Romeo decided it was about time he sent a couple-three brigades over to the scrappy barbarian outpost that had cropped up in the vicinity of his important port city of New Veracruz (or Nueva Veracruz, as he liked to call it, privately, in his mind).
It would be one thing if the barbarians had simply arrived and begun living peaceful lives there. Romeo was not prejudiced against barbarians. In the grand scope of history, yes, he would eventually have to clear them out. But it wouldn’t be anything personal or urgent. As it was, they insisted on repeatedly sending out violent contingencies to disrupt daily development in Nueva Veracruz. They were practically begging to feel his wrath.
Not that these attacks had been detrimental in any significant way. Romeo’s Empire 6 was far too sprawling and multifaceted to be halted or even noticeably slowed on its path towards complete world conquest by pesky savages with apparently no other idea of how to spend their time than to blindly launch cannonballs and ride in on horseback with spiked clubs, somehow forgetting that they’d need to scale 20-foot steel-reinforced stone walls if they even wanted a chance to test their mettle against the world-class sentries and riflemen stationed in Nueva Veracruz.
Did the barbarian forces realize that in Romeo’s capital city of New Mexico City alone, the artisans and architects had managed to erect 3 of the 8 possible wonders of the world? Did they know that scientists in the technological hub of Nueva Ciudad Juarez were only 10-12 turns (of the seasons) away from discovering the theory of relativity? Of course not. They wouldn’t even have words in their language to comprehend those sorts of epic feats.
Still, three times now, they had thwarted his attempts to upgrade the barracks in Nueva Veracruz and, in the process, had succeeded in upgrading themselves to the status of official thorn in his side.
“Congratulations, Barbarians,” Romeo thought. “As a result for pissing me off, now you die.”
The only question was who to send. He still had a couple horse-mounted knights, remnants of an earlier age, who he could afford to dispatch on this simple errand. But would they even be powerful enough to make quick work of the pests? If they were supercharged enough to scale his cutting-edge wall (steel being another technology developed by Romeo’s Empire 6 before any other civilization), they must be some variety of ultra-barbarian. Still children-at-play compared to the full extent of his forces. But possibly powerful enough to put up a fight against less-than-modern units. The knights probably wouldn’t cut it alone.
Out at the window, someone rang the bell.
What he really needed was to send a message to any future barbarians who might think it’d be a cute idea to set up shop near one of his major cities and send ruthless ambushers to fuck shit up time and time again. What was called for in this situation was unmitigated annihilation. Complete counter-plunder. To ensure that there would be no question about what happens to those who try to mess with the great 6th Empire of Royal Romeo. Hell, man, why not send the entire fleet?
The bell dinged again.
Romeo would get to that in a moment. First he had to see what happened with these barbarians. He maneuvered three riflemen into attacking position from the West, the antiquated knights on horseback from the East, and one final unit from due South, the most modern his Empire could muster: the Infantryman.
Just as all units began their invasion, someone said, “Excuse me!” and started mashing the bell like it was the escape button on a computer about to contract a virus.
Through the door of his office, Romeo called, “Just one moment!”
“You’re in there??” the bell-masher responded.
The attack went to plan. Of course. Swift and remorseless annihilation. Where once there had been barbarians, now there was only rubble and 6 victorious military units from 3 distinct eras of military technology, all united by a common allegiance to Romeo and the Empire he had so carefully stewarded into the dawn of modern times. Through prehistory, past that notorious turning point, the agricultural revolution, through antiquity, the middle ages, their own renaissance of sorts, all throughout the…
But, good lord, what is this crap happening back in his third largest metropolis? Nueva Veracruz was under siege! (Or was it being laid siege to?) By bringing all its defending troops to the barbarian bust-up, Romeo had left it unprotected. Some conniving opportunist had come through and conquered, without facing any more resistance than a pathetic steel/stone wall and a few desperate peasants.
It was the Ottomans. Sneaky fuckers.
Romeo was incensed. Hadn’t he shown mercy when they were on the brink of being wiped off the map by the Mongolians? Hadn’t he been the one to graciously share the secrets of the printing press with them in exchange for a few measly units of—
“Excuse me, sir! If you’re back there, we need—”
“The code is posted on the window to your left,” Romeo called bak, beginning to let lust for vengeance permeate every extent of his attitude.
