Luigi Mangione is accused of gunning down the CEO of UnitedHealthcare in broad daylight. A clean shot. No hesitation. Very soon, he’ll sing about the brutal act in a San Francisco musical.

I say: Good.

“Luigi: The Musical” is absurd, possibly sociopathic — and yet somehow entirely defensible. In fact, in this grotesque, camp-addled culture of ours, it might be the most honest piece of art produced all year.

Not because murder is funny. Not because the justice system is a joke. But because we now live in an age where satire is the last viable truth-delivery system. Much of journalism is corporate. Novels are afraid. Late-night comedy is neutered. You want truth? Put it in a musical. Wrap it in sequins. And give it jazz hands.

Satire has always been the most ruthlessly efficient scalpel. Aristophanes mocked imperial war. Jonathan Swift proposed devouring Irish children. George Orwell, Bertolt Brecht, Kurt Vonnegut — they didn’t protest. They staged freak shows.

Molière shredded hypocrisy in powdered wigs. Charles Dickens dragged Victorian England through the gutter it tried to ignore. Joseph Heller turned bureaucratic madness into “Catch-22.”

Before his comedy went off a cliff, George Carlin stood on stage and tore down empire with a smirk. With “Four Lions,” a pitch-black comedy about incompetent jihadists, Chris Morris made terrorism absurd. Before that, he had already terrified the British establishment with “Brass Eye,” a fake news satire so savage it tricked members of Parliament into denouncing fictional drugs on air.

Trey Parker made everything absurd, or at least appear absurd. From Mormonism (“The Book of Mormon”) to war propaganda (“Team America”) to the bloated theater of American politics and celebrity culture (“South Park”), nothing was sacred — and that was the point.

Satire doesn’t whisper; it slaps. It offends. It remembers what the real world would rather forget.

“Luigi” stands firmly in that lineage — not in spite of the outrage it invites, but because of it.

What are we really so scandalized by? The idea of a murderer with a musical number? Please. We’ve been there before: “Sweeney Todd,” “Chicago,” “Heathers,” “Assassins.” We have clapped for John Wilkes Booth. We have cheered for razor blades and ricin.

What bothers people about “Luigi” isn’t the violence. It’s the contemporaneity — the fact that it’s still too soon and the wound hasn’t scabbed yet. This character, the corporate assassin-turned-accidental folk hero, feels dangerously plausible.

Deep down, we know the real absurdity isn’t the musical. It is the world that created such a man. We live in a culture that glamorizes sociopathy but gets offended when it’s reflected back.

Netflix ran “Dahmer.” You can now buy “American Psycho” mugs, t-shirts and beanies. “The Sopranos” has a wine label. Real-life cartel hitmen share their “wisdom” on TikTok. And yet, when a fringe theater group stages a smart, cynical satire about a real-life killing, we’re told it’s “too far”?

Get real.

“Luigi” doesn’t play by prestige rules. It’s too camp. Too gaudy. Too loud. It isn’t Oscar-bait. It’s black box theater with blood under its nails. And that’s why it matters. It’s not Netflix. It’s not Hulu. It’s not a limited series you can binge and forget. It’s theater. 

And theater — real theater — makes you sit with it.

The show is Gulag humor for the Uber Eats generation. It weaponizes the ludicrous, stitches viral violence to choreography, turns cellmates like Diddy and Sam Bankman-Fried into Greek chorus figures, and mocks our collective appetite for the borderline insane.

“Luigi”isn’t glorifying Mangione. It’s not trying to humanize him. It’s trying to indict us. The audience. The algorithm. The economy of attention that turns killers into content. The culture that made a young man with a gun a trending topic before the body hit the pavement.

This is a country where mass shooters get Wikipedia pages before their victims get autopsied. Where headlines blur into hashtags. Where the line between infamy and influence disappeared sometime around 2014.

In that context, “Luigi” isn’t satire. It’s realism. 

But there’s a deeper tragedy here — not in the subject matter, but in the medium. Theater is dying — with its empty seats, aging donors and young people who’d rather scroll through cat videos, theater is losing the war for attention, and fast. This makes “Luigi” both timely and, in some ways, necessary.

Perhaps it’s too campy. Perhaps it’s too crass. Maybe it turns a murderer into a meme with a melody. But you know what? It gets people off their screens. It gets them out of their apartments. It gets them into a room with other humans, watching a live act of provocation unfold in real time.

That used to be called art. Now it’s called a liability.

“Luigi” won’t win prestigious prizes. It might not even last its full run without protests. But it belongs. Theater isn’t supposed to be sacred. It’s supposed to be a mirror. Sometimes cracked, but always honest. So let them sing. Mangione won’t be the last killer to dance under a spotlight. He’s just the first one to do it with a chorus line and a cellmate named Diddy.

John Mac Ghlionn is a writer and researcher who explores culture, society and the impact of technology on daily life.