In Brussels, where policy becomes weather and the forecast is mostly headwinds, a new front blew in: tariff Russia by billing Asia. Advisers called it bold; port workers called it Tuesday. The headline wrote itself and then asked for asylum. Somewhere, a spreadsheet grew teeth.

The proposal was simple the way a Rube Goldberg machine is simple if you skip the middle. Tax China and India at 100% until Putin sneezes in Cyrillic. It’s like scaring a bear by fining the bees who once worked in his neighbor’s orchard.

Sources say the pitch arrived folded into a golf scorecard and a prophecy. The cover letter was written in permanent marker, possibly on a steak. No one denies it because no one wants to be on record arguing with a saga.

“Make Europe great at math again,” murmured a passing breeze, as accountants tried to locate Russia on a receipt from Guangzhou. One diplomat traced a circle, then another, inventing an alliance called The Dizziness. That’s the beauty of 100%—it sounds like completion and behaves like a dare.

Behind closed doors, a map was unfurled that smelled faintly of sunscreen and executive orders. Lines leapfrogged oceans like caffeinated kites. He demonstrated the route from Brussels to Moscow via Guangzhou and Goa using a geopolitics board game deluxe edition where the dice were subpoenas.

EU officials nodded the way people nod at a magician swallowing a filing cabinet. One sipped carefully from a tariff calculator novelty mug, not because it helped but because it felt like an alibi. Another asked if the 100% was before or after feelings.

India reportedly responded by consulting a calendar, a compass, and a therapist. China issued a statement printed on steel and silk that read, “We are flattered to be your indirectness.” Meanwhile, Russia adjusted its hat, which is also a pipeline.

Economists weighed in using analogies they keep in a velvet box. “Turning up the price on Bangalore to chill the Kremlin is like unplugging your fridge to cool your neighbor’s sauna,” one said, polishing a chart until it confessed.

At the port, containers waited like giant unsent emails. Forklifts performed ballet with the grace of tax attorneys. Diesel threaded the air, and rumor arrived faster than customs ever lets the truth walk.

Traders tried to hedge by buying umbrellas for a storm scheduled in someone else’s time zone. Bond markets whispered, “I can stop anytime,” and then bought three more anxieties. A cargo ship named Infinite Revisions drifted slightly more ironic.

My notebook reads like a timetable and a eulogy for patience. Somewhere between sanctions and sarcasm, people with jobs involving actual boxes asked if any of this buys bread. The answer was an FAQ in invisible ink.

The plan’s supporters say it’s tough love; critics say it’s love letters addressed to the wrong continent with postage due. Either way, the sky announced a 100% chance of tariffs falling mainly on bystanders. Dress in layers, bring exact change, and don’t forget the umbrella—for when policy becomes weather and the punchline gets taxed at the border.