Nueva Veracruz. Handed over to the Ottomans as if it was so many abandoned ancient ruins. His most critical port. How would he transport things by sea to the island outposts of his kingdom?
He couldn’t believe he’d left it vacant. If he’d really had a moment to think about it, he never would have been so careless. If that lady hadn’t been ringing…
“No, sir, we don’t need the bathroom code. We need to know where the train is.”
Where the train is? What? How would he know? Did she think he had drone footage out along the tracks so he could know exactly where it was at all times?
But he shoved his chair back and came stumbling out the door of the back office, into the ticket booth, hoping to convey an aura of, “Do you think I’m not back here working my hardest to ensure your travel plans proceed seamlessly?”
He was surprised to discover it wasn’t just one crusty old schedule-obsessed lady out there, but a gathering of six or seven customers. From the way they were arranged, it seemed they couldn’t decide if they should be pushing and shoving in line for a very limited number of spots on a train that may or may not ever arrive or banding together in a clump of solidarity to demand a train big enough for all of them. Either way, they embodied the spirit of the scoundrel Ottomans and Romeo knew immediately not to trust them.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” the woman who seemed to be their spokesperson said into the semicircular opening at the bottom of the glass partition that separated Romeo’s ticket booth from the rest of the station.
“Ok, ma’am,” Romeo said, trying not to fall into her trap of manners.
“We’re just looking for some information. Because all of us—”
“Well, ma’am, I was just back there checking—”
“All of us have got places to be and—”
“Literally just back there in my office checking the updated timetable, so—”
“And as you know, this train was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago—”
“So if you would just let me finish—”
“So I’m sure you can understand—”
“I’ll be making an announcement shortly—”
“We’re really just hoping it doesn’t leave without us.”
“Yes.”
“Or gets canceled without us knowing.”
“It won’t.”
“Well thank you sir. I am sure you can understand our concern.”
“I’ll be making an announcement.”
“Thank you.”
Instead of saying “You’re welcome,” Romeo went back into the back office, closed the door behind him, clicked out of the window in which Nueva Veracruz had been cheaply ransacked, and googled, “Amtrak schedule updates Santa Barbara to San Diego.”
Over the intercom in the two room terminal and outside on the platform, a voice said, “Pacific Surfliner train number 770 has been delayed. We will keep you updated with further information as it becomes available.”
Rosette and those who stood with her in front of the ticket booth paused to hear the announcement. They all cocked one ear or the other to different parts of the ceiling, hoping to tune into just one of the slightly unsynced intercom speakers at the expense of the others. It was effectively impossible. After the garbled voices cut out, the others turned to Rosette for answers.
“Did he mention a new time?”
“Delayed? Does he think we don’t already know that?”
“What time will we get in then?”
“Does he know we have connections to make?”
“Will you ask him if we have time to leave the station and come back?”
“San Diego?”
As she considered how to answer her rightly confused fellow ticket-holders, she saw a lumpy, encroaching darkness through the frosted glass windows.
She looked over the heads of her followers into the main waiting room of the station. Only one man was sitting there, old and dumpy, but relaxed. He was well illuminated and dressed dowdily. He looked like he could be in a photograph book of depression-era commonfolk. Rosette sized up the shapes outside and wondered if he cared that he wouldn’t have his waiting room to himself for long.
One of the blobs Rosette had seen through the window opened the door, uncorking the previously controlled environment of the station interior. It wasn’t exactly like the door of a calm mountain cabin opening to let in blizzard gusts and mayhem (it was Santa Barbara in September after all), but Rosette felt what she imagined was a similar sensation.
The noise alone told her the time for concentration and straight answers, if it had ever begun, was now over. If she’d struggled to learn the truth of the delay with only six anxious dependents to answer to, now with every Amtrak customer South of Hearst Castle, it would be helpless. And, yet, she knew, if anyone was qualified for the job, it was her. She knew how to tread that line between passivity and over-asking. Hell, she lived on that line.
She could envision what would happen if she didn’t take control: some folks would push that stubborn employee past his seemingly low boiling point, some would patiently wait all day and use up all the reading material they’d brought for the train ride itself, others would despair early, go home, and give up on that train trip they’d been so excited to finally take. No, she wouldn’t let it happen. She’d let them look to her for answers. She’d be their champion, their mouthpiece, a voice for the masses.
Now they really started flooding in. The doorway was the first bottleneck, especially since no one seemed to take into account their personal mass or that of their luggage when trying to squeeze themselves through the door at the same time as two or three other people with masses and luggage of their own. One nervous-looking young man, wearing a large pack on his back and a slightly smaller one on his front, seemed to reconsider his entrance halfway through the doorway and decided to rotate 90 degrees and stop there. This maneuver plugged up the progress of the people for a moment, stopping two would-be enterers, each impeded by a pack. The person who found himself face-to-face with the backpack capitalized on the twirling kid’s centripetal momentum and pushed his back along in the way it had started spinning, opening up an avenue to enter through and creating something like a turnstile or revolving door out of the packs and their wearer. A couple others took this new doorway feature in stride and kept spinning the boy around until he staggered away and into a nearby bench, braced only from certain abdominal damage by the large cushion he was wearing on his front.
Once inside, three groups formed in the station.
One legion took a right and formed a series of what weren’t quite lines for the restroom. Apparently they’d all had to go this whole time but figured they’d just go on the train once it arrived. When it didn’t, they moved on to plan b. There was a discrepancy between the number of toilets and the urgency with which some people needed them. Without any agreed upon system of priority (“from each bathroom according to its availability, to each pee-er according to their ability to hold it”), there was some jostling between those who were in line in theory and those who were in line like it was the only thing to be.
In the middle of the station were the loiterers. They’d been swept inward by the current, maybe with a few vague questions in mind like “Hey, when’s this train gonna get here anyway?”, but mostly just leaving the platform because it was what everyone else was doing. They took a couple steps into the station but didn’t know what to do once they got there. The first group of these simply halted in their tracks to survey the increasingly hectic scene and each following cohort got crammed up into their fellow loiterers' backs. They were like a crowd of penguins reaching the edge of an iceberg or humans at the edge of the grand canyon: they’d reached the end. All that was left to do was look and wonder how to feel.
And then the final group. These Amtrak customers, often experienced, certainly dangerous, entered the building and took a determinedly sharp left turn towards the ticket booth. They emulsified into one united company of travelers looking for answers. The information conveyed over the intercom, to them, had been laughably lacking. They were here to uncover the truth, and, if they couldn’t do that, proclaim their dissatisfaction with the Amtrak corporation’s failure to communicate. Some, to be sure, wished to make this proclamation more urgently than others did. But the underlying question was the same: “How long will I be forced to wait for this train?”
Rosette and her original disciples remained directly in the warpath between the station door and the empty ticket booth. Everyone turned to her to see how she’d react to these oncoming assailants. She imagined they were all thinking the same thing: “Rosette already tried to get answers. And if all Rosette could get was that pathetic announcement, how do you guys expect to do any better?” “Yes, yes,” Rosette thought, in telepathic response, “That’s all true. But couldn’t there be something to letting them learn for themselves? Remember, we must choose our battles.”
Seen in another way, though, this was a time for strong leadership. This, of all battles, was the one she should choose! If she wished to be the self-appointed voice of reason, the mediating force for peace between these disgruntled citizens and that unfeeling puppet of the timetables, now was her time to set the tone.
She looked up, to establish contact with the oncomers and to indicate intention for her soldiers. They followed her eyes at first, as if something over there would give them their marching orders. Then they realized what she meant and turned heel, standing at attention, forming a human wall, facing the questioning newcomers.
Rosette spoke strongly: “If you’re looking for answers, he won’t give you any. We’ve tried.”
One sturdy man in a quarter-zip pullover standing near the front of the mob looked to either side, wondering if the role of responding spokesman was his to seize. No one raised any visual objections. They knew he had their interests in mind; they would give him a chance but were prepared to oust him if he wasn’t able to advocate effectively.
“I have a flight to catch,” he said, emphasizing the word “flight” to remind everyone that an airplane was at least one order of magnitude more important than a train.
Rosette nodded sadly. “Some of us do.”
“Clear out, please, ma’am. We want to speak to him.”
“I’m only trying to save you the hassle,” she said, softly smiling without her eyes.
Some in the back of the flying man’s crowd did not care to hear these negotiations. Grousing and chopping their feet, they began moving the pack from behind. Those in the middle didn’t like the idea of being pushovers or pushed to the side, so, to maintain an air of assertiveness, they became pushy too.
