Like children, we love monster stories. From Frankenstein to Hannibal Lecter. From the the cyclops in Homer to HAL 9000.

Suppose you could ask James Baker if he thinks he’s a good person. Of course you couldn’t, and if you could he wouldn’t pay attention. But you may be sure that, inside, he knows, with pride, that he is a good person. Loyal, dogged, helping and protecting those who helped and protected him.

His family and friends admire him, speak well of him. When he walks into the dining rooms of the clubs of the rich, the rich applaud.

They know, as James Baker knows, there is a higher order of things, a determining infrastructure of society which must be maintained at any cost. It is the structure which sustains them and their wealth, and their power. It is important because, they believe, it is they, the eternally put-upon, who with their money and power provide the continuing impetus to keep society on-track.

In moments of crisis, when the course which sustains them is threatened, any saving action is acceptable. At times, rarely, the threat is so great that action must be taken in full daylight, in front of the world. The risk is great. The reward—maintenance of their status quo—is greater. Those who dare to take such outrageous, necessary action in public view and who succeed are heroes, deserving applause and plaudits, monuments and fond memories.

Such a one is James Baker, who managed a coup in the richest, most powerful country in full media-view. Such elan. Such sangfroid. Such self-confidence. A worthy heir to the long tradition of monsters: those who act with blind certitude, backed by the wealthy and the powerful, knowing what they must do for the sake of all people, though of course the little people may not understand why it is necessary to break the rules they’ve been taught.

All societies breed monsters, small and large. Usually they go their destructive way with only brief attention as they eventually meet their inevitable messy end.

Times of stress, where the division between what is and what is believed to be becomes great, produce larger monsters. Larger, filled with greater certitude, harsher judgments, prodded by the need for efficient haste in setting things right, eliminating those who block the way forward of the rich and powerful, those who rightly rule and who must continue to rule. Contemplate, please, the face of James Baker as he stole Florida from its voters in front of the whole world.

America has had its monsters, aplenty. James Baker is only the latest in a long line of stiff-necked, self-righteous prudes going back through Joe McCarthy, Father McLaughlin, William Jennings Bryan, the justices of the Supreme Court that judged Dred Scott, Cotton Mather. But none of those earlier American monsters pulled off a coup d’état on the commons of the global village while a thousand cameras watched, ten thousand analysts analyzed, a hundred million computers hummed, and six billion people gaped.

No wonder the rich and powerful applaud when James Baker joins them in their dining rooms.

The only counter-weapon here is truth.

We’re not the first to fall victim to such a monster. Only the scale and the audacity are different. Others have been through this. Some even survived long enough to tell the truth about what happens when monsters walk, and rule, the earth.

If you want to see and understand, get thee to a library or a bookstore. Check out, buy, or order a 200-year-old play by a German playwright who died at the age of 23. With the burning fervor and clearsightedness of youth, Georg Büchner gave us our best picture of the modern political monster in action. If you’re puzzled or disturbed by James Baker (as you certainly should be), Büchner’s play about the French Revolution, The Death of Danton (Dantons Tod), will help.

Read, and when Robespierre finally makes his appearance your mouth will open and from it will come an "Ah!" at the moment of recognition.

Kindred spirits. Kindred monsters.

But—and here’s the even more important "but"—read the whole play. Robespierress we shall always have with us. They just keep on coming. What we have to learn is the danger of responding in kind to them, the danger of becoming monsters ourselves as we attempt to stay their expedient and violent blows.

Our modern monsters have learned a lot. They, unlike old Robespierre, know that if you’re really smart a Reign of Terror is not necessary. As James Baker so ably demonstrated in Florida, a river of blood is not necessary to wash away two centuries of the rule of law.

We also must learn that the only, the only proper response to monstrosity is, contrary to reason, on the circuitous, often dark path of ahimsa: peace.