It had been one hell of party, and the ballroom was strewn with the wrinkled, ripped relics of the lavish celebration. The glass floor oozed sticky with giggle-splurted champagne, oopsied canapés, ick-spat caviar, and other all sorts of other accidentally regurgitated delicatessen.

The self-satisfied, abdominally well-endowed host lingered for a while, savouring his rigged victory. He sucked awkwardly on a Nicaraguan cigar far too fat for his under-developed mouth. Nevertheless, he did what he could with his limited oral means; after all, this exceptional cigar had been delivered via diplomatic pouch from behind so-called enemy lines, and a secret loyalty made him determined to see it through. Sprawled out on the piano stool, his enormous gut enjoying free access to the wreckage that stretched out before him like an exhausted strumpet, fatty pursed his porcine lips as he sucked noisily on the Padrón 1926 series 2 Torpedo.

Ha! Good old Dimitri had come through for him again in the nick of time.

Meanwhile, hidden behind the heavy blood-red velvet curtain on the stage where, just a short while ago, international has-been Henrietta Blanche had received a standing ovation for her operetta-style interpretation of the national anthem, a gorgeous, raven-haired young woman reapplied her lip-gloss, then pushed her dainty feet back into her silver Manolo’s.

“Esmeralda is watching you,” she said quietly. She aimed a peanut at the center of the big oaf’s ridiculous faded ginger combover. Bullseye! Then she spun on her 8-centimetre heels and ran off into the night.