What’s up, gossipy crew, always on the cutting edge of information! If you just felt your blood pressure drop, your breath catch in your throat, and a vibe heavier than a hangover from watered-down mezcal swept across the continent, you weren’t hallucinating. It was the collective shock, the simultaneous “Holy shit, what’s up!” of millions of Latinos receiving the same damn notification on their screens.

There it was, blinking with that urgent red “Latest News” that terrifies us so much. The text was censored to outsmart the algorithm and generate morbid curiosity, but we all understood it immediately because the neighborhood has its share of know-it-alls: “#breakingnews Maduro begs for mercy for not being the axis… See more” .

You’ve got to be kidding me! That damn “…See more” was torture! For not being what? Ex…cited? Ex…mplar? Hell no! We all knew that missing word was the most dreaded, the one that smells of lead and the final, definitive end: EXECUTED .

At that moment, time stood still. Who had it? Did the Americans finally send in the SEALs? Was there an alien invasion? NO, SIRS! The truth is much dirtier, more treacherous, and worthy of a high-budget narco-novela.

Your humble servant, El Tundemáquinas Ramírez, who never backs down from a challenge, even if missiles rain down, moved through the shadows of the “Deep Web” and contacted his deep throats in Caracas to bring you the real story, what truly happened when that cesspool was exposed. And hold on tight, sit down, and take a deep breath, because what happened at Miraflores Palace a few hours ago is enough to make you want to pee your pants.

THE CHRONICLE OF THE RUMBLE: WHEN THE “LOYALISTS” BECAME EXECUTIONERS

What that so-called “see more” was hiding was the total collapse of a regime, not from the outside, but from within! Friendly fire, man! Betrayal by cronies!

It turns out, and it stands out, that while Maduro was on his daily television program spouting his usual spiel about the “Yankee Empire,” the studio doors suddenly flew open. It wasn’t opposition members, it wasn’t protesters. It was his own generals, the military high command that until yesterday swore eternal loyalty to him, led by key figures who, according to our sources, had already negotiated their own survival with foreign powers in exchange for handing over the “Bird’s” head.

The atmosphere became more tense than a violin string. The broadcast wasn’t cut off (rumor has it that the generals themselves ordered it to be aired to publicly humiliate him).

THE EXACT MOMENT WHEN HIS LITTLE THEATER COLLAPSED

There was Nicolás. The color drained from his face. He began to sweat profusely, like a false witness in court. Soldiers, wearing balaclavas and carrying long guns, surrounded the set. One of the generals (whose name we’re withholding to avoid ending up in a body bag; you know who the bigwigs are there) took the microphone.

—“The party’s over, Nicolás. The people are hungry and we’re tired of carrying your dead. You’re leaving today, either peacefully or feet first in a summary trial right here.”

BANG! TAKE THAT, BEARDED ONE!

And that’s where we saw the image described in the headline. The man who threatened the world, who felt untouchable, crumbled live on air.

THE PLEAS OF THE “COMMANDER”: CROCODILE TEARS AND PURE FEAR

Forget the boastful Maduro. What Latin America saw (before the signal mysteriously dropped in several countries) was a broken man. He knelt, my people. Yes, you read that right. Kneeling on the studio floor, his usual sweatpants now stained with the sweat of fear, he clasped his hands as if he were about to pray.

The words that came out of her mouth, between sobs and snot, were the ones that went viral around the world in that notification:

—“Comrades, no! For the memory of the Eternal Commander, don’t do this to me! I am one of you! Have mercy! I beg for mercy, please! Don’t execute me here like a dog! Let me go, I’ll go to Cuba, to Russia, wherever you want, but don’t kill me!”

What a horrific scene! It was pure fear of death, the terror of knowing that the very monsters he had fed were now going to devour him alive. He wept like a little boy whose candy had been taken away, offering bank accounts, gold bars, state secrets—anything to save his own skin.

“I’m not the axis of evil the gringos say I am, I’m a confused revolutionary! Have mercy on this humble driver!” he shouted, trying to elicit pity. But the soldiers’ faces were like stone.

THE UNCERTAIN OUTCOME: WHERE IS THE BIRD NOW?

Just when it seemed they were going to “kill him off” right there on national television, the signal went black. Bam! Black screen.

Since then, chaos has reigned in Venezuela and gossip has spread like wildfire around the world.

What happened next? Did they give him a place to live? Are they holding him in a dark cell, negotiating his surrender to the International Criminal Court? Or was it all a macabre charade to mislead the enemy?

Our sources on the ground say explosions were heard near Miraflores, but no one can confirm if a body has been found. Others say they saw him board an unmarked plane bound for a Caribbean island, guarded by his captors.

The only certainty, my people, is that the image of a strong Maduro is gone forever. That “he begs for mercy to avoid being executed” is the epitaph of his government.

The world is in shock. Memes in Mexico were quick to appear, but deep down, there’s a palpable fear of the instability to come. This is just the beginning, folks. The power struggle is coming, and when sharks fight, blood splatters everywhere.

Stay tuned, don’t take your eyes off your phone. Buy some popcorn and a six-pack of beer to calm your nerves, because the ending of this real-life narco-drama promises to be more heart-stopping than a World Cup final with penalty kicks.

Alive or dead? Imprisoned or exiled? The coin is in the air.

We’ll keep reporting from the trenches of international gossip. Over and out, and may God have mercy on us because things are about to get really messy!