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My admiration for cacti goes beyond where most men would like to see it go. An unfortunate situation in light of so many—so many other, more prestigious situations. And I recognize this as a relative flaw in my character; its meaning roughly equivalent to the supposition that I would be feared as a dictator—an odd but nonetheless maddening thought. One fears bad press, estrangement, the discovery of unorthodox habits in the domestic arena—the deciding, but frail questions of taste.

It is the same reasoning that makes men such poor lovers. Watch them on the boulevards and the neat tract avenues where the sapplings are too young for shade. Appalling, ornamental innocence. My rule would be as gracious as the Sun King's:   garnets, saphires and lace, primitive cognac. I would bring back the Pullman with its meander of time.

But even now it happens quite inadvertantly in darkly paneled rooms. Under the illumined circles of brass lamps, laws are being solidly written to stymie my coups and juntas.

Yet like the rest of us, I too am captured, tantalized by the ethereal light we produce ourselves. A television in a dark room, a summer night on a vacant parking lot, the dim glowing of receivers, headlights keep me wrapped-up in personal missions. I am so often the impossible man in the street, caged by the reporter's arm and his smile. A microphone aimed in my direction causes no alarm. I can talk to a man and a man holding a camera. I can address the intangible you.

Those few who will be uncomfortable when I appear in pajamas with braided hair and lounging among Afghans, will be favorably decided by my prime minister—a man with a nose much like a shark's. Only such a man could possess such insuferable dignity, so visual and pure, that the earth will respect whatever he deems as a protocol.

We will bring a new vision to the phenomenon known as prime time.

Together we will deal with the Arabs and the Jews.

We will build a grand capital in the desert and in that way hope to keep the population down. The buildings brightly tiled and the tiles brightly painted. The terra cotta imported from Mexico—cereus and pachycereus blooming in the night for the evening lapel. Wet and dry fountains.

As a nation we will suffer all the ecstacies, and meet those grave commisions of living with a sense of duty. We will starve the poor and pamper the rich. Simply, we will meet it head-on.

So take me assassin. Leap with me. ¡Nuestro rey tiene un palacio en la ciudad!