I picture Obie, killer of Osama as Macbeth wandering around in the night fearing every creek and groan in the darkness.
Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murder sleep”—the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care,
The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast.
Some day the Sons of Osama will come for their revenge. They have long memories and are not very forgiving of apostates like Obie.