On instinct, Rosette’s troops widened their stances and braced for contact.
The aggressors kept driving. Back, the defenders were forced. Back, even after it dawned on them, one by one, that they were putting themselves in harm's way for what reason? What great cause? None they could think of anymore. Still back they went until they were tripping over the crowd control stanchions and knocking their weighted steel poles onto the ground. Some went down with the poles, others turned to flee but were met directly with the glass pane of the ticket booth.
Romeo stood at the open back-office door, watching cheeks and palms smack and squish against his glass. He felt like the only safe soul boxed off from an increasingly doomed world.
In the women’s restroom, a strategic cabal was coalescing. After urgent bodily business had been attended to, the ladies of the station who were smart enough not to look for any answers at the ticket booth realized the restroom wasn’t the worst place to establish an outpost. It didn’t smell too bad, as far as bathrooms go, and there was good company, once those only there for practical purposes cleared out.
They skipped pleasantries. Everyone was going somewhere. Who could say whose reason was more important than anyone else’s? So they silently settled on never asking. Theirs would be a coalition of nameless and destinationless travelers. What they had in common was what kept them together, but it didn’t need to be spoken.
Instead, they began talking tactics. One woman had a cousin at the Santa Barbara Metropolitan Transit District. She wondered if he couldn’t commandeer a bus, through official channels, to take these Amtrak discardees down the coast faster than the delayed train would. Someone else said she knew of a long distance rideshare program that wouldn’t be too expensive if they split the cost. Others monitored the Amtrak website for delay updates and studied the fine print of the reimbursement policy.
The restroom had another advantage. The walls were thick and it only had one speaker, which meant they could actually decipher announcements from in there.
Unheard by the squabbling, shoving, griping, and murmuring patrons in the rest of the station, Romeo had been saying things over the loudspeaker off and on since they began coming in.
First it was: “Please do not attempt to approach the ticket booth. Any inquiries of the station attendant will only serve to prolong the time it takes to gather and convey information. And please: No shoving.”
Then: “I repeat: No shoving. You’re all going to the same place. This is a train station. You are adults. The train will come when it comes.”
Which he soon amended with: “The train will not be coming. Train 770 has been canceled at Goleta due to an obstruction in the tracks. Please stand by for more information regarding a potential replacement train or reimbursement. In the meantime, why the shoving, still? There is nothing to speak to the station attendant about. Please take a seat or exit the building. It is a small building, not to mention old. It was not designed to accommodate shoving.”
After that, he had a piece of hopeful news: “Train 773 Northbound from San Diego, which has just entered the Simi Valley station, will turn around at this station and become Train 774 Southbound back towards San Diego. Passengers holding valid tickets for canceled Train 770 are entitled to a seat on Train 774.”
Followed by: “This is your final warning. If you push and shove within the station, you will forfeit your right to ride Train 774.”
And finally: “Can anybody hear me out there?”
Those residing in the restroom could. From the “Train Status” tab on the Amtrak website, they watched Train 773 approach. With every passing minute, the amount of time the train was from the Santa Barbara Station decreased by one minute. After hours in which most minutes brought more delays, a steady ETA felt like a miracle.
The only question was how to exit the station and make it to the platform by the time the new train arrived.
Between their lavatory sanctuary and the platform, 3 doors, 2 rooms, and countless confused people blocked their way. They could send a scout. A couple of the smaller and bolder women had already squeezed through the crowds to gather information and returned to report their findings. Leaving en masse would be impossible, though. The space for all of them to exit through didn’t exist, and they didn’t wish to try to create it with force. From what they’d learned, folks were ready to push back. The women of the restroom didn’t see a pile-drive in the trenches ending in their favor.
There was only one way out: some sort of large-scale purgative occurrence, to clear the station of its idlers and shoving factions.
A mousy girl on a mission left the restroom to enter the maze of bodies. Those who stayed behind plugged their ears with their fingers.
There was a run on breakfast burritos and beer in the Market Cafe as Train 773 approached Oxnard. The station employees in Camarillo restocked the dwindling inventory and Lynne reopened the onboard Cafe as soon as they pulled out.
She didn’t even make an announcement. She pressed the button, which lit green the coffee cup icon in every car. A few passengers noticed immediately and headed from both ends of the train towards the lower level of Car 4. Others noticed fellow hungry riders mobilizing and followed. Still more, surely, didn’t even know what the rush was for but knew not to miss out on a line.
