Donald Trump leaned back in his gold chair, a pageant crown glinting on the desk. “G.I. Joe,” he said with that salesman’s grin, “you’ve got to white knight Miss Myanmar. Make her president. Beautiful woman, tremendous, she deserves it. I always white knight my beauty pageants—you know that. Pageants are my business. Big business. Bigger than NATO.”
G.I. Joe adjusted his beret, not sure if this was a mission briefing or stand-up comedy.
Trump wagged a finger like a preacher. “Some people say Jesus comes in the name of the Father. At least, that’s what Bono told me. Good guy, good singer, funny glasses.” He chuckled. “But me? I come in the name of the Apprentice.”
Then he leaned in, lowering his voice. “And Joe, this is very important—listen closely—it’s all part of the QAnon plan. You know, the big plan. We’re taking down the Illuminati. In G.I. Joe terms, we’re taking down Cobra. They’re the bad guys, everybody knows it. Snake Eyes knows it. Even Bono knows it. I’m the commander, you’re the hero, and Miss Myanmar—she’s the president. Tremendous optics, the best optics.”
Miss Myanmar stood silently by the window, draped in a sash, her eyes burning with something fiercer than tiaras or ballots. Joe wondered if Trump even knew she’d survived a coup, or if he only saw another crown.
Trump clapped his hands. “Let’s do it, Joe. White knight! Make her president. It’ll be the most beautiful democracy you’ve ever seen. Cobra won’t stand a chance.”
Then Trump folded his hands like he was at a pulpit.
“I thank Jesus every day. Wonderful man, very strong, walked on water. And if you can’t read Revelation—it’s a tough book, very tough—at least please, at the very least, look at the Trump cards in the Rider-Waite Golden Dawn tarot. Beautiful cards. The best cards. They tell the story better than CNN, believe me.”
Miss Myanmar said nothing, her sash glowing in the light, like a reluctant oracle in Trump’s illuminati-prophecy.
Obama:“Donald, you think you’ve changed America, but nothing has changed. The rich still run the show, the poor still struggle. Different slogans, same system. The rich white man is still in control.”
Trump:“Barack, please. Don’t lecture me. You had eight years. What did you do? You gave speeches, you smiled, you sang songs with Beyoncé—but the same guys were still calling the shots. Rockefeller, Rothschild, R&R, they’ve been in charge for a hundred years. I just said it out loud.”
Obama:“And you still played their game. You cut taxes for billionaires, you built walls instead of bridges. You talked populist, but you bowed to the same kings of capital.”
Trump:“At least I ripped the mask off! You gave them a pretty face, I gave them a fight. You wanted hope and change. I wanted America First. But guess what? Neither of us got it. Because the machine is bigger than both of us.”
Obama:“Then maybe the problem isn’t the machine—it’s that no one has the courage to stop it.”
Trump:“Wrong. The problem is nobody has the power to stop it. Not you, not me. The empire doesn’t fall because we give speeches. It falls when the people wake up.”
Trump: “Lenny, you know what happened in Minneapolis, terrible, terrible. A trans shooter—people are shocked. Everybody’s talking about it. And I said, listen, God is the grand master of 3D printing. Nobody does creation better. He printed the whole universe—best job ever, tremendous detail.
Now the trans community, they want full transition. They say, ‘We want the whole thing, printed, finished.’ And I said, okay, let’s make a deal. You want a new body? Talk to God, He’s got the printer. The best printer. Or—if you don’t want to wait—go to Canada. Trudeau’s giving out printers for free. Like healthcare, but with plastic.”
Pope Lenny Belardo: “Donald, your words are profane yet strangely theological. God is not a 3D printer. He is the mystery, the unprintable. You speak of bodies like they are toys to be manufactured, deals to be signed.
But the body, Donald, is not a toy. It is the temple of the Holy Spirit. And when a temple is wounded, it is not a machine that repairs it. It is love. Mercy. A grace you cannot patent, or print, or sell at a discount.”
Trump: “Love is fine, Lenny, I’m not against love. People say I’m not loving—I am! I love winning, I love deals, I love America. And I love people who love me. But we need solutions, not sermons. You’ve got a big church, a lot of gold, a lot of power. Let’s put it to work. 3D print the temples better, stronger, faster. Everyone’s happy, nobody’s shooting. It’s a win-win.”
