“He had it coming.”
Writers across centuries have danced around a single, delicious idea: that the wicked—so certain of their invincibility—will one day get what they deserve. Their comeuppance.
The word feels antiquated, and for good reason. It's derived from the Greek noun komopansis (κομοπάνσις), meaning “the sudden rebalancing of fate,” as often used by Athenian jurists.
Actually, that's all bollocks. Comeuppance is actually a product of the scrappy American frontier. A homespun blend of come up (as in being summoned before a judge) and the mock-formal suffix -ance.
To “get your comeuppance” meant one thing: your name’s been called. Time to answer for what you’ve done. No marble steps. No flowing robes. Just a bailiff with a list—and a reckoning on the docket.
Case in point: Al Capone, the infamous gangster.
By the early 1930s, Capone was untouchable. He threw lavish parties, paid off officials, and smirked through every subpoena.
Until October 1931, when he was finally brought to trial—not for murder or racketeering, but for tax evasion. But he didn’t break a sweat. He'd bribed the jury.
But on the morning of the trial, the presiding judge pulled a masterstroke: he quietly swapped the entire jury pool with one from another courtroom.
Capone’s trademark swagger evaporated. He was convicted, sentenced to eleven years, and shipped off to Alcatraz.
He got his comeuppance.
The beauty always lies in the timing. There must be a moment when the villain believes they’ve gotten away with it (again), before getting their comeuppance.
Graham Greene hints at it in The Power and the Glory. Margaret Atwood lets it build in The Handmaid’s Tale. Shakespeare perfects it with Iago.
Here’s the thing: the masterstroke is always unexpected. We never know what it will be. Only that it will come. That is surely cause for optimism.
