Trump the Magnificent and His Clapping Vassals
The fine art of flattering the Orange Caesar.
Trump entered the hall like Caesar at the Capitol, his hair glowing with its own golden standard, the air charged as if Jupiter himself had descended in Manhattan attire. Before him, the vassals of the European Union shuffled and bowed, their tongues lashing the air in praise. Ursula von der Leyen — matron of a hollow empire — curtsied in spirit, thanking the Big Orange Man for “remarkable progress,” as though peace had sprung from her own sterile gardens. Mark Rutte chimed in, his voice a reed bending to whichever wind commands survival. They called Trump a peacemaker, forgetting they themselves had strangled peace for years, feeding Zelensky his endless lines as the audience cheered in Brussels. The irony swelled into a grotesque spectacle: saboteurs hailing the man who revealed their impotence.
The staging of flattery is ancient, and these Eurocrats perform it with the elegance of desperate actors in a collapsing amphitheater. They know Trump’s stage demands spectacle, so they flood him with honeyed words, gilded thanks, and choreographed smiles. Their plan is clever only in its cowardice: do not confront the emperor, for confrontation means exile; instead, seed the peace deal with poison clauses, snares that Moscow cannot accept. When Putin refuses, the narrative will thunder: “See, the bear rejects peace!” The script would then demand that Trump, wounded by betrayal, hurl thunderbolts of sanctions upon Russia and BRICS. Like a chorus in a tragic play, the EU hopes to direct the emperor’s rage, forgetting that emperors burn scripts and rewrite epics with a mere gesture.
In the wings stands Zelensky, the failed actor recast as warrior, a marionette whose strings fray as the puppeteers tire of their own invention. Once, he strutted like Achilles on green screens, hailed as a savior of Europe’s honor. Now he staggers like a comic relief character overstaying his welcome. The EU leaders parade him when useful, discard him when embarrassing, each time pulling his strings tighter while feeding him new lines he can barely deliver. Trump, Caesar of unpredictability, watches this drama with a smirk. He is no Biden, no Obama, no polished dummy for transatlantic ventriloquists. His joy lies in shattering expectations, crowning himself playwright of destiny. For Brussels, this is terror: their morality play crumbles when the emperor refuses to play his assigned part.
The test now stands before him like a mythic riddle. Trump, gambler-king, can choose between two masks: the echo, repeating the last whisper slipped into his ear, or the sovereign, aligning openly with Russia, casting aside the “listen-to-the-vassals” script, and creating a new balance beyond NATO’s ominous glare. He can take the hand of Putin as two Caesars, each in his own sphere of influence, or he can let the chorus steer him into their comedy of sanctions and collapses. The Fates spin their thread, yet the shears rest in Trump’s grip. History waits, trembling, to see whether he cuts the old order or ties himself to its corpse.
https://www.eurosiberia.net/p/trump-the-magnificent-and-his-clapping-vassals