Torre: Too big to keep?

He went after Quiboloy. You know, the so-called Appointed Son of God. Appointed by whom? Nobody knows. Maybe the Comelec. Maybe Smartmatic.

Can you believe it? Arresting God? People have tried that before. The Romans, the Pharisees, the BIR. Never worked out.

Torre made it look like he personally dragged the messiah from out of the clouds and threw him in the back of a police truck. “You’re under arrest, Son of God.”

But Quiboloy surrendered. He made that very clear.

It was important. Maybe just to diss Torre who brought a thousand cops with him to surround the KoJC compound. An absolute display of force that made you think they were about to make history.

They tried. Couldn’t catch him. Maybe he turned into a dove. Poof! Gone. Feathers flying. Divine poo on their heads.

Then there’s Duterte. Nobody thought it could be done. They said he was sick, old. Maybe true, maybe not. Torre shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Hihilahin ko yan, hihilahin ko yan.” Dragged his counsel. Ex-President straight to the Hague.

You call Torre when your sofa won’t fit in the elevator. He’ll make it fit.

Who’s next? Who knows. Maybe the President. Maybe Congress. Maybe someone nobody suspects. Torre doesn’t care. He’ll drag them all in.

And then you see him in the gym. Torre boxing. Everyone knows who’s really trying here. Amazing form.

You think: this man is unstoppable. Nicolas “Asthma” Torre. You see him punching the mitts, jab, hook, uppercut. One, two, 1-2, “Hoo! Hooo! Hoooo! Hoo!”

When you move like Torre; when you step out of a Rolls Royce with an army behind you, you annoy enemies and terrify them politely. Clever enemies, the smartest in the room. Factions who jockey for influence. The ones whispering “risk” or “too independent” into the President’s right ear at the right time.

Torre’s forceful moves may have shifted balances inside government and the police. Big shifts. People whisper, people are nervous. One man too strong? Reset the scales.

They pretend to smile. Pretend to shake hands. Pretend to agree with the man who just showed them they’re not in charge.

You do things they can’t do; they won’t know how to react. They look like fools.

Torre is flashy. Very flashy. Media savvy, everyone loves him, cameras follow him everywhere. But flash doesn’t beat the law.

The real leash? Napolcom. DILG. That’s Remulla. The real authority. Legal. Constitutional. They can review, reverse, even nullify Torre’s orders.

He calls Torre a bulldog. Pitbull. Shows the people who really pulls the strings outside Torre’s spotlight.

Every move Torre makes (reshuffle, promotion, reassignment), if it’s done without Napolcom’s approval, is a direct challenge to Remulla.

So the clash is over control. Who really runs the police? Who calls the shots?

The problem is Torre is funnier than an interior secretary who tries to charm the people with social media zingers like “Mga abangers…” In show business, you never upstage the star.

Torre wasn’t a failure as a cop. He failed as a supporting actor.

You can be corrupt, you can be incompetent, you can be a walking scandal; just don’t be charismatic in a system that can’t handle shine.

Torre’s five-minute 911 became five minutes of fame. Marcos may have feared Torre’s loyalty might not be absolute. He answers to the law, to the media, and to his own sense of justice. You don’t let your top cop run free. What Torre knows could burn. You move fast. No hesitation.