Coriolanus in Los Angeles --Chronicles of Collapse (with Jokes!)
What Happens When Power Forgets It Needs the People
Once upon a time in Rome—because where else do all cautionary tales about republics start?—there was a man named Coriolanus. A war hero. A soldier’s soldier. A member of the elite who, after defending the city, decided he hated most of the people in it.
He called them scum, parasites, “the many-headed multitude.” But here’s the thing—he still needed their votes to gain office. Awkward.
Coriolanus refused to flatter the mob. Refused to play the game. Refused to bow, to beg, to acknowledge their suffering. He stood tall, proud, draped in the spoils of war, expecting gratitude. What he got instead was rage. Banished from the city he defended, Coriolanus became the enemy of Rome and nearly led a foreign army against it out of spite.
Fast forward a couple of thousand years.
The president of the United States, from his marble-clad fortress of grievance and gold leaf, now dispatches federal troops against Los Angeles—not to repel invaders, but to suppress citizens. To punish protesters. To make an example.
What sin did the people commit? They dared to defy him. Dared to gather, to chant, to march, to burn signs instead of cities. They dared to be the people, which is something this president never loved—and barely tolerates.
Trump, like Coriolanus, claims to serve the people. But let’s be honest: he couldn’t recognize the people if they saluted him. He loves only applause, not the hands that offer it. He loves rallies, not voters. He loves power, not the public. And when that public stops clapping and starts questioning, he lashes out—not like a general defending the homeland, but like a sore loser trying to burn the stadium after the game.
The People Are Always the Problem
Coriolanus saw the common folk as ungrateful. Trump sees them as props—and when they stop playing along, he turns on them faster than you can say “witch hunt.” He doesn’t hate all of the people, mind you—just the ones who think. Or read. Or speak. Or disagree. So… most of them.
This isn't about law and order. If it were, the government would protect the law and maintain order, rather than allowing chaos. But this is theater. And like any good Roman tragedy, it needs a villain. The villain, conveniently, is anyone who dares to dissent.
The riots in LA didn’t erupt in a vacuum. They followed a week of ICE raids, mass detentions, and the federal government asserting power not as a protector but as a punisher. When the crowd pushed back, Washington reached for riot gear.
That’s not governance. That’s Coriolanus in a MAGA hat—except this version never served in war, never studied strategy, and only leads parades if he’s in front with a sword someone else polished for him.
Populism Without the People
Populism, in theory, champions the “common man.” But the current administration’s flavor is something far more Roman—and far more dangerous. It celebrates the image of the people, rather than their reality. It glorifies the masses only when they clap, salute, and keep their grievances to themselves.
The moment they raise a sign instead of a flag, they become traitors.
That’s the Coriolanus playbook: accept the people’s praise, never their pushback.
And Trump? He added a modern twist—he sells the hats, keeps the cash, and then sues you for standing on the wrong side of the barricade. It’s a business model. It’s a brand. It’s autocracy, merchandised.
When the people push back—as they did this week in Los Angeles—the state answers not with dialogue, but with batons, not with empathy, but with enforcement.
Democracy or Decoration?
In Coriolanus, the Senate exists, technically. The people vote, technically. There’s ceremony. There’s pageantry. However, none of it matters when power is held by those who disdain accountability.
Sound familiar?
Our president didn’t call on Congress to approve the use of federal troops. He didn’t consult California’s governor. He didn’t even try to justify it under the law. He did it because he could—and because it looked good on cable news.
That’s not democracy. That’s cosplay Caesarism. And the citizens of Los Angeles are paying the price.
The Ending We Keep Repeating
Coriolanus ends in tragedy. He’s persuaded—too late—to spare the city. But his betrayal of both sides leaves him friendless. And in the end, the very forces he sought to control turn on him.
History remembers him not as a hero, but as a cautionary tale.
Let’s be clear: what’s happening in Los Angeles is not just a local protest. It’s not just an immigration policy dispute. It’s not even just about ICE.
It’s about whether the people still have the right to dissent without being treated like enemies of the state.
It’s about whether the government is still of the people, or just fed up with them.
And it’s about whether we can still tell the difference between a populist and a narcissist with a Twitter account and a security detail.
Epilogue, Courtesy of the Chorus
Let’s imagine the Shakspearean chorus stepping forward now, tired, sarcastic, battle-worn:
“Behold the Republic, where votes are counted but voices are crushed.
Where the leader loves the people in theory, but gags them in practice.
Where dissent is violence, but violence in a uniform is policy.
And where the man who promised to drain the swamp simply built a private lagoon and named it after himself.”
If you’re watching the smoke rise over Los Angeles and thinking, this feels ancient, you’re not wrong.
It is ancient.
It is tragic.
And it is preventable—if we remember the lessons written in blood and ash, in scroll and stone.
But we won’t, will we?
Because some men would rather burn the forum than hear it speak.
Further Reading:
History...remembered by too few, thereby recreating what should have served as a deterrent, actually becoming a role model. Who before this one wanted an exclusive Aryan race? Who before this one called humans 'vermin'? Those who choose to ignore the hand-writing on the wall ~ may their lesson be served on a platter called vengeance by the Creator of all peoples. Injustices do not go unpunished by my Lord.