In those moments at night when he lay sleepless, the moonlight playing on his ceiling and one of his wives snoring next to him while his scalp sweated and itched under his obligatory headwear, he must have known his enemies were closing in. He must have known he was on borrowed time. He must have felt the breath of Obama on his back. Sooner or later America would strike with all the injurious curios a Great Satan carries in the trunk of its Cadillac. Sooner or later the CIA would emerge from the miasma of its own paranoia, give up on making tourists remove their boots to board the Circle Line Ferry for a moment, and zero in and do what it does best.
And now some snitch, some stool-pigeon from the back streets of Abbotabad in Pakistan, has taken the CIA's forty pieces of silver. And Donald Trump's candidacy is over. A conceivably great leader is assassinated before he can walk his high hair into the Oval Office. Damn. It could have been fun.
Trump will rant and rave and demand to see Bin Laden's Death Certificate and boast that anyone could've licked him. And what the hell took Obama so long anyway? But his rage won't wash any gloss off the thing the forty-fourth President has done. Barack Obama has found and trounced his Argentina. In the nick of time. With debt mounting at home and the greenback looking spineless and Afghanistan entering another fighting season... Barack Obama has made himself into Maggie Thatcher and snatched back The Falklands. Go home, Donald. Nothing to see here. Except the smoking wreck of your political dream.
This article available online at: