The Moonlight Sonata played magnificently in the background, haunting, clear, as if Beethoven had not died and instead was behind the expensive crimson drapery playing for Peter Armistor's pleasure. The well-poised, handsome middle-aged man, who had matured gracefully into his forties through the comfort of wealth and influence, clinked glasses easily with Cornelia Leopoldine, who smiled with teeth a pleasing white and without blemish - teeth well paid for, indeed. Armistor put his wine glass to his patient lips, as Cornelia did to her full, rouged lips, and then the two of them laughed artfully, pleased at their own charm and position.

"I loathe your progress."

The two of them regarded each other with eyes crafted seemingly out of materials too costly and too perfect for most of the world, and they both gestured and smiled with well-rehearsed poise and dignity, and Peter's penis became gorged with blood and erected outwards in his fine-tailored pants, and Cornelia's nipples stiffened and pointed at him underneath the expensive fabric of her dress, which hugged her so well and could be removed so easily. Their games and tricks and lies and deceptions drew them to each other, and their breath came in short and quick, and they began to ignore the dozens of groomed pedigrees laughing and dancing and drinking around them in the cavernous ballroom, and they began to think only of their immediate future together sweating and panting and satisfied in body and tortured in mind.

"You make it so those that have nothing are robbed even of what they don't have."

The Sonata seemed to play forever, its soothing piano notes delighting the high-society dwellers, reminding them how they had been put on this Earth to enjoy themselves and partake in the planet's bounty and contentment. Peter and Cornelia linked hands and danced majestically around the ballroom, gliding effortlessly among the other entrepreneurs and governors and men of outstanding position, who were likewise linked with their wives and mistresses and fellow business women. These were the Globalizationalists, the statesmen and strategists who ruled the world, who looked and bled just like the billions they oppressed each day, each hour, and each minute, without remorse.

"My good man, we're doing it for the benefit of the world."

Peter looked through Cornelia's eyes of pearl and amethyst and jade, and he saw Barbara and Melissa and Katrina, all of them laughing with him and pressing against his penis and bragging of their life with the same energy and enthusiasm as any other. Cornelia's breasts were fat and heavy, befitting of her lust and stamina, and her chin was fleshy and fed well with the Fruits of Life, and her waist was thin and tapered from her wide hips and buttocks made thick with the work of many hours of listless pleasure and the grapes fed to her by naked lovers who probed her vagina as they placed green and red grapes in her mouth, open to new and exciting things. She looked spectacular in her dress, and he knew well that her breasts would fall and hang dismally under the pressure of gravity once he tore its fabric, but an upward lift with his soft palms, and they would be restored to their glory, and he would have her, putting his full reach into her body and making her and him blend as one, dead to the world, alive to each other, wanting nothing and having everything.

"I hate you as I hate the Devil."

"There is no Devil, my good man. Only industry."

A group of men talked on the outdoor balcony as it looked east toward the glittering skyscrapers of the city wrapped warmly in a June night, and they puffed calmly on cigars patiently made for them in Cuba, the land of sun and waves and Communism, and they spoke of the world. They spoke of Global Strategy, and they made promises and deals with one another on the future of places like Sulawesi and Bangladesh, places none of them had been, but places which they had received extensive reports about.

"Population Growth in Indonesia has reached a fever pitch. The latest statistics have shown that it has gone well beyond a controllable rate. I'm afraid we will expect the Infant Mortality Rate to go up as a result."

"Also, Life Expectancy will decrease."

"Naturally."

"Well, profits margins are up since last year, but they weren't up as high as two years ago. The investors are anxious. We need production to go up, regardless of these minor statistical problems."

"People who are starving can't work as well."

"We have a plant opening on a nearby island, I believe. Workers over there should work for less, we expect."

"How so?"

"It's simple. It's an island largely made of Christians, and statistics have proven that Christian laborers in Southeast Asia work harder for less than other religions in that area of the world."

"That takes care of that."

"Profits are largely believed to exceed 8 billion, which is an increase from the 7.5 billion of last year, but appears rather dismal next to the 7.8 billion of two years ago."

"That's honestly a shame. I can see why the investors are anxious."

"This new plant will solve everything."

"And the growth rate problem?"

"Have Jakarta hand out contraception through the mail, and urge its citizens to practice safe sex, like they did in Thailand. That should solve our little problem."

"Indonesia is largely Muslim, and handing out condoms might upset the population, due to the strict nature of their views concerning sex."

"Don't worry about Islam. Wal-Mart is planning on opening on Sumatra, and if enough of them open, they should cause a reshaping of the island's cultural ideologies enough that they'll accept free condoms in order to reduce their population growth."

"What do we do in the meantime?"

"Raise production levels. The investors are anxious."

Peter and Cornelia were naked, writhing, moaning, sweating and engaged in the intense act of loveless sex, their juices mixing and their skin leaking perspiration and their bodies rubbing against each other and their breaths blowing out onto their faces between hungry, violent kisses. Cornelia gripped Peter's buttocks, and Peter buried his face into Cornelia's heaving breasts, and they had sex for many hours, his seed being spilled numerous times, his sperms writhing and drying up and dying on the once crisp, dry sheets, the world writhing and dying much in the same way, though many thousands of miles away from the desperate lovers.