the blousy uniforms, are they the liveried servant boys? Oh, no. They are the men of the military, professional purchasers and purveyors of arms, merchants who make many a mean contract. They cunningly take the customary commission and are not concerned to own numerous scrap yards filled with obsolete iron. They must take up the study of painting, that would conceal the rust. They need more canvas, to hide from the public the useless machinery they have imported at such great cost. They know only two things: (1) the correct placement of non-combat ribbons on the breast, (2) that they must take orders without question. Never mind the rest. The generals are comfortable in the palace of pleasure. See how they kiss the madam's fingers.

The party tonight celebrates the upcoming trip of the madam to Rome, where a consultation on the varieties of sexual behaviour is desired. The madam is an acknowleged international expert on of these delicate matters, is qualified to testify on TV, and who can be relied on to deliver the necessary manufactured evidence with assurance.

There is laughter and clapping at the thought of the greeting to come, “Their brows will bump as the old boys bend together to kiss each other's ring.” One reveler remarks, “It's an historic meeting of the sacred and the profane!” “Perhaps,” a witty one replies, “But which is which?” “That's easy," he says, "The good guy always wears a tall white hat.”

They all laugh, finding this funny, but only after first looking carefully askance to assure the madam has not heard. She, grisly old girl, pretends not to know how they ridicule and condemn her behind her back. She is not bemused by their lack of admiration and respect, so long as her position is secure. She thinks, "Those fawners think I am fooled by their flattery, but I know that they, filled with frivolity, cynicism and sans souci, are pleasure and power drunk, paunches packed, souls polluted by pomp and position.

“They hate me, yet they fear me. They know I lie to cover the truth, but I do it exceedingly well. Eager to replace me, they want me dead. Uncertainty of future fortune freezes their hand. Today is another day of stealthy posturing, and they resent their pusillanimous part in it. Still, they know they are a creation of my art. They exist only by means of my crooked craft, creased and crinkled as my methods may be. They reflect every day, five times a day, that they are cowards of their own weakness, their want of wisdom. Their greed and fear keeps them in place, makes them subject to my will. They are midgets, who fear the consequence of opposing me. I routinely invite them to contemplate the cold corpses of my challengers, that liberally litter the roadsides of the past."

The madam goes to Rome, but there is an overlooked problem, a misconnection, as it were. The madam is a specialist in making false charges of guilt, with no presumption of innocence allowed. Rome is interested in protecting the sacred principle that innocence is presumed until charges are proven. The brothers of the church must not be made victims of malice, and if the Catholic Church is to survive these troubled times, the brothers must not be betrayed. The madam cannot comprehend this brand of loyalty. Spirituality confuses her.