He is the monster of the age: not merely corrupt, but corruption incarnate; not merely greedy, but a devourer of nations. His towers rise like idols to avarice, his every deal a betrayal, his every word a dagger at the heart of the republic. Scandals swarm about him like carrion birds, each one proof of a perfidy so vast it blackens the sky. He is the tyrant-in-waiting, the destroyer of law, forever plotting in the shadows to crown himself emperor and grind freedom into dust.
He is the patron of the age: not merely generous, but generosity made flesh; not merely wealthy, but a fountain of blessing poured over city and nation alike. His gifts heal the sick and shelter the fatherless, his hand lifts friend and foe with equal grace, his smile turns rivals into guests at his table. Beneficence flows from him like a river of light, every act of kindness another miracle in the life of the city. He is the angel among men, the builder of bridges, forever radiant, forever remembered as the benefactor whose bounty raised a people higher than they dreamed they could stand.
This is the same man. The saint of a decade past is the monster of the present, not because his essence changed, but because the story around him did. Before 2015 he was celebrated, photographed with civil rights icons, toasted by presidents and senators, his generosity praised without irony. After 2015, when he first toyed with the notion that becoming president might be fun — and then, to everyone’s astonishment, began to win — the legend inverted. The patron became the tyrant, the benefactor the usurper, the man of banquets and ribbon-cuttings recast overnight as the most dangerous villain in American life.
These two stories are both told by our mass media. Such is the power of narrative: to take the same man, the same set of deeds, and spin him into either savior or scourge. The scaffolding is identical — charity and scandal, wealth and spectacle — yet the edifice shifts depending on which tale is chosen. Praise swells into sainthood, accusation curdles into damnation, and gossip masquerades as proof. And in the end, both portraits are distortions: one too luminous to be true, the other too monstrous to be just.
And yet, the same plurality of the public believed both, only at different times. A decade ago, they cheered the benefactor, repeating tales of his largesse as proof of a man touched by fortune and generosity. Today, they recoil from the villain, convinced by endless headlines that every gesture conceals a plot, every word a threat. The man has not changed so much as the story told about him, and the crowd, carried along by the tide, has believed each version in turn with equal fervor.
It is not confined to politics. Hollywood has lived by this alchemy for decades, anointing actors as golden icons one year and dragging them into the dust the next, their reputations shredded by the same media that once praised their charm. Private citizens, too, have felt the lash: an ill-chosen word on social media, a heated moment caught on video, a single bad day torn from context and replayed until it becomes their entire identity. Marriages collapse, careers vanish, lives unravel — all because the crowd, fed by headlines and hashtags, delights in the drama of turning ordinary men and women into monsters. The mechanics are the same: select the facts, embellish with rumor, strip away nuance, and the story will outshout the truth.
If the weapon is narrative, then the defense must be discernment. The mob feeds on reflex; inoculation begins with refusal to be swept away.
To inoculate yourself is to reclaim your mind from those who would weaponize your instincts. The crowd may still howl, but you are no longer captive to its story.
When the mob descends, it feels like the sky has fallen. Friends vanish, employers panic, and strangers delight in your ruin. Yet even in the storm, there are ways to fight back.
The mob seeks not justice but spectacle. Deny them despair, deny them surrender, and you rob them of their prize. Survival is victory; persistence is vindication.
Every time a mob’s narrative shatters a life, the fabric of society frays. When neighbors fear that one false step, one overheard remark, one unlucky camera angle can end their livelihoods, trust evaporates. People withdraw into silence, conversations grow brittle, friendships shrink. Communities built on shared labor and common decency dissolve into camps of suspicion, each waiting for the next headline to declare a new monster.
This is the true damage: not only the ruined careers or the broken families, but the loss of social cohesion itself. A people who cannot extend grace to one another, who cannot distinguish between rumor and reality, who cannot forgive a stumble — such a people cannot endure. The mob burns hot and brief, but the ashes it leaves behind smother the bonds that hold us together. If we would remain a people, we must learn again to prize truth over story, mercy over spectacle, and solidarity over the savage thrill of destruction.
They can turn a saint into a monster — or a monster into a saint — overnight. That’s the raw power of narrative, and it’s how lives, careers, and even nations get wrecked. My latest column unpacks how this alchemy works, why it’s so destructive, and how you can inoculate yourself against it.
If you’re tired of being manipulated by the mob and the media machine, you need more than headlines — you need clarity, courage, and community. That’s what you’ll get with PJ Media VIP.
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The mob thrives on silence. Don’t let them write the story for you.
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