Moammar Gadhafi is probably not a happy camper today. Nobody seems to know where he is, but we know for sure he’s on the run, hiding, probably trying to get out of Libya.
It’s one thing, when you’re in power and in control, to announce to the world that you will never leave your country, that you’d rather fight to the end and die there. It’s quite another to keep saying it when armed rebels are at the door, when they’ve overrun your compound, when they are hot on your heels and leaving no stone unturned to find you. (Under rocks is the first place anyone looks for people like you.)
It’s too late to negotiate that exile on the tranquil beaches of Tunisia, with your family all around you, and maybe those Amazonian bodyguards as well. Probably even that air-conditioned tent you’re so fond of. Nope. You were determined to stay in Libya, remember?
I’ll bet you’re not so determined now. I’ll bet you’re wishing you’d taken that chance when you had it. Because, after all, you never really wanted to die, did you?
It’s funny how people like you, whether running for your lives or hiding in caves, still get on the radio or phone and exhort your remaining followers to fight to the death, to drive the “rats” out of Tripoli or kill them where they stand — while you cower under your rock, pray they don’t find you, and look for a way out. Because we all know the chances those rats will settle for capturing you and turning you over to the proper authorities for trial is extremely small.
I’m not betting on those rats being that dispassionate. They are hyped up young men flexing their muscles — and guns — for perhaps the first time in their lives. You’ve probably seen the one who stole your gold-trimmed hat and mace from your bedroom and paraded proudly before his comrades and the press. Imagine being the rat who actually kills you.