Trump Warpath: Imminent Pumps About Iran
Trump Warpath: Imminent Pumps About Iran
Photo: Commons.wikimedia.org by Sonia Sevilla, https://createivecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/
ФAS GEAR иioна
Nancy O’Brien Simpson
The president’s voice crepitated the receiver, tying the line as the prelude to a storm. His words had a dangerous impatience, a hunger barely disguised under the veil of diplomacy. “If they do not make a deal, there will be bombings,” he said, the phrase not as a warning, but as a promise, anxious, almost cheerful. He landed as the first rumble of thunder before the downpour, an inevitability that seemed determined to comply. “Secondary rates too,” he added, but the words were one after the stage, a feint: his mind was already in another place, he already rose on Tehran with steel and fire wings.
On the other side of the ocean, Tehran will be in prayer under nightfall, dust and devotion mixing in something old, unbreakable. President Masoud Peeshkian turned to his advisors, his constant voice, motionless for the threats they roared in the ether. “There are no direct negotiations,” he said, and the words were not challenging, but are resolved, the weight of the story by pressing down in the room. “But the path of indirect conversations remains open.” A shit of light, barely cracked, but did it matter when the man at the other end of the line was looking for an exit, but a path inside?
Washington Bristled. The president, unnoticed, drum his fingers against the time itself. The treaties had become and destroyed, the negotiations hung and dismissed. But now, the air was full of something else, somewhat darker. He leaned over the resolved desk, the gaze did not look at the maps before he, but beyond them, to the burning show that seemed anxious to unleash. His words burned in the room. “If they attack, we return our backs, great strength, great strength.” The trial was only emphasis; It was anticipation.
The steel birds waited, their wings folded in the patient’s threat. The desert night whispered with the song of the engines ready to get up, to attack. Diplomacy, negotiation: Thean was footnotes in a script that was already rewriting. The war battery was beating in his chest, the aroma of the thick conflict in the air. The world listened to this story before, seen this film, but never with such an anxious advantage for the final act.
And so, the game played. The pieces moved, the watches marked, the night spread a lot around Washington and Tehran. And in the shadows, the invisible hands pressed forward, relentless, towards the inevitable dawn of fire and ruin.
