Mangala gnashed his mighty teeth, pockmarked by years of gritting amid the sand storms of Iraq, in a fit of rage and fury.
"Laid off!," he cried with a roar that broke windows from Basra to Babylon to Baghdad and beyond. "Eight years I've given all I had to this mighty enterprise, and I'm given a pink slip like a redundant file clerk."
"How good of the Americans to close the steel gate behind them as they steal south into Kuwait, declaring the war over and leaving me -- the God of War and Empire -- slouching in a sidewalk cafe like a useless old pensioner."
Mangala took a dainty sip of his tiny cup of strong caffeinated brew.
"But I am merciful," he spake, in gentler tones. "I do not seek revenge against the Americans who have given me the axe and denied me gainful work."
He paused, with steely glint in his godful eyes.
"For I know full well, having walked hand in hand with them in this enterprise, that they cannot succeed without me, and they know it as well."
The God of War and Empire gave a small, knowing smile as he surveyed the varied Baghdad crowd -- Sunni, Shiite, Christian, Kurd, friend of democracy, friend of Iran.
"The Americans?" he said. "They'll be back."