In a move that has left foreign policy experts scratching their heads and gin enthusiasts reaching for another bottle, the United States has reportedly killed a Venezuelan gang leader in an air strike ordered personally by former President Donald Trump. Yes, you read that correctly. The man who spends his days golfing and posting social media rants apparently still has access to the nuclear football, or at least a very enthusiastic drone pilot. The strike, part of what officials are calling a 'new chapter in security cooperation,' begs the question: cooperation with whom, exactly? Venezuela's government, which Trump has spent years trying to overthrow? Or perhaps the ghosts of Cold War policy still haunting the corridors of power?
The deceased, identified as Héctor Rustherford Guerrero Flores, leader of the Tren de Aragua gang, was reportedly taken out in a precision strike that also eliminated several of his henchmen. One can only imagine the Oval Office scene: Trump, wearing a ill-fitting suit and clutching a Diet Coke, barking orders at generals who are too terrified to point out that he hasn't been president for over a year. 'Sir, we don't actually have the authority...' 'DO IT! Make it look like a movie explosion! Lots of fire!' And so they did. The Pentagon, ever eager to please, scrambled a drone and turned a Venezuelan car park into a smoking crater.
But let us not overlook the sheer absurdity of this 'new chapter in security cooperation.' Cooperation with whom? Maduro's regime, which the US has been sanctioning into oblivion? Or perhaps the Colombian drug cartels who supply America's insatiable appetite for cocaine? The announcement, delivered with all the gravitas of a toddler announcing they've done a poo, claimed that this strike 'sends a clear message' to criminal organisations worldwide. The message, apparently, is that the US is willing to violate international law on a whim, provided it makes for good television. Mission accomplished.
Meanwhile, the Venezuelan government has responded with predictable outrage, accusing the US of state-sponsored terrorism. They've got a point, though one suspects the irony is lost on them. Maduro, no stranger to dramatic gestures, has called for an emergency session of the UN Security Council, which will undoubtedly be met with a US veto and a lot of finger-wagging. In the meantime, the streets of Caracas remain a chaotic mess of inflation, shortages, and now, falling debris from American drones. Progress!
As a gonzo journalist, I feel compelled to note the sheer, breathtaking stupidity of this whole affair. Here we have a former reality TV star, a man whose grasp on reality is tenuous at best, ordering a military strike on a foreign country while technically no longer in power. It's like watching a drunk uncle insist on driving the family car after his license has been revoked. The only difference is that this drunk uncle has access to Hellfire missiles and a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas.
What next? Will Trump demand the assassination of El Chapo's cousin's barber? Will he declare war on the gnomes that steal his socks from the dryer? The possibilities are endless, and terrifying. The international community, meanwhile, can only offer feeble protests and trade embargoes, while the world's largest superpower descends into a reality show version of international relations.
In the end, the death of Guerrero Flores will likely achieve nothing. The Tren de Aragua will find a new leader, the US will claim victory, and Trump will tweet something about how he alone could have done it better. But for one brief, glorious moment, we got to witness the pathetic spectacle of a has-been president playing action hero in a country he can't even locate on a map. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the new world order. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a drink. Preferably something with a little more kick than American foreign policy.