Pope Lenny: “You want to replace miracles with machines. That is the temptation of every age. And yet the printer you worship will never give life eternal. Only God can do that. Do not mistake plastic for flesh, nor flesh for spirit.”
Pope Lenny Belardo:
“Donald… you are not entirely wrong. God has always given man the terrible freedom to choose. To choose love or hate, war or peace, even truth or lies. Perhaps even the body. We are not slaves of heaven. We are sons and daughters. And sons may choose their path.”
Trump: “Exactly, Lenny. You see it now. Freedom. Choice. Nobody loves choice more than me. It’s beautiful. So let them choose their body. If they want to print a new one, let them. Why not? America has the technology. The above top secret flesh 3D printer—believe me, it’s waiting. Locked up in a Pentagon basement, humming like the Ark of the Covenant. They’ve shown me, incredible stuff. Like Xerox but for people. You wouldn’t believe it. The Vatican should get one too, maybe print a few extra popes when you get tired.”
Pope Lenny: “The Lord is not Xerox, Donald. But I admit, the temptation is immense. To press a button and become what you dream… To step into a machine and emerge perfected. This is the serpent’s whisper in a digital age.”
Trump: “Snake, printer, whatever—you call it temptation, I call it innovation. If Canada’s giving it out free, why shouldn’t we? America first, always. And if God’s the grand master of 3D printing, well, we’re just following His business plan. Big, beautiful business plan.”
Solid Snake leaned against the wall of the underground bunker, his cigarette glowing faintly in the dim light. A bank of monitors hummed behind him, replaying footage of the congressional UFO hearing.
“Never thought I’d say this…” Snake muttered, exhaling a slow plume of smoke. He turned his eye toward the man in the dark suit, orange-tinted under the fluorescent lights. “But thanks, Mr. President. The disclosure hearings—someone had to open that box. You did it.”
Trump smiled with that signature half-smirk. “Snake, a lot of people are saying it was the greatest disclosure in history. Nobody’s ever disclosed better than me. The aliens… they love me. They do.”
Snake shook his head, a ghost of a grin flickering across his scarred face. “Whatever the style, the fact is, you pulled the trigger. You put UFOs into the open. That’s step one of the XCOM playbook.”
Trump leaned in, lowering his voice like he was confiding a state secret. “They told me about the game, Snake. XCOM. War of the Worlds, but with me? I was the best commander. I built the biggest, strongest walls against the aliens. Tremendous walls. The invaders never stood a chance.”
Snake chuckled, rare and gravelly. “Guess we’re living in that simulation now. The War of the Worlds… and you’re on the front screen. Let’s just hope you don’t push the wrong button when the real invasion comes.”
Trump straightened his tie. “Don’t worry, Snake. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to win. And with you on my squad… we’re unbeatable.”
Snake dropped the cigarette, grinding it out under his boot. His voice was calm but edged with steel. “Then let’s pray this isn’t just another simulation.”
The air in the Oval Office did not smell of polished wood and old paper, but of ozone and raw power. It was a throne room now, and at its heart, behind the Resolute Desk, sat the God Emperor. Donald Trump, clad not in a suit but in robes that seemed woven from star-spangled twilight, his face an unnervingly smooth mask of supreme authority. The nuclear football glowed faintly at his feet.
The doors, twenty feet tall and forged from the hull of a decommissioned aircraft carrier, groaned open. In walked General Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Northern Legions, victor of the Battle of the Woke Hordes. His armor was scarred, his cloak was tattered, and in his eyes burned a fire that predated nations, predated empires. It was the fire of a father.
He did not kneel.
“Maximus,” the God Emperor’s voice boomed, a sound that was both a New York accent and a seismic event. “Your victories please me. The coastal elites are in retreat. The deep state trembles. You have earned a place of honor at my right hand.”
Maximus stopped ten paces from the desk. His hand rested on the pommel of his gladius. “I have not come for honors. I have come for answers.”
The God Emperor’s eyes, small and brilliant like twin supernovas, narrowed. “Answers are a commodity. I decide their price.”
