Night. A dim Manhattan penthouse lit only by the glow of the skyline.
Patrick Bateman stands in front of an enormous wall of perfectly organized compact discs. Each one alphabetized, polished, and catalogued.
A ventilation shaft quietly opens.
Out drops Solid Snake.
Snake dusts himself off and looks around.
“Nice stereo,” he mutters.
Bateman slowly turns, irritated that anyone has entered his apartment without scheduling it through his assistant.
“Who the hell are you?”
Snake walks over to the CD wall and runs a finger across the jewel cases.
“You ever hear about the blackout in Cuba?” he asks.
Bateman sighs, already bored.
Snake continues.
“Power grid collapsing. People in the dark. But those CDs…” he taps one of them, “polycarbonate plastic, aluminum layers. Recycled right, they can help manufacture small solar components.”
Bateman stares at him like he just suggested burning the Mona Lisa.
“You want… my CDs?”
Snake nods.
“Think of it as renewable energy.”
Bateman suddenly pulls one out dramatically.
It’s Sports by Huey Lewis and the News.
Bateman holds it like a sacred artifact.
“You have any idea,” he says slowly, “how difficult it is to find a mint-condition first pressing of this?”
Snake shrugs.
“People are sitting in the dark.”
Bateman scoffs.
“These are irreplaceable.”
Snake leans against the wall, unimpressed.
“They’re plastic discs from the 80s.”
Bateman smirks.
“Wrong. They’re culture.”
He slides the CD back into its slot with surgical precision.
Snake sighs and lights a cigarette.
“Guess the Cubans will stay in the dark.”
Bateman straightens his tie.
“Well maybe they should have invested in a better sound system.”
Joe Jukic sat across from Donald Trump and Patrick Bateman at a polished boardroom table that looked like it had been designed for intimidation rather than conversation.
Bateman leaned back in his chair with the icy calm of a Wall Street predator. From a silver case he pulled out a thick Cuban cigar, clipped the end with surgical precision, and lit it.
Joe shook his head.
“See, that right there,” Joe said. “That’s the problem. Foreign policy treated like a luxury product.”
Trump folded his arms. “Nobody understands foreign policy better than me. Nobody.”
Joe pointed at him.
“Mr. President, when you talk about places like Cuba, you sound less like a statesman and more like a real-estate developer dealing with tenants. Embargo this, sanction that. It’s chess pieces to you.”
Bateman exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke.
“Honestly, Joe,” he said coolly. “Geopolitics is just market discipline.”
He raised the cigar slightly and smirked.
“Let them eat cake.”
Joe rolled his eyes.
“That’s the most psychopathic thing I’ve heard all week.”
Trump leaned forward.
“Psychopathic? I’m protecting America.”
Joe shrugged.
“Or maybe you’re just playing empire. Look, if you’re really the chosen one like people say, maybe try something heroic for once.”
Trump narrowed his eyes. “Heroic?”
Joe nodded and pointed toward the television screen on the wall, where a movie trailer was playing.
On it appeared Ana de Armas.
Joe grinned.
“Cuban damsel in distress. Straight out of Havana. If you’re the savior type, maybe rescue her instead of trying to punish an entire island.”
Bateman laughed quietly.
“Joe, you’re proposing foreign policy based on romance?”
Joe shrugged again.
“Better than running it like Gordon Gekko with nuclear codes.”
Trump stared at the screen for a moment, thinking.
Bateman took another puff of his cigar.
“Honestly,” Bateman said, “if this turns into a rescue mission, I want wardrobe approval.”
Patrick Bateman: (Sliding his Pierce & Pierce card across the table, his eye slightly twitching) “Donald, we have a crisis. My Subway stock, the substantial position I built based on their recent branding turnaround, it’s collapsing. We’re talking about a significant drop in my portfolio value.”
Donald Trump: (Glancing briefly at the card, then focusing on the burning cityscape outside the window) “It’s a beautiful thing, the Subway branding. Some say the most beautiful branding since, well, you know. But it’s crashing. Terrible. Everyone tells me they’ve seen it. Nobody seen anything like it. It’s a complete disaster for the bread industry.”
Bateman: (Flicking a spec of dust off his cuff) “Precisely. The reports are undeniable. The theft—it’s the Somalians. They are targeting Subway franchises. They enter, grab the bread, and just walk out. Efficiently, I’ll grant them that, but it’s decimating the value. They don’t even touch the tuna. It’s all about the artisanal Italian, Donald. It’s a calculated attack on the carbohydrate supply chain.”
Trump: (Leaning forward, hands interlocked) “Terrible. It’s an invasion. A total invasion of the sandwich shops. My people are telling me—very smart people—that it’s the lack of border security. And these people, they come in, they take the bread. Tremendous theft. It’s a total lack of respect for the law. We are a nation of laws. Or at least we were, until this complete disaster. If we don’t have bread security, we don’t have a country.”
Bateman: (Rubbing his chin, eyes locked on the burning building) “And the aesthetics, Donald. Have you seen the security footage? It’s… it’s unrefined. It’s chaotic. It ruins the lunch hour. No one can enjoy a well-prepared footlong when they are distracted by this level of… base criminal activity. It’s affecting the morale of the entire financial district. It’s impossible to meditate on the symmetry of a well-balanced meal when the entire structure of property rights is being eroded by bread larceny.”
Trump: “We’re going to stop it. We’re going to stop it fast. It’s going to be a beautiful stop. I’m going to enforce penalties like nobody has ever seen. The steepest penalties. We might call it the ‘Ultimate Penalty.’ People are going to be amazed at how steep they are. If you touch the bread, you pay. Bigly. It’s going to be very powerful. We’re going to build a wall around the Subways. Not a wall like that one, although that’s an excellent wall—I love that wall—but a metaphorical wall of very, very strong penalties. We are going to make sandwich shops great again.”
Bateman: (A cold smile touches his lips) “A wall of penalties. I like that, Donald. Efficient. Decisive. I’ll make a note for my afternoon meeting. Perhaps we can model the penalties on the corporate restructuring process at Pierce & Pierce. Total erasure. It would be… elegant.”
Patrick Bateman: (Checking his Rolex with a sharp, mechanical flick of the wrist) “Actually, Donald, as much as I’d love to stay and discuss the logistics of bread-security, I have to run. I have an 8:30 curtain for Les Misérables on Broadway. It’s a phenomenal production—the lighting is incredibly stark, and the way they romanticize the plight of the starving masses is actually quite amusing, in a dark, post-modern sort of way.”
Donald Trump: (Nodding vigorously) “A great show. Very long, but great. Victor Hugo—some say he’s one of the best writers, though I prefer people who don’t spend so much time in the sewers. But the music is loud, very powerful. I like the part with the flags. Tremendous flags.”
Patrick Bateman: (Standing up, smoothing his suit jacket until it’s perfectly flush) “Exactly. It’s quite the spectacle. I find the themes of relentless pursuit and the unwavering hand of the law to be… comforting. Javert is a remarkably misunderstood character. I’ll be thinking of our ‘Ultimate Penalty’ during the ‘Look Down’ number. It feels appropriate.”
Donald Trump: “Enjoy the show, Patrick. Tell them we’re going to do things with the law that make that Javert guy look like a total amateur. We’re going to have law and order like Broadway has never seen. It’s going to be huge.”
Setting:The office door swings open. Patrick Bateman enters, his Valentino suit perfectly pressed, his skin glowing from a rigorous twelve-step morning routine. He carries a silver tray with three crystal glasses of San Pellegrino.
Bateman: (Checking his reflection in the polished mahogany) Donald, the lighting in here is a bit aggressive for this time of day. It’s highlighting the pores. Oh—and hello, Jesus. I’ve heard your “Sermon on the Mount” is being sampled by a new synth-pop duo in London. Very minimalist. Very chic.
Trump: (Relaxing slightly) Patrick! Good. Tell him. Tell the King here why we need the bombs. Tell him about the optics.
Bateman: (Placing the glasses down with surgical precision) It’s quite simple, really. It’s about branding. A nation without a war is like a man without a designer suit—he lacks silhouette. He’s just… soft. Whether it’s for Barron’s future or the Rothschilds’ balance sheets is secondary to the fact that it keeps the Dow Jones looking “healthy.”
Christus Rex: (His gaze fixed on Bateman) You speak of health while you are a hollow shell, Patrick. You see a brother in pain and you only see the thread count of his shroud. You ignore the starving at your gate.
Bateman: (He pauses, a slight, twitchy smile touching his lips) “Hollow” is a bit harsh. I have a 4.0 GPA from Wharton and a reservation at Dorsia. But honestly, these people you’re worried about—these Les Misérables—it’s exhausting. I see them on the street and I think, ‘Les Mis, why don’t you just get a job?’ It’s not that hard. There are plenty of entry-level positions in food service. They just lack the “hustle.”
