In a move that has simultaneously delighted and horrified the international community, the United States has successfully converted a Venezuelan gang leader into a fine aerosolised mist via the time-honoured tradition of an airstrike. The Pentagon, in a press release that read like a gloating schoolboy's diary, confirmed that the target was one 'El Miedo' (The Fear), a man whose CV included kidnapping, extortion, and a frankly unforgivable taste in novelty socks.
The strike, carried out by a drone that likely cost more than the entire Venezuelan health budget, was described as 'surgical'. Which is a curious choice of words, given that the only surgical instruments involved were 500 pounds of high explosive. The gang leader, along with several of his closest associates, was instantly teleported to that great criminal underworld in the sky.
Britain, ever the loyal sidekick in this transatlantic pantomime, was quick to reaffirm its 'support for regional stability'. Foreign Secretary Lady Pamplemousse issued a statement from a leather armchair that cost more than a small Caribbean island, expressing her 'deep satisfaction' at the removal of such a 'nasty piece of work'. She then adjourned for a gin and tonic, presumably with a slice of cucumber, because we are civilised.
But let us not get too misty-eyed for the deceased. El Miedo was a monster. He ran a gang that specialised in extortion, kidnapping, and the kind of violence that makes even the most hardened crime reporter blanch. Yet one cannot help but feel a twinge of unease. Here is a sovereign nation, Venezuela, with its own government (however disputed), and the US has just conducted a military operation within its borders. It is the geopolitical equivalent of a SWAT team bursting into your neighbour's house to shoot their pet hamster because it looked shifty.
The official line is that this was a 'counter-terrorism operation' and that the Venezuelan government was consulted. But one must wonder: if you are a gang leader in Caracas right now, are you more scared of El Miedo's successor, or of a Hellfire missile arriving without a by-your-leave from the skies above?
Meanwhile, the Venezuelan government has condemned the strike as a 'violation of sovereignty', which is rich coming from a regime that has violated its own people's sovereignty so many times they've lost count. President Maduro, in a speech that was equal parts bluster and confusion, promised to 'dance on the ashes of Yankee imperialism' while simultaneously asking for humanitarian aid. It is a confusing time to be a Venezuelan.
What is clear is that the war on drugs, or terror, or whatever we are calling it this week, continues its relentless march. We have moved from body bags to body mist. The gang leader is gone, but will his followers now seek revenge? Will stability magically bloom in the crime-ridden streets of Caracas? The answer, predictably, is no. But at least we can all sleep a little easier knowing that Britain is on the side of regional stability, which is code for 'we support whatever the Americans do, as long as it doesn't disrupt our gin imports'.
So raise a glass to El Miedo, a man who lived by the sword and died by the drone. And to the brave men and women who pilot those drones from air-conditioned bunkers in Nevada. It is a brave new world, and we are all just living in it. Some of us, quite literally, in small pieces.
