Requiem for Osama

Playing crazy in Oz:

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.