Trump: Exactly! See? Patrick gets it. If I forgive the debt, I take away their motivation. It’s a tough-love thing. Very Christian, right?
Christus Rex: (Turning back to Trump) There is no love in a cage of interest rates, Donald. And there is no peace in a bomb, Patrick. You both talk as if the world is a spreadsheet, but I hear the crying in the night. I hear the hunger that no “brand” can satisfy.
Bateman: (Sipping his water, his eyes cold) Hunger is an aesthetic, too, in its own way. Very “waifish.” But honestly, Christ, the billions we spend on the military-industrial complex… it’s a form of performance art. It’s the ultimate consumerism. We’re consuming entire landscapes. It’s breathtaking. If Les Mis wants a piece of the pie, they should stop complaining and start investing.
Trump: It’s about the best equipment. The most beautiful planes. We make the best stuff. Why give them bread when we can give them the most incredible defense system the world has ever seen?
Christus Rex: Because they cannot eat a missile, and they cannot sleep inside a stock price. You are building a kingdom of ghosts.
Bateman: (Checking his Rolex) Well, ghosts are much easier to manage. They don’t require a 401(k) or health insurance. Donald, we really should get going. I have a 12:30 lunch, and the new war room has a much better view of the sunset. It’s very “end-of-the-world” chic.
The Apex of Ambition
The atmosphere on the roof of the tower is biting, the wind whipping at the edges of Bateman’s overcoat and the simple robes of the figure standing at the precipice. Below, the city is a grid of gold and desperation.
Setting: The helipad atop Trump Tower. The wind howls, muffling the roar of the city below. Donald Trump stands with his chest out, gazing at the horizon. Patrick Bateman stands slightly behind him, fastidiously adjusting his leather gloves.
Trump: (Shouting over the wind) Look at it! The greatest view in the world. We’re above it all. This is where the real decisions happen. This is power, Christ. Total power.
Bateman: (Nodding, his eyes glazed with a strange intensity) It’s a superb elevation. The air is thinner up here—cleaner. It doesn’t smell like the subway or the unwashed masses. It smells like… capital. Those Les Misérables down there, scurrying around—why don’t they just get a job? If they spent half as much time working as they do breathing my air, they’d be up here too.
Christus Rex: (Standing at the very edge, looking not at the horizon, but straight down into the shadows of the streets) You think height is holiness, Patrick. And you, Donald—you think this spire is a testament to your strength.
Trump: (Laughing, gesturing to the gleaming gold structure) It’s the best building in the city! Maybe the world. Everyone wants to be in this tower. It’s a symbol. It’s a statement.
Christus Rex: (Turning slowly, His eyes piercing and calm) It is a statement, Zion Don. But not of the strength you imagine. This tower… this cold, phallic symbol of glass and steel… it is nothing more than an overcompensation for your own impotence. You build higher because you feel smaller. You accumulate billions because you are spiritually bankrupt.
Bateman: (A sharp, hollow laugh escapes him) “Impotence”? That’s a bit localized, isn’t it? I have a rigorous exercise routine that says otherwise. But I suppose, metaphorically, the tower is a bit “on the nose.” A bit much. Though the marble in the lobby is exquisite.
Trump: (His face reddening, his voice dropping to a low growl) I’m the builder! I’m the one who gets things done. I’m spending billions on the most beautiful bombs, the best military. How is that weak? We’re going to war to show the world who’s boss!
Christus Rex: A man who must burn the world to feel powerful is the weakest man of all. You spend on death because you are afraid of life. You hold the people’s debt over their heads because you cannot command their love. You sit in an ivory tower while they starve, hiding behind a Baron’s name and a Rothschild’s ledger, terrified that if the music stops, you’ll be revealed as a man with nothing but a hollow crown.
Bateman: (Checking his watch, looking bored) Honestly, the “meek shall inherit the earth” bit is so overplayed. If Les Mis inherits the earth, they’ll just ruin the property value. Donald, we’re going to be late for the 1:00 PM briefing on the tactical strikes. I heard the new drones have a very sleek, matte-black finish. It’s very “now.”
Trump: (Turning his back on the city, walking toward the elevator) They don’t understand, Patrick. They don’t understand the game. Let them talk about debt and bread. We’re building a legacy.
