Bogotá, Colombia, December, 2077, Tuesday… It was the fifth time in the last three years that the presidents of Colombia and Venezuela sat down together to discuss their differences. Luis German Palacios barely nodded as Hugo Mora strode pompously into the conference room.

Pedro Cardenas noted immediately the increase in tension. Both Palacios and Mora had attended Princeton University in the United States, but there was no love lost between the two.

Probably not back then, either. Mora, the brash young ex-general who had won the Venezuelan presidency ten years earlier at the age of thirty-two, sounded and looked very much like someone from the Caribbean. However, in contrast to those congenial people, who had done very well by catering to tourists from all over the world often while losing their best and brightest to the US and Europe, Mora was not known for his congeniality.

Moreover, he enjoyed being on the world stage too much. He had a special office whose personnel were charged with providing him with a daily video summary of his appearances in the world-wide newsnets. He smoked foul-smelling cigars, drank heavily, and cursed a lot in both Spanish and English. His election had been tainted with many claims of fraud. He had ruled the country as a virtual dictator ever since. A staunch Pentecostal, he was rumored to have many ties with Pentecostals and the Assemblies of God in the US as well as their radical offshoots, including the Christian Soldiers.