Always thrown on the Imperial Club of Lima carpet (Kuczysnski dixit), with the implosion of Lima, his cradle became a grave. The scorpion dug its stinger. Or said with the image of The hand by the wall, the snake bit its tail. I am not doing literary veronica. Metaphors are used to avoid vomiting when one writes about certain vermin. No one with a normal digestive system could name Almagro and continue to eat breakfast peacefully. Honest journalism would be impossible without gastric protectors.
Lima, the city liberated by the sword of our Antonio José de Sucre (I underline it: Gran Mariscal de Ayacucho), was sullied by placing its name on a true cartel of Latin American presidents and "ex" who organized to do the dirty work of the empire and conspiring against the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela. The conspirators did not calculate that the sole owner of the headquarters, the Peruvian people, did not give them permission for such an affront and decided to kick them out. The response of the Lima member of the ominous club was the most brutal repression, with its death toll and disappearances.
In the north, the financier of the cartel was fired under protest from the White House, the owner of the carpet. Even an honorary member and adviser to the conclave, Álvaro Uribe, was softened by pessimism and a narco-criticism was made that has the cartel, hitmen, cars and stars on the ground. "The economic sanctions have not been effective in Venezuela - Uribe moaned before El Mundo, an anti-Chavista Spanish newspaper (worth the redundancy) - and I am pessimistic about any exit in Venezuela." That's the general mood of the wild club, from Paraguay to Bogotá, with cramps in Washington, Miami and Madrid.
To those who bragged because they asked for more sanctions and they were pleased, it does not console them that Trump has stuck on his own broken record: "there was fraud here." Penelope's nights are in danger. La dolce vita in Spain is vinegary. The feasts in Coral and Weston languish. Evenings in Bogotá are without candles. The curse of the Club de Lima radiates everywhere. Its limbs dry up and the cartel barks, as one of its fans wrote years ago, under the city and the dogs.