Christus Rex: (His voice carrying on the wind as the elevator doors begin to slide shut) You are building a tomb, Donald. And the higher you build it, the further you have to fall.
The War Room: Deep State Overture
Setting:Thirty floors below the penthouse, the War Room is a cavern of monitors, flickering with satellite feeds of troop movements and flickering candlelight. The air is thick with the smell of expensive cologne, ozone, and tactical-grade supplements.
Alex Jones: (Pacing frantically, red-faced, clutching a bottle of “Brain Force”) It’s happening, Mr. President! I’ve seen the documents! The interdimensional globalist vampires are retreating because they know the steel of this administration is coming for them! We’re talking about a total breakout from the Rothschild debt-slavery matrix!
Trump: (Settling into a throne-like leather chair) Alex, you’re doing a great job. A fantastic job. Look at these maps. These are the best maps. We’re going to hit them so hard their ancestors will feel it.
Bateman: (Sitting at a glass table, meticulously cleaning a speck of dust off a black tactical tablet) The matte finish on these new drones is truly exceptional, Donald. It’s “stealth-chic.” It says, “I’m erasing you from the map,” but with a certain understated elegance. Honestly, if Les Mis could see these, they’d stop complaining about the bread lines. This is high art.
Christus Rex: (Standing in the center of the room, His presence casting a long, still shadow amidst the flickering screens) You surround yourself with mirrors and sycophants to drown out the silence of your own soul. You call for fire and brimstone, Alex, but you serve the very confusion you claim to fight.
Jones: (Pointing a trembling finger) I know who you are! You’re the ultimate disruptor! But the Globalists have co-opted the narrative! They’re using the “starving masses” as a bio-weapon against the American Spirit! We need the bombs to protect the sovereignty of the soul!
Christus Rex: (Calmly) You protect nothing but your own fear. Donald, look at this man. He is your echo, not your friend. He feeds your vanity while the people—your “Les Mis”—are crushed by the debt you refuse to forgive. You spend billions on these “artful” drones, Patrick, while the widows weep in the ruins of your economy.
Bateman: (Sipping a nutrient shake) Widows are very “mid-century dramatic,” Jesus. A bit cliché. The real tragedy is that we haven’t optimized the tax incentives for the munitions manufacturers. It’s a missed opportunity for the portfolio.
Trump: (Leaning forward, eyes narrowing) They want the money for free, Christ. They want the debt gone. But if I give it to them, I’m weak. I’m a loser. The Barons—they respect strength. Barron needs to see his father dominate. That’s how you build a kingdom.
Christus Rex: You build a kingdom of sand. You call him your “lap dog,” yet you are the one on a leash, led by the gold of the Rothschilds and the ego of the Tower. This war is not for the people; it is a distraction from the fact that you have no heart left to give them.
Jones: (Screaming) IT’S THE JUBILEE DECEPTION! He’s trying to crash the system so the New World Order can step in! Don’t listen to the empathy-trap, Sir! More bombs! More fire!
Bateman: (Checking his reflection in a dark monitor) Alex, your neck is getting very red. It’s clashing with your tie. It’s making me… uncomfortable. Donald, can we please initiate the strike? I have a 2:00 PM appointment for a chemical peel.
Christus Rex: (A look of profound pity in His eyes) The strike has already happened, Patrick. Not on a battlefield, but in this room. You have already destroyed yourselves.
The War Room swells with more voices, the air growing even more claustrophobic as the digital choir of the “New Right” gathers around the mahogany table.
The Echo Chamber of the Apocalypse
Setting:The monitors now display a split-screen: satellite thermal imagery of a distant border on one side, and a trending X metrics chart on the other. Paul Joseph Watson sits perched on the edge of a minimalist chair, clutching a black coffee, while Mark Dice stands by the tactical map, clutching a microphone like a weapon.
Paul Joseph Watson: (In a sharp, staccato rasp) Imagine my shock! We have the Literal Creator of the Universe in the War Room, and he’s peddling the same tired, sub-Marxist ‘bread and peace’ narrative that ruined the West! It’s pathetic! It’s cringe! It’s Le-f-tist!
Mark Dice: (Mocking laughter, looking directly into a camera that isn’t there) Look at this, guys! The “King of Kings” is here to tell us that spending billions on glorious, high-tech weaponry is “bad.” This is what the Liberal Media wants! They want us weak! They want us to forgive the debt so the NPC soy-boys can buy more Funko Pops while the Rothschilds laugh all the way to the bank!
