Iran Retaliation Lottery: Where and How Will They Strike Next?

By striking the evil Iranian General Qassam Soleimani and frying him with a few well-placed Hellfire missiles, Trump has made one small mistake, he has given the Iranians the ball, allowing them to retaliate whenever and wherever they want.

The three day of mourning of Solemeini is nearly over.

So, where and how will the fucking Iranians retaliate against the West?

You could be a tourist in Times Square, milling around the crowds, taking some photos and selfies when — BOOM! The bomb knocks you off your feet, and you are caught in the panic as people run in all directions. It was a bomb but not just any old bomb, a ‘dirty bomb’ which has just irradiated a one-mile radius of this great international city. You may be alive for now, but the heavy dose of radiation that you and thousands of people have ingested will most probably result in your early death, and the radiation will make the area uninhabitable for decades.

You could be on the London Underground, the carriage is full to the brim, rush hour, standing, an armpit rests directly under your nose. Boom! You hear a loud bang from the next carriage. The Iranians, nasty as they can be in revenge mode, have set off a Sarin gas device which slowly filters through the tunnel. The last thing you feel is a tightening of your lungs as your sight blurs into nothingness.

You could be on an international or national flight, as you sit back to flick through your book, you notice a man going into the toilets, and he stays for a long time. He suddenly emerges and shouts out Allahu Akbar. That’s when you go to the toilet yourself, in your seat. This lovely Iranian chap has smuggled on a home-made 3D printed plastic gun, which he smuggled onboard in pieces, then constructed in the plane’s toilets. He points the gun at an air stewardess, and demands to be let into the cockpit. When she refuses, he crassly shoots her in the head, her warm brain landing on a passenger’s table as they were about to eat their Chicken stew lunch on the tray. The brain, fresh from its hosts skull, steams the man’s glasses as he stares at it in abject shock. The Iranian reloads, then shoots a window out, losing cabin pressure, many are sucked out into the freezing air, others lose consciousness from the lack of oxygen. The plane goes into a terminal dive.

You could turn on the tap in your kitchen. The Iranians have somehow infiltrated the water utility processing centre. It’s a hot day so you drink the glass of water with gusto. The last thing you feel are your nerves seizing up, as you slink down onto the floor, your mouth frothing, your body shuts down as the chemical agent surges through your system in seconds.

You could be in the White House, eating a cheeseburger and slurping on a coke. The Iranians have enriched enough uranium to a high grade to create an atomic bomb. Through America’s porous borders with Mexico, they have managed to smuggle in a suitcase nuke through one of the many drug tunnels used by the cartels. The Iranians pay them handsomely for their use. The next thing you see is a white flash, as you spit out a piece of burger, the White House is buffeted by a hot wave that permeates through the walls. There is no way out, at least not in the time you have, the engulfing flames burn with such ferocity that your body is turned to ash in less than a few minutes. The mushroom cloud over Capitol Hill serves as a message of defiance and revenge from the Iranians.

Etc, etc, etc…