Capitalism could return to Cuba in a hail of drone smoke on the back of wave runners, skiffs, sport fishermen, and power boats.
It wasn't long ago that anti-Castro carbines ripped from American aircraft turrets were broken down and stashed in houses all over Miami to be repurposed and transported to counter revolutionary forces locked in jungle battles just an ocean's float away.
With the Florida Keys and Everglades, the Dominican Republic, and even a top secret CIA compound in Guatemala full of Cuban-Americans and Special Forces professionals drill-training to take the island back by force and drive the Stars And Bars through the dark heart of communism one rocket's red glare at a time.
Now with Ukraine Vs Russia showing the world the new meaning of air power, automated swarms, and FPV supremacy, many Havaneros may be thinking it's finally time to make it happen and take their way back home.
With over a million Cuban-Americans in Miami-Dade County alone, a force of 50,000 private citizens with enough plata to prepare for battle can currently be mustered from every open coffee window on any Tuesday morning.
For it to work, they'll need boats, drones, gas, food, water, some bongo drums, a few pallets of Starlinks, everybody with cojones and their mama, and whatever firepower they've been keeping under the couch, nighstand drawer, and locked safe.
Their fractured, seized, and seizing homeland is dying of hungry; its popular spirits dimmed to flatline for lack of power and connection. Citizens are eating their own comrades, throwing babies against the smoke on the wall amidst the open sewage, muddy water, bad pipes, decrepit infrastructure, decaying file systems, the ceaseless assault of the ravenous Atlantic's salty, sandy breath. No papaya blooms in blossom. Coffee farmers sleep all day. Life is sour in the sugar cane stands. You can't even get a Cuban sandwich in Cuba. The earth lays dry and overworked, barren, empty, salty, and alone.
The cigars are moldy, the rum is rusty, the horns are dented like crushed cans of cola, the old cars have stopped running and the kids don't know how to fix them. The doctors are scared of the nurses. The boots are afraid of the purses. And the saints are afraid of the curses. Nobody writes or reads cursive. The newspaper's gone discursive. Somebody call Pavel Burov, Immanuel Kant, and Franz Kafka, cause Cuba's out shaking in the bleeding sun and begging for a Russian Rocket's new philosophy about a metamorphosis from an old roach to a new historic chapter.
Where is anybody with a gleaming new vision for a skyscrape future.
Somebody call Trump.
It's time to clean up Kennedy's mess, send the fellas in and do it right.
FPV drone force, long range, fiber optic. Walk the commies to the beach, march them into the surf, and tell them keep walking. If Moses is with them, he'll part the sea, if not they drown in 4k video. Death in the ocean on live stream.
There is a big new sugar field in the sky with plenty of freedom-juice ready to flood the land again and crush every last vestige of the vicious scourge of false political idolatry into oblivion like the putrid hellscaped infestation in the hiving committee's rotten core.
It's an important geopolitical advantage to have Cuban Freedom. They need a new casino, re-open the clubs, and let's party. America is coming back to Cuba, dollars, diners, drive ins, and dives.
Just kidding. Labeled Satire. USA America, Great!