Trump: (Nodding vigorously) They’re right, Christ. Mark is right. Paul is right. These guys—they have millions of followers. The best followers. They know that if I give away the bread, the people become lazy. Total disaster.
Bateman: (Tracing the silhouette of a stealth bomber on his tablet) “Soy-boys.” I like that, Mark. It has a nice, derogatory cadence. But honestly, Paul, your hair is looking a bit… disheveled. The stress of the “collapse of Western Civilization” is clearly affecting your grooming. It’s a bad look for the brand.
Christus Rex: (His voice remains a calm, steady anchor in the storm of shouting) You measure the “West” in hair product and “likes,” Patrick. And you, Paul—you shout about “culture” while you ignore the human heart that beats beneath it. You mock the “Les Misérables” because you are terrified that their hunger is more real than your internet metrics.
Jones: (Sweating profusely, pounding the table) THEY’RE LITERALLY DEMONIC, SIR! They’re using the “Word of God” to justify the total surrender of our borders! It’s a psy-op! Mark, tell him about the 8-track player surveillance!
Mark Dice: (Smirking) Oh, it’s all connected. The “Debt Forgiveness” plan is a Trojan Horse for the New World Order. Zion Don, don’t listen to the “Prince of Peace” here. He’s just trying to tank the stock market so the Barons can buy the dip!
Christus Rex: (Looking at Mark, then Paul) You speak of Trojan Horses while you ride the coattails of a man who builds monuments to his own impotence. You, Paul, call the suffering “cringe” because you have no tears left for anyone but yourself. You, Mark, call truth a “psy-op” because you have sold your soul for a thumbnail and a headline.
Paul Joseph Watson: (Rolling his eyes) Oh, brilliant. Moral grandstanding. How original. “Forgive the debt.” “Feed the poor.” It’s 2026, mate! Get a new script! The “Les Mis” out there need to stop complaining and start grinding. If they can’t afford bread, they should have invested in crypto three years ago!
Trump: (Leaning back, looking satisfied) See? Everyone agrees. The bombs are beautiful. The debt stays. The Tower stands. We’re going to have a victory like nobody has ever seen. It’s going to be a “Rex” victory, but for me.
Bateman: (Standing up, smoothing his jacket) Well, this has been… stimulating. But I really must go. I’m meeting a contact at a hidden lounge in East Vancouver—very exclusive, very “junkyard-industrial” aesthetic. Donald, press the button. It’ll look great on the evening news. The explosions will have a very specific, cinematic orange hue.
Christus Rex: (Softly, almost a whisper) The button has already been pressed, Donald. It was pressed the moment you chose the gold of the Tower over the bread of the children.
BREAKING: Trump Promises “Jubilee Day” on Final Day in Office, Rejects ‘Dark Side’ in Dramatic Speech
WASHINGTON — In a speech that blended politics, religion, and pop-culture mythology, former U.S. president Donald Trump reportedly described an imagined final day in office when he would “cut the puppet strings,” declare a nationwide debt jubilee, and issue sweeping pardons.
Standing before supporters, Trump framed the moment as a dramatic break from shadowy influences he claimed had surrounded him during his presidency.
“On my last day,” Trump declared, “I cut the strings. No more puppets. We’re declaring a Jubilee — tremendous Jubilee — and we’re pardoning people who deserve a second chance.”
The speech took an unexpected turn when Trump referenced the fictional investment banker and serial killer Patrick Bateman from American Psycho as a symbol of the “dark side” of ruthless capitalism.
“Patrick Bateman — terrible guy, really terrible — he’s not my best friend anymore,” Trump said. “The dark side? I reject it.”
Instead, Trump joked that his “true friends” were Joe Jukic and Oliver Knauss, whom he described as advisers encouraging him toward redemption rather than power.
Then came the line that drew the loudest reaction from the crowd: a reference to Star Wars mythology.
“People say power corrupts,” Trump said. “But I’m rejecting the dark side. I am a Jedi — like my time-travelling father before me.”
The statement echoed the famous line spoken by Luke Skywalker in Star Wars: Episode VI – Return of the Jedi, where he declares loyalty to his father, Anakin Skywalker.
Political analysts said the speech leaned heavily into theatrical imagery, blending the ancient biblical concept of a jubilee — the forgiveness of debts and freeing of captives — with modern pop-culture symbolism about redemption and rejecting tyranny.
