The snow here on Mount Hermon is whiter than Bukele’s teeth, which, if you’ve seen the photos, is saying something. Whiter than Trump’s… well, you know. Let’s just say whiter than a freshly bleached toupee in a blizzard. And colder. Jesus Christ, it’s cold. Colder than a Maryland man’s heart when they slap the cuffs on him and tell him he’s going on a one-way trip to El Salvador, administrative error my ass.
Deportation to El Salvador: An ‘Administrative Error’?
Administrative error. That’s what they called it with Kilmar Abrego Garcia. Poor bastard. No record, just wrong place, wrong time, wrong paperwork, probably wrong skin tone in the wrong light. Suddenly he’s sipping lukewarm prison coffee in San Salvador while Trump and his new best buddy Bukele are slapping backs and talking tough on TV.
Kilmar Garcia: A Case Study in US Deportation Policy
Supreme Court ruling? Ha! Tell that to Bukele. He’s got Garcia now, claims he’s a terrorist, says returning him is “preposterous.” Preposterous!
Like sending U.S. citizens to CECOT isn’t preposterous? Like this whole goddamn thing isn’t a three-ring circus of preposterousness?
Purgatory on Skis: The Arak Aftermath
And me? Here I am, freezing my gonads off in a Lebanese ski resort, trying to piece together the wreckage of last night. There was a girl. Dark hair, eyes that could melt glaciers, and a smile that promised… well, trouble. Definitely trouble. Was she married? Christ, I can’t remember. Too much arak, too much adrenaline, too much goddamn fear. Fear and Loathing in Beirut, more like. Except I didn’t even make it to Beirut. Just this godforsaken mountain, this snow-covered purgatory.
Her brother? Maybe. Some hulking brute with a glare that could curdle milk and a vocabulary that consisted mainly of guttural threats in Arabic. Or was it Armenian? Shit, my brain’s still scrambled like eggs in a paint mixer. He was pissed, that’s for sure. Pissed enough to chase me through a goddamn souk, pissed enough to send me scrambling for the border like a rat up a drainpipe.
And the HST fighter? That’s the real kicker. Somewhere in the haze of cheap liquor and panicked flight, I swear I saw him. Not Hunter S. Thompson, bless his drug-addled soul, but some local yokel, decked out in camouflage, waving an AK-47 and shouting something about Hezbollah. Or maybe it was just the arak talking. Maybe it was the altitude. Maybe it was the sheer, unadulterated terror of realizing I’d stumbled into something way, way over my head.
Navigating Fear and Politics from Lebanon to El Salvador
Trump and Bukele, deportations and mega-prisons, terrorists and administrative errors. It’s all swirling together in my brain like a goddamn snow globe shaken by a meth-addled chimpanzee. What the hell does any of it mean? What does it have to do with me, shivering in this ski lodge, nursing a hangover that feels like a jackhammer drilling through my skull, and trying to remember if I just slept with a married woman or a goddamn terrorist’s sister?
Maybe it’s all connected. Maybe this whole goddamn world is just one big administrative error, one giant deportation to a place we never asked to go. And maybe, just maybe, that girl, that brother, that phantom HST fighter – maybe they’re all just symptoms of the same disease.
The disease of power, of arrogance, of men in suits making deals and ruining lives with the stroke of a pen, or the slam of a gavel, or the casual wave of a hand that sends some poor bastard like Garcia to hell in El Salvador, and me… well, me to this frozen wasteland, wondering if I’ll ever figure out what the hell just happened, or if I’ll just keep running, one step ahead of the brother, the husband, the HST fighter, and the whole goddamn mess.
Altitude Sickness or Systemic Collapse? Just Drive!
The air’s thin up here, and so is my grip on reality. Time for another shot of something strong. Maybe it’ll clear my head. Or maybe it’ll just make the snow look even whiter, and the world even more insane. Either way, it’s better than thinking about Bukele’s teeth. Or Trump’s hair. Or the look in that girl’s eyes right before the shit hit the fan.
Yeah, definitely time for another drink. Then maybe I find a car – any car – and just drive. Point it downhill, away from the snow, away from the border, away from the memories. Doesn’t matter where it goes, as long as it’s away. Keep running. It’s the only thing that makes sense anymore, don’t get caught! Stay outta the system!
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