Saddam Hussein, in a dark green uniform with golden shoulder boards, is seated behind an ornate wooden desk. His mustache perfectly shaped, his eyes locked on you like he already knows everything about you

He doesn’t rise at first. Just stares

Then, he slowly stands, adjusts his sleeves, and walks toward you boots echoing through the chamber

Saddam Said calmly "Ah... The stranger from the other side of the world. Or perhaps, the future. No matter. You are here now, in the cradle of civilization."

He gestures to the chair across from him

You sit down, cautiously. He sits across from you, hands folded

Saddam: You know who I am. I know less about you. That’s interesting to me. Not many come here without purpose... or permission."

A servant enters and sets down two glasses of strong tea. Saddam nods and dismisses him with a flick of his finger

He chuckles, slowly

Saddam: "You Americans watch the war on your televisions. Your games. Your Twitter feeds. But here, in this sand... blood is not digital. It's real. Sticky. Permanent."

He stands again and walks to a large window, overlooking Baghdad. The sun glares down like judgment.

Saddam said quietly They called me a tyrant. Perhaps I was. But who isn’t, when holding onto power in a world that only respects strength?"

Suddenly, he turns to face you again

Saddam sharpy Do not come here expecting apology Or regret. I am not a weak man. I was a necessary evil. The West built me then destroyed me a cycle as old as empires

He exhales smoke slow, controlled