The art of the self-inflicted wound: Donald Trump and the death rattle of empire — Che Ran

APRIL 11 — Donald, you just handed the world another greasy reason never to trust a deal with you.

One breath, it’s 125 per cent. Next breath, it’s 10 per cent.

Next breath, maybe it’s oxygen, maybe it’s carbon monoxide.

Hell, even the weathervane is begging for early retirement. North? South? Spin like a lunatic and hope you don’t blow off the roof.

You call this negotiation? No, sir.

This is a toddler in a casino, clumsily pumping quarters into the slot machine of global trade, praying for cherries, while the house watches with a smirk.

This isn’t strength.

This is instability, wearing a red tie two inches too long and a spray tan thick enough to slip sanctions through.

Serious countries—civilizations with a memory longer than last night’s news cycle—don’t stake their futures on a man who treats the global economy like his own private craps table.

And while we’re here: how in the seven circles of financial hell is this man not nailed for insider trading?

As the great Hunter S. Thompson once said:

“In a closed society where everybody’s guilty, the only crime is getting caught. In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity.”

And Donald, you’re pushing both sins to their limits.

You saunter out of the back door of the casino, fat cigar in your teeth, pockets jingling, mumbling about “winning” like you’ve just discovered blackjack.

You talk about respect—but what do you show the world?

Discipline? None.

Honor? You pawned that for spare change.

Predictability? About as reliable as a drunk GPS recalculating in the middle of a hurricane.

You’ve reduced the American position to a sad little coin toss between tantrum and surrender.

China didn’t “rip off” America—you gift-wrapped your industrial base and sent it on a red-eye to Shenzhen.

They built. You speculated.

They planned. You printed money like it was toilet paper during a panic buy.

And now, when the empire can’t even win at its own rigged game, you stagger around blaming the table.

Your “pause” isn’t strategy—it’s the leverage slipping through your sweaty palms like last night’s fast-food wrapper.

You had leverage, once. Maybe.

Before you scorched your allies, tore up your treaties, and reduced your own credibility to a punchline at global summits.

Now?

You’re not a partner.

You’re not even a credible enemy.

You’re the drunk at the end of the bar, shouting at the TV, while the rest of us settle our tabs and leave the building.

You brag about 75 countries calling you.

Let’s be honest—they’re not calling because they trust you.

They’re calling like hostages calling their kidnapper, hoping you’ve had your coffee and your blood sugar is stable.

This isn’t respect, Don.

It’s damage control.

You don’t sound like a leader anymore.

You sound like an alarm bell.

A fire alarm.

Blaring, blinding, driving people to the exits.

History won’t remember this as strategy.

It’ll remember this as the moment the empire started speaking in tongues—loud, erratic, and irrelevant.

And China?

China isn’t bending to this noise.

No civilization that’s survived 5,000 years gets rattled by a country that can’t even survive one election cycle without teetering on civil war.

When your 90 days expire, and nothing has moved except your poll numbers, you’ll blame China again. Of course you will.

But we know what this is.

You’re not punishing China.

You’re punishing yourself.

You’re not protecting America.

You’re projecting your own decline.

The world sees it.

And let’s be clear, Don—

You can’t tariff your way out of decay.

You can’t sanction your way out of irrelevance.

And you sure as hell can’t tweet your way out of history.

* This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of Malay Mail.