Imagine this: The Taliban have settled into Bagram like squatters who found the deed in a ditch—stringing wire, stapling signs, and reading the news at the gate as if time punched out with the last C-17. It’s a strip-mall version of empire: bored sentries, chipped concrete, and the nagging sense that the big show left town with the popcorn machine. Then the sky growls. Somewhere above the razor wire, a fat, lightning-veined hand lowers from the stormbank like a collection agency from the Old Testament, and every loose bolt in Parwan starts to hum the same name.

Trump…Trump…Trump!

It’s like the hand of God, only slightly less humble.

The Hand That Rumbles

For those who may have missed the subtlety of the humming, our letters here spell it out in block capitals— TRUMP —like thunder ca

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