Maracaibo, Venezuela, January, 2078, Friday…

"An excellent coffee," commented Sergio Battaglia.

"Colombian, unfortunately," responded Presidente Hugo Mora. "I have to give them that. At least they know how to exploit some of their land wisely."

"You have not responded to my proposal, Hugo."

"I'm considering it. It has certain interesting points. Finish your coffee, Sergio, then we'll talk."

They sipped in silence for another five minutes. Sergio lit a small cigar while the President of Venezuela lit one of his habitual cubanos. It was about the only thing that Cuba produced anymore. The small island nation was unable to compete on an international scale. Their standard of living had become as bad as Haiti's or the Dominican Republic's. A medical system that had once been the poster child for socialized medicine was now a shambles. Wealthy Cubans saw doctors in Miami; poor Cubans simply died.

It was no different in the poor sectors of Caracas and Maracaibo. The only cosmetic difference there was that both the Catholic Church and the Pentecostals preached that the poor would find things better in the afterlife. Most regions' politicos in fact encouraged a preoccupation with personal salvation because it turned the poor away from distracting visions of economic and social reform. At the moment the Catholics were still winning the numbers game, but the Pentecostals were making strides.

Hugo Mora claimed to be a Pentecostal. He claimed to have found Jesus while on furlough from the army one day when he was hunting for rabbits with a fellow soldier. Sergio knew it was a sham. The only thing Mora was really interested in was the good life and, because it brought the good life, power.