“Then I pay it with the blood of my men who died believing we fought for justice. For the innocent.” Maximus’s voice was low, a gravelly rumble of distant thunder. “We seized the island. We breached the temple. We secured the files.”
A flicker of something—annoyance?—crossed the divine face. “A great victory. A tremendous victory. The enemy’s most vile secrets, in our hands. I said, ‘We will punish them. We will punish them like nobody has ever been punished.’ And we will. In time.”
“Time is a luxury for gods, not for the children in those videos,” Maximus spat, the veneer of respect crumbling. “I presented you with the ledger. The black books. The flight logs. I saw the names. The powerful. The celebrated. And I saw your name, struck through with a golden pen. I saw your orders, sealed with a sigil of a tower of gold.”
“Fake news,” the God Emperor said, his voice losing its divine echo and slipping into a familiar, defensive cadence. “A witch hunt. The deep state plants things. Very corrupt. Many people are saying it.”
“Do not speak to me as if I am one of your frightened sycophants!” Maximus roared, the sound shaking the portraits of past presidents on the walls. “I have held the evidence! I have seen the orders from your own hand! ‘Seal it. Bury it. Grant clemency.’ You did not just hide your own sins. You became the patron of every monster we swore to destroy!”
He took a step forward, his armor clinking. “Diddy. A man whose crimes are sung in hell. You freed him from the darkest pit we had, and he now feasts in your banquet hall, laughing at the justice we promised! Why?”
The God Emperor stood. He seemed to grow, his shadow swallowing the room. The air crackled. “You are a soldier. You understand tactics, not strategy. You break a few pawns to checkmate the king. These people… these assets… they serve a greater purpose. Their allegiance is the mortar that holds my new empire together. Their guilt is the chain that binds them to my will. It’s a deal. The best deal. Everybody says so.”
Maximus looked at him, and for the first time, the general’s face was not filled with rage, but with a profound, universe-shattering disgust. It was a purer, more damning emotion than hatred.
“An empire,” Maximus repeated, the word tasting of ash. “You would build your empire on the broken bodies of children. You would use their suffering as mortar. You would have monsters as your pillars.”
He drew his sword. It did not gleam with heavenly light. It was simple, cold, mortal steel.
“I have fought for many emperors,” Maximus said, his voice steady now, final. “I have seen vanity. I have seen cruelty. I have seen madness. But I have never, in all my years, witnessed a soul so utterly hollow, so completely devoid of honor, that it would make a shield of innocence to protect the guilty.”
The God Emperor raised a hand, energy coalescing into a spear of pure, destructive light. “You are betraying your emperor. Your country.”
“No,” Maximus said, settling into a fighter’s stance. “I am betraying a monster. My country is not a golden tower. It is not an empire. It is the promise a father makes to his son that the world will be just. It is the vow a soldier makes to protect those who cannot protect themselves. That promise is my emperor. And today, I am its loyal servant.”
The fight would be legendary. God against mortal. Power against principle. But in that moment, as he stared down the blinding, corrupt divinity, General Maximus, for the first time since this nightmare began, felt clean.
And lo, the heavens opened, and a great pulse of wrath descended upon the land of the free.
The first horse rode out, a rider of white, and he bore the crown of pride. His steed galloped across the streets of Manhattan and Los Angeles alike, and behold—the power of man’s machines failed before him. The lights of your cities went out; your towers of steel and glass became tombs of shadow. The proud rulers of industry and government fell silent, their voices lost in the blackness.
The second horse rode out, a rider of red, bringing war and blood. Without communication, armies stumbled in confusion. Police and soldiers turned upon one another, for order was lost. Fires sprang from the chaos—cities burned in fury, and the cries of men echoed into the void, unanswered.
The third horse rode out, a rider of black, clutching scales of famine. Refrigerators, silos, and markets rotted in silence. Grain and water became treasure, hoarded by the strong, denied to the weak. Hunger gnawed at the bones of children, and mothers wept bitter tears over empty hearths. The weight of scarcity pressed upon the land, and gold could not purchase salvation.