The Cafe Car became overcrowded quickly. Choosing food from cabinets on a moving train was an activity best done by only a couple people at once. Accordingly, there were rules about this sort of thing. A sign existed: “Three customers max.” Lynne often found herself wishing her customers would heed that sign.
The problem with the sign was it couldn’t enforce itself. The problem with Lynne was she was far too busy pouring coffee and swiping credit cards to enforce it herself. Every now and then she’d try a “Hey! Only three people at once, please!” No one seemed to think she was talking to them.
The fourth, fifth, and sometimes up to tenth or eleventh customers in the car never seemed to notice the sign or, if they did, regarded it as a joke sign or relic of some possible former time when the food car had been much smaller. As it was, 3 people in the Cafe made it look downright deserted. They crowded in, if nothing else, to give it a more lived-in feel.
Well, really, they crowded in because they started counting. There were only so many bottles of beer left. As the train passed Ventura, people were taking 4 or 6 bottles at once, maintaining that the extras were for the others in their party, too sickly or lazy or something to get up and get their own. With 10 customers ahead at 4 to 6 beers apiece, the math wasn’t adding up for those near the back.
Lynne could feel the energy mounting in her Market Cafe. It was a more delicate environment than it might have seemed. People coming in, people cycling out once they’d made their purchase. Open beverages in hands since alcoholic drinks must be opened by the attendant and coffee cups with little built-in holes in their lids for sipping. An old carpet that was difficult to clean. Punk kids who knew they could sneak $9 plastic-wrapped sandwiches into their pockets when she wasn’t looking.
Add to all that this new trend of customers at the back of the car milling forward, as if casually, pretending to browse the options, in reality hoping to cut the queue or at least secure a bottle or two. Coming forth from behind like a gathering undercurrent, they forced those close to Lynne’s kiosk still closer. The momentum of the crowd trended Lynneward and feisty.
All the cabinets seemed to be opened, which was another clear hazard. Arms were flying all over the place: up, down, across faces, into the beer fridge. Some light pushing even began, mostly shoulder jockeying. Grumbling sounds mounted. People seemed on the verge of acknowledging, with words or blows, their neighbors’ lack of decorum. Lynne felt on the verge of running out of there before disaster struck.
And then, all of a sudden, abruptly: Screech!
The force of inertia acting on all stationary objects: immediately overcome! Bodies: whack! into the open shelves, slamming noggins, crumpling on the ground. Other bodies: careening onto those that fell first. Lynne’s precious inventory: spilling out on the heads of the fallen, knocking around and creating a ginormous mess.
Overhead: “This is your assistant conductor speaking. Our apologies for the lurching halt. Our condolences to those who may have fallen down. Our thanks to those who remain in their seats.”
Both those on the ground and those still in their seats wondered if there would be more to the announcement. For a while, there wasn’t. Nor did the train start moving again.
In the Market Cafe, Lynne assessed the damage. Her microwave had opened and a heating sausage and egg burrito had unraveled and flung its contents onto her, but beyond that she was fine. Her customers, well, they got what they deserved. All groaning and dusting off food scraps, no one seemed to be mortally wounded.
Eventually the assistant conductor’s voice returned: “This train has come to a stop. We’ve received news of an emergent situation at the Santa Barbara station. Possibly a fire. Amtrak Security and Maintenance crews have been dispatched to the scene, along with, presumably, local law enforcement and emergency responders. For now, we’ve been told not to move one inch closer to Santa Barbara in case whatever disaster has struck them might possibly move down the tracks towards us. Luckily, this train is equipped with first-rate locomotion reversal technology, which means we could always head the other way and escape the encroaching disaster should it begin to encroach upon us… Toward us… You see what I mean. Despite the situation, everything seems to be… under control. Please refrain from panicking.”
Some passengers thought this an excessively informal announcement, possibly even unprofessional. It struck them as uniquely both too much and not enough information. Within their minds, a few questions of safety popped up. As a whole, they refrained from panicking.
Romeo, what have you done?
A pounding, blaring alarm was sounding. It seemed to contain a deep bass element that rattled one's bones, and it refused to be silenced by anyone but whichever member of the fire department held the precise key to shut it off.
