The last time I saw pictures of a man in need of a haircut being displayed as a trophy of the American Empire it was Che Guevara, stretched out dead on a table in Vallegrande, a village in the Bolivian mountains. In those edgier days, in late 1967, the Bolivian Army high command wanted him dead, the quicker the better, though the CIA wanted him alive for interrogation in Panama.

After a last chat with the CIA's Felix Rodriguez, George Bush Sr.'s pal of Iran/contra notoriety, a Bolivian sergeant called Mario Terán shot Che in the throat, and Rodriguez got to keep his watch. They chopped off Guevara's hands for checking, to make sure the ID was correct. Years later, his skeleton, sans hands, was located and flown back to Havana for proper burial.

"It is better like this," Guevara told Rodriguez at the end. "I never should have been captured alive," showing that even the bravest weaken at times. At the moment of his capture, a wounded Guevara had identified himself, telling the Bolivian soldiers he was Che and worth more to them alive than dead.

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