In my youth, Mussolini—the pompous human meatball of Fascism—had recurring night terrors. Not of war, but of his own people turning on him, stringing him up by his boots, and displaying him like a cured ham in the public square. He imagined ending up not in the history books, but as an exhibit at Coney Island, between the bearded lady and the two-headed goat.

Back then, the world offered tyrants only two endings: execution or exile. But sometime after the 1950s, retirement packages for despots vastly improved. The job perks got downright presidential.

Take Cuba’s Fulgencio Batista. One fine morning in 1958, he awoke to news that Fidel Castro was practically on his front porch. He did what any self-respecting strongman would do—he called an Uber Jet, stuffed 180 of his besties onboard, withdrew $300 million in small, unmarked bills from the Havana Treasury, and fled to Spain for a permanent siesta.

Fast forward twenty years, and Idi Amin—Uganda’s answer to Caligula, but with worse table manners—felt the love was gone. So he packed his Louis Vuitton trunks with cash, hopped a flight, and checked into a Saudi hotel where the minibar held more gold than Fort Knox.

Not to be outdone, “Baby Doc” Duvalier of Haiti grabbed half a billion bucks and Mrs. Duvalier—who would later relieve him of both assets in a divorce spectacular enough to make Hollywood jealous—and disappeared faster than Haitian democracy.

Ah, the golden age of despot retirement! Armed only with suitcases full of taxpayer cash, these gentlemen discovered that exile didn’t mean exile—it meant beachfront villas, private chefs, and sycophants on demand. One imagines them in silk robes, sipping umbrella drinks, chuckling over a world that let them steal the silverware and then upgrade to First Class.

But alas, history sobers even the most intoxicated scoundrels.

In October 1998, Augusto Pinochet—Chile’s military dictator and part-time monocle model—flew into Europe expecting a hero’s welcome and perhaps a commemorative postage stamp. Instead, he got clapped in irons and taken on a whirlwind tour of European justice. The doctrine of “universal jurisdiction” had arrived, meaning any despot with a guilty conscience now had to travel under a fake name and wear a fake mustache.

Suddenly, kleptocrats found themselves radioactive. Their passports reeked of oppression and unpaid debts. Sanctuary was out. Extradition was in. Retirement plans shriveled. Swiss banks closed their arms—and their vaults.

But like all good ideas, justice came with a nasty side effect: Without immunity, tyrants cling to power like barnacles on a sinking ship. Step down, and they go to The Hague. So instead of stepping down. They install their sons, cousins, or astrologers to stay in charge and protect the family fortune.

Hugo Chávez did it. So did Robert Mugabe, who would’ve run for office from the afterlife if he could’ve gotten a decent Wi-Fi signal.

Now, younger readers may think this is all ancient history, like flared pants or landlines. But as of yesterday, I read that Vladimir Putin still thinks he might win the war in Ukraine. And if he doesn’t? Well, let’s just say: this show will go on until the final curtain drops—on him.

But what if—what if—we tried something new?

Let’s play the Trump card.

Our former president, real estate tycoon, and Putin Bro could make Putin an offer he couldn’t refuse:

“Look, Vlad. You can stay in Russia, lose the war, and end up locked in a cold dacha with angry babushkas banging on your gates… or you can relocate to sunny Mar-a-Lago.”

“You get the Presidential Suite. Gold toilets. Golf carts. Free Diet Cokes. You can spend your golden years blowing spitballs at NATO with Alan Dershowitz at the breakfast buffet. We’ll even let you DJ at the pool party.”

“Trust me, the climate’s better, the caviar’s imported, and the ambiance beats anything Mussolini dreamed about..”

It would be a win-win: Ukraine gets peace, Russia gets a new leader, and Florida gets another eccentric billionaire with questionable moral fiber.

So please. For the love of Europe, democracy, and beachfront real estate:

STOP THE KILLING. STOP THE KILLING. GIVE PUTIN A SUITE AT MAR-A-LAGO.