All the would-be passengers had evacuated the station. A few finally gave up and went to find breakfast in the expensive cafes of Santa Barbara. The majority held out hope, despite the tumult of the morning. They exited the building and occupied the platform.
Straight away, they became engaged in a full-scale humanitarian crisis. Those with sleeping implements set up blanket-forts and tent-cities. Rival factions plotted territory on the concrete. Land became a valuable resource and borders were regularly disputed and disrespected. A bit of shoving went on. People splayed out on the ground and forgot to care about what others thought of them.
It felt impossible that a train would actually come. One woman considered the implications of a station without any trains and, with a crowd watching, walked right up to the edge of the platform. She crossed the yellow line and dangled her toes over the edge. With a final look back at her shocked audience, she leaped onto the tracks.
The taboo was completely broken. People hopped down in there and let their basest urges get the best of them. The tracks became a proving ground for violent characters and a pooping ground for those who couldn’t hold it or wanted to express their disrespect for the long-standing American institution of train travel.
Some people had packed lunch for themselves and thought maybe now was the time to eat it. It wasn’t. Everyone was just as hungry as anyone else. Why did some have the right to eat if they didn’t have enough to share with others? Sandwiches were snagged and broken apart into too many tiny pieces. Indignant victims of food theft said, “Hey! My wife made that for me!” No one cared. It was eat or have your food eaten. It was like an elementary cafeteria that had been abandoned by any figures of authority.
It was noisy and fairly disgusting.
Inside, Romeo boarded himself up in the back-office, latching both doors from within and taking no calls. He was the only person left in the building. One alarm was located inside his office, but it might have been inside his brain. He felt he deserved whatever eardrum damage it was causing. He tried to think between blares. His thinking became hurried and punctuated. All he had time to consider was survival.
He had 3 gallons of water. It was the reserve stash for the entire station, should they ever someday get cut off from all the other myriad sources of water in the mid-sized, affluent city of Santa Barbara. The amount of lunch he’d packed that morning should probably have been sufficient for at least a couple days. In this case, his love of large portions would come in handy. He had filing cabinets full of forms and files. Kindling? He doubted it would come to that. He had the internet, but what good was the internet in an anarchic environment?
After whoever was calling the station phone realized they wouldn’t get an answer, Romeo’s personal phone started dinging and buzzing. He received calls, texts, emails, facetimes. His bosses wanted to know if it was safe to bring a train in. He ignored them.
After approximately 700 sounds of the alarm, two fire trucks arrived. A dispatcher from the Fire Department had spoken to the property manager, who called the Santa Barbara Amtrak Trainmaster, who said he hadn’t been able to get a hold of anyone at the station. So, they were going in blind. The whole building could be up in flames. Two trains could have collided. They didn’t know. They chose to treat it as a serious alarm.
They dismounted their trucks wearing gas masks and full firesuits and stormed the building. All clear in the main waiting rooms. No one left in the restrooms. No smoke to be detected anywhere. Two firefighters went out back onto the platform. Four others resolved to make their way into the employees-only section of the station.
The door to the back-office was locked. As was the half-door that let into the ticket booth. Someone could be in there asphyxiating or up to no good. One fireman tried to knock the door off its frame with a well-powered shoulder, but it wasn’t as easy as it seemed in the movies. The only way in was to shatter the glass and hope the other door wasn’t as thick as the first. They’d brought along a handheld, metal battering ram just for this.
Romeo heard a thud on the door, then the splinter of the ticketbooth glass, then millions of little shards come crashing down.
He knew he was for the slaughter. The angry passengers had come for him.
His domain was dwindling. He looked around the office. For 10 hours a day, four days a week, he had worked in that office. That room had been a home to him. He had felt safe there, for a time.
Aided by the privilege of retrospect and what he thought might be the wisdom of life’s final moments, all the little items around him became cherished heirlooms. In a sense, these were the real artifacts of his life. If anyone should ever wish to study what went on during the Reign of Romeo at the Santa Barbara Amtrak station between 2016 and 2023, these would be the things they would want to look at.
The agents of his downfall would be the exact people he’d tried, these years, to serve. That’s how it worked, wasn’t it? The hand that tries to feed gets bit the hardest. The never-thanked servant gets cast as the greedy despot. He felt like Caesar. “Et tu, Karen?”
As Rome had, he would fall.
But not without a fight.