Why do bad guys never die?

In one of the most acclaimed series of this first half of the century—and I won't reveal its name—the protagonist/antagonist (depending on the viewer) dies in the most unexpected and unremarkable way: a simple heart attack. For me, the series' greatness was elevated by this decision. We all expected a Hamlet-like, Machiavellian death, and we find that, sometimes, life itself does the dirty work. Except for this series, I can't recall a similar device in fiction, a technique close to the deus ex machina, but who but God can overcome the efficient machine of screenwriters! And the insatiable expectations of the public.

I can now think of a few productions where the bad guy was diagnosed with a terminal illness, usually advanced cancer, but he always had time left to finish the things he had started—like, for example, destroying the world.

Why don't I remember hearing on the news that the current racist and inhumane boss died overnight?

In real life, paradoxically, three-quarters of the same thing happens. Why don't I remember, in 35 years, getting out of bed and hearing on the news that the racist, sexist, homophobic, chauvinistic, insensitive, inhuman, sickly... boss of the day has died overnight?

I don't want to go into details or indulge in lurid descriptions, but I know of almost a dozen people who died from completely arbitrary causes, which, in human eyes, seemed completely unjust: on a fairground ride, after a swim in the pool, while closing a gate, picking olives, having sex, walking along a church wall...

Perhaps God moves us like chess pieces, and, ultimately, those who govern and play with the world are merely the large, heavy, or light pieces, and the rest are mere pawns whose deaths may well be arbitrary and come to us unexpectedly. Because it is not normal that Franco died of old age in his bed, that Hitler committed suicide when he had no other choice, that Stalin and Pol Pot died in their seventies, or that Mussolini, Bin Laden, Gaddafi, or Saddam Hussein had to be executed by their own people. Or that Pinochet died at ninety! After having sucked the blood of his own people, as Pablo Larraín so aptly shows in his magnificent film *The Count* .

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Don't think I'm celebrating the loss of a person, but if it's a puppeteer whose strings are strangling the people, I'd rather have the first person to take his place in the afterlife than the death of a good friend who always acted kindly toward his people. I won't name names, but we all know that current geopolitics and the lives of many are being directed by a few ruthless men, three in particular; three individuals who probably won't die tomorrow from a tile to the head or from having a flan with salmonella for breakfast.