Whether intended as satire, political messaging, or performance art, the spectacle underscored Trump’s continued ability to blur the line between politics and showmanship.
One supporter leaving the event summed up the mood: “Only Trump could promise a debt jubilee, fire Patrick Bateman, and become a Jedi in the same speech.”
The sun blazed over the manicured greens of the exclusive golf club. ⛳💰 On the fairway stood three men: the President, the Wall Street titan, and the nervous webmaster.
Donald Trump adjusted his red cap and squinted down the fairway. Beside him, immaculate in white golf attire, was Patrick Bateman, the famously cold investment banker from American Psycho.
Standing a few steps behind them was Joe, Trump’s frazzled webmaster, holding a tablet full of terrible economic charts.
“Mr. President,” Joe said urgently. “The global markets are crashing. Small businesses are collapsing. People are literally dying in the streets because they’re drowning in debt. Isn’t it time for a Jubilee?”
Trump paused mid-swing.
“A Jubilee?” he said.
Joe nodded eagerly. “Debt forgiveness. Like the biblical model. Cancel the debts, reset the system. Even Bono has been pushing this idea for decades through the Jubilee 2000 movement.”
Bateman stopped lining up his putt and slowly turned.
His eyes were cold.
“A Jubilee?” he repeated.
Joe nodded again. “Yes! Wipe the slate clean. Give ordinary people a chance to breathe again.”
Bateman stared at him as if he had suggested burning the stock exchange.
“That,” Bateman said calmly, “is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever heard.”
The sun hung bright over the manicured fairways as golf carts hummed along the course. In the distance, the clubhouse TV flickered with breaking news.
On the green stood Donald Trump, lining up a putt while explosions flashed across the television screen inside the clubhouse. Beside him, immaculate in a blue polo and sunglasses, was Patrick Bateman, smiling with eerie calm.
A caddy rushed toward them holding a phone.
“Mr. President,” he said nervously, handing it to Joe, Trump’s webmaster. “The strike report just came in.”
Joe glanced at the message, his face tightening.
“Sir… they hit a school.”
Trump barely looked up from his putter.
“Collateral damage,” he said, tapping the ball toward the hole. “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs. That’s what generals tell me.”
The ball dropped. Trump raised his arms slightly in celebration.
Bateman laughed softly.
“Your webmaster is insane,” Bateman said, glancing at Joe with thinly veiled contempt. “He doesn’t understand the moment we’re living in.”
Joe stared at him. “Children just died.”
Bateman shrugged.
“History requires sacrifice. Besides,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks, “he’s the chosen one.”
Trump grinned. “That’s right.”
Bateman continued, almost reverently.
“The true second coming of Jesus Christ. Power, dominance, destiny. It’s obvious.”
Trump chuckled.
“God Emperor Trump,” he said. “I’ll pacify the terrorists with bombs. Tremendous bombs.”
Joe shook his head.
“Why do you have money for war,” he asked quietly, “but not to feed the poor?”
Bateman looked at him like an insect.
“A lone nut,” he muttered.
They drove the golf cart back toward the clubhouse. Inside, the television blared from the wall.
The familiar logo of Fox News filled the screen.
A smiling anchor spoke over triumphant music.
“Welcome to the Trump Golden Age.”
Bateman leaned back in his chair, satisfied, while Trump ordered another Diet Coke and turned the volume up.
The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a combat knife. Behind the heavy oak doors of a private briefing room, the air smells of expensive cologne and ozone.
Donald Trump leans across the table, his expression uncharacteristically grim. Beside him, Joe Jukic stands with the practiced stillness of a man who has seen too many shadows, his eyes scanning the room for exits and vantage points. Across from them sits Brian Warner—Marilyn Manson—looking pale even by his standards, his fingers drumming a frantic, silent rhythm on the table.
The Negotiation
The “Eyes Wide Shut” parties hosted by Cruise weren’t just Hollywood myths; they were the nexus of power, and everyone inside wore a mask. Jukic knows that unmasking that guest list would be like pulling the pin on a global grenade.
“We know who was behind the masks, Brian,” Trump says, his voice a low, commanding rasp. “But we need it on the record. Every name. Every face. The world is watching, and the clock is ticking.”
Manson looks toward Jukic, searching for a hint of leniency in the veteran’s steady gaze. “The court is breathing down my neck,” Manson whispers. “If