Agent Unkle Bill Lee Reporting On The Island (excerpt from Naked Lunch)

The Island was a British Military and Naval station directly opposite the Zone. England holds the Island on yearly rent-free lease, and every year the lease and permit of residence is formally renewed. The entire population turns out, attendance is compulsory, and gathers at the municipal dump. The President of the Island is required by custom to crawl across the garbage on his stomach and deliver the Permit of Residence and Renewal of the Lease, signed by every citizen of the Island, to The Resident Governor who stands resplendent in dress uniform. The Governor takes the permit and shoves it into his coat pocket:
"Well," he says with a tight smile, "so you've decidedto let us stay another year have you? Very good of you. And everyone is happy about it?... Is there anyone who isn't happy about it?"
Soldiers in jeeps sweep mounted machine-guns back and forth across the crowd with a slow, searching movement.
"Everybody happy. Well that's fine." He turns jovially to the prostrate President. "I'll keep your papers in case I get caught short. Haw Haw Haw." His loud, metallic laugh rings out across the dump, and the crowd laughs with him under the searching guns.
The forms of democracy are scrupulously enforced on the Island. There is a Senate and a Congress who carry on endless sessions discussing garbage disposal and out house inspection, the only two questions overwhich they have jurisdiction. For a brief period in the mid-nineteenth century, they had been allowed to control the dept. of Baboon Maintenance but this privilege had been withdrawn owing to absenteeism in the Senate.
The purple-assed Tripoli baboons had been brought to the Island by pirates in the 17th century. There was a legend that when the baboons left the Island it would fall. To whom or in what way is not specified, and it is a capital offense to kill a baboon, though the noxious behaviour of these animals harries the citizens almost beyond endurance. Occasionally someone goes berserk, kills several baboons and himself.
[...] His presurgery face emerged in an arc-light of incandescent hate....He began to spit curses in the hideous, strangled gutturals of the Island dialect.
The Islanders all profess ignorance of the dialect or fiatly deny its existence. "We are Breetish," they say. "We don't got no bloody dealect."