The fourth horse rode out, a rider of pale green, Death himself, and Hades followed close behind. Disease spread unchecked, unbidden by science or medicine, for the instruments of healing were dark. Hospitals were empty crypts; streets were littered with the fallen. The mighty and the meek alike fell before him, for none could withstand the pulse of wrath.
And the Lord of Hosts cried from the heavens: “Surrender your hearts to My Son, O America, or behold—My judgment shall be upon you, and the pulse of hell shall leave no machine, no tower, no proud heart unbroken. Yet those who bow shall inherit light in the darkness, and My mercy shall endure even in the blackness of this day.”
The earth quaked. Rivers ran dry. Cities were consumed by shadow and silence. The nations wept. And yet, amid the darkness, the faithful rose, their lamps unquenched, and the Word of Christ shone brighter than the pulse of man’s destruction.
If Kim Jong Un and General Maximus carried out an EMP strike on the United States, it would not look like a regular missile strike with explosions or mushroom clouds. An Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) weapon detonated high above the U.S. would unleash an invisible wave of electromagnetic energy that could devastate modern infrastructure.
Here’s what would happen step by step:
Immediate Effects (First Minutes)
Nationwide Blackout: Power grids across entire regions would fail instantly. Transformers fry, substations burn out, and the grid goes dark.
Electronics Disabled: Cars, planes, trains, hospital equipment, computers, and phones stop working—anything not hardened against EMP is dead.
Communications Collapse: Cell towers, internet routers, satellites in low orbit, and radio relays could be fried, cutting off America from itself and the outside world.
Short-Term Chaos (First Days)
Airplanes Fall From the Sky: Commercial jets relying on electronic navigation and control crash. Thousands die immediately.
Water & Food Systems Shut Down: No electricity means no running water, no refrigeration, and no automated food supply chains. Grocery shelves are stripped bare within 48 hours.
Hospitals in Crisis: Life-support systems, dialysis, ventilators—all fail. Backup generators may run for a short time but fuel shortages cripple them.
Medium-Term Fallout (Weeks to Months)
Starvation & Thirst: Cities become unlivable. Without refrigeration, millions lose access to food. Without pumps, water stops flowing to urban centers.
Lawlessness: Police and emergency services collapse. Looting, riots, and gang rule spread in major cities. Firefighting becomes impossible without communications or hydrants.
Martial Law Attempts: The U.S. military would try to impose order, but even their own logistics and communications would be crippled. Fuel, ammo, and coordination would be scarce.
Long-Term (Months to Years)
Mass Deaths: Studies estimate up to 90% of Americans could die within the first year of a nationwide EMP strike due to starvation, disease, and violence.
Collapse of Government: Washington D.C. itself might be dark. Federal authority could break into regional military governors or warlords.
Back to the 1800s: Survivors return to pre-industrial living—farming by hand, candles for light, barter instead of money.
Religious & Symbolic Fallout
If framed as “Surrender America to Christ”:
Some would see the blackout as divine judgment, a biblical plague fulfilled.
Revivalist movements could rise, calling it the wrath of Revelation—the Beast’s throne plunged into darkness.
Others would resist, seeing Kim Jong Un and Maximus as false prophets using terror to enforce belief.
Joe Jukic (sharp suit, proud Canadian-Croatian accent): “Mr. Trump, it’s time to Make McDonald’s Great Again. The secret? Go back to the old-school fries. Beef tallow. None of this weak vegetable oil. We bring in real organic potatoes. Alberta, Idaho, even Croatia—we make fries great again.”
Donald Trump (nodding, hands chopping the air): “Joe, you’re absolutely right. The fries used to be the best in the world. Then they got rid of the beef tallow. Terrible mistake. Everybody tells me—‘Sir, the fries don’t taste the same.’ Well, we’re going to fix that. We’ll bring back the taste that made McDonald’s legendary. Strong fries. Winning fries.”
Joe Jukic: “And we lock in the farmers, sir. Organic potatoes. No GMO. No fake fertilizers. We bring back the flavor, the tradition. McDonald’s will feel like home again.”
Trump (smirking, like he’s got the ace up his sleeve): “And I’ve got a new idea, Joe. A TRUMP Salad. Tremendous lettuce—green, not sad and brown like Biden’s. Perfect tomatoes. Beautiful cucumbers. Maybe steak on top. People say, ‘Trump only eats burgers and fries.’ Well, guess what—Trump Salad will be number one. Nobody’s ever seen a salad like this before.”
Joe Jukic (smiling, leaning forward): “MMGA, sir. Make McDonald’s Great Again. Beef tallow fries. Trump Salad. People will love it. The whole world will taste the difference.”
Trump (arms wide, grand finale): “They’ll say, ‘Sir, you didn’t just save McDonald’s. You saved America.’ And you know what, Joe? They’ll be right. Nobody saves better than me. Nobody.”
The rain pelts the windows. Inside, a dim desk lamp casts long shadows. Agent FOX MULDER sits across from DONALD TRUMP, who is slouched in his chair, hands folded like he’s at a high-stakes poker game.
MULDER Mr. Trump… we can end this. But you need to tell me everything you know about the Rothschild Illuminati. Names, meetings, financial back channels—how deep it goes.
TRUMP (leans forward) Fox, you have no idea how deep it goes. They’re in the banks, the media, the governments… it’s like… the swamp, but global. Believe me, nobody’s seen a swamp like this.
MULDER If you testify—under oath—I can drop all federal charges against you. In exchange, you and Melania will be relocated to Slovenia under FBI protection. You’ll stay there until we can confirm you’re safe.
TRUMP Slovenia? Melania will like that. I’ll have to learn how to say “beautiful” in Slovenian. Probably already know it.
MULDER This isn’t a vacation. The Illuminati won’t stop until they silence you. If you cooperate, you get a new life. If you don’t… you disappear.
Trump glances out the window. A flash of lightning illuminates the rain-streaked glass. For just a second, he sees the faint reflection of a man in a black fedora standing outside.
TRUMP Alright, Fox. I’ll talk. But you better believe me—once I say what I know, the game changes. For everyone.
Mulder leans in, recorder ready.
MULDER Then let’s change the game.
The lamp flickers. Somewhere outside, a car door slams.
[OPENING MUSIC] SNL band plays a jazzy holiday intro. Stage is dressed like a gaudy Mar-a-Lago study: gold furniture, red velvet chairs, and a huge Christmas tree decorated entirely with Trump ornaments, dollar bills, and framed photos of Trump shaking hands with himself.
[FADE IN]
TRUMP(Alec Baldwin or other cast member in wig & orange makeup, seated at a giant gold desk, counting gold-plated coins): “Bah humbug, folks. Worst humbug in history. Everyone says so. Nobody does Christmas better than me, but I also know how to save money—mainly by not giving it to anybody.” (beat – audience laughs)
[CAMERA PANS] to BOB CRATCHIT(Joe Jukic) sitting at a rickety desk with a tiny space heater that’s off. He’s wearing fingerless gloves and shivering.
CRATCHIT: “Sir, it’s Christmas Eve… could we please have a little more coal for the fire?”
TRUMP(offended): “Coal? I promised to bring coal back for America, but I meant for my friends in West Virginia stock portfolios, not for—what are you?—staff. Sad!” (audience laughs)
[LIGHTS FLICKER – GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST ENTERS]
(It’s Ivanka in a glowing white gown, moving like a beauty pageant contestant. She carries a snow globe of 1980s Trump Tower.)
IVANKA(breathless): “Father… I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past. I’m here to remind you of a time when people actually liked you at Christmas parties.”
TRUMP(grinning): “Oh, they loved me. I gave them gold watches. Made in China, tremendous quality. None of this Apple Watch junk. No calories either.” (audience laughs)
IVANKA: “But you also… cared about people.”
TRUMP(confused): “I cared about… ratings. Same thing.” (audience laughs)
[LIGHT SHIFT – GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT BURSTS IN]
(Santa Claus storms in, holding a giant eviction notice.)
SANTA: “Donald, look around you! People are struggling. They can’t afford gifts, dinner, or heat!”
TRUMP(waves him off): “Fake news. If they can’t afford turkey, they can buy the Trump Christmas Turkey for $399—comes with a free ketchup packet and a coupon for my NFT collection.” (audience laughs, Santa facepalms)
[LIGHT SHIFT – GHOST OF CHRISTMAS FUTURE ENTERS]
(A hooded Grim Reaper figure silently points to a gravestone on a rolling set piece. It reads: Here Lies The Guy Who Couldn’t Even Win the War on Christmas.)
TRUMP(panicking): “No! Not the War on Christmas! I’m the General in that war! They were calling me ‘The Clause’—as in Santa Clause, but tougher!” (audience laughs)
[LIGHT FLASH – BACK TO MAR-A-LAGO BEDROOM]
(Trump “wakes up” in bed, hair extra messy. He jumps up, suddenly cheerful.)
TRUMP: “Bob! Get in here! Buy the biggest turkey in town. Use my credit card—wait, no, use your credit card, but I’ll take a picture with it for Truth Social.” (audience laughs)
CRATCHIT(hesitant): “That’s… very generous, sir?”
(From offstage, Tiny Tim—played by Martin Short as Ed Grimley—limps in with a crutch and an enormous plaid scarf. His hair is sticking up in Ed Grimley’s signature style.)
ED GRIMLEY (Tiny Tim)(excited): “Well I must say, Mr. Scrooge, this is quite the turnaround, I must say! I am tickled beyond the capacity for rational thought, I must say.” (audience claps and laughs)
TRUMP(pointing at Tim): “Look at this kid. Tremendous energy. If all Americans were like him, we’d be great again already. Also, somebody get him a red tie.”
ED GRIMLEY(turning to the audience, beaming): “God bless us, everyone… I must say!” (audience cheers)
[SNOW FALLS] (Snow made of shredded legal documents falls from the ceiling. SNL band starts playing “Jingle Bells” as the cast waves. Trump tries to take credit for the snow.)
TRUMP(yelling over the music): “This is the best Christmas in history! No one’s ever seen a Christmas like this! You’re welcome!”
[FADE OUT – SNL ANNOUNCER VOICE]: “Live from New York… it’s Saturday Night!”
Title: Christian Bale’s Total Recall: Confessions from Behind the Silver Screen
Christian Bale, in a hypothetical tell-all interview or dramatic monologue, opens up with haunting clarity, expressing what he calls a “total recall” of abuse endured throughout his Hollywood upbringing—not on-screen, but behind the scenes. He recounts moments where the sets of his films became ritual stages, controlled by powers more ancient and organized than any studio executive.
Scene Concept: “The Torch and the Gate”
Bale, seated alone in a dimly lit study, speaks directly to camera as though in a documentary or confession booth. A still of the Columbia Pictures logo fades in—the torch-bearing Goddess, robed in white, her torch burning unnaturally bright.
BALE (voice breaking): “That torch… wasn’t just lighting the way for cinema. It was a lie. A signal. A beacon to something older. Something cold.”
He says the Columbia Goddess was a symbol whispered to him by handlers as a child actor—“She watches,” they told him. “You belong to her now.”
Lion’s Gate and British Columbia
Bale then draws a line to Lion’s Gate, the film studio, and its spiritual name-twin: Lions Gate Bridge in Vancouver, British Columbia. He recounts a childhood trip there, allegedly under the guise of shooting or promotional tours, but which he now remembers as initiation rituals.
BALE: “I walked through that Gate before I even understood what a lion was. I was told: You are the lamb now. But you’ll become the lion—if you obey.”
The Messiah Deal: John Connor and the Bat
According to Bale, his most iconic roles—Batman and John Connor—were dangled before him like divine titles in a secret religion of Hollywood power brokers.
BALE: “They said if I played Bateman in American Psycho, I’d inherit both mantles: the Dark Knight and the Savior. It was the final rite. They needed to know I could be monstrous.”
He describes the American Psycho role as a blood sacrifice to the screen, a ritual test of sociopathy, narcissism, and performance—not for the audience, but for them.
Reflection
In this imagined confessional or script, Bale is a tragic prophet—a victim and a vessel. He pulls back the curtain on Hollywood’s darker mythos: not just scandal, but spiritual warfare disguised as stardom.
BALE (closing his eyes): “They gave me masks: Connor, Wayne, Bateman. But never a face. I remember now… I was promised light. All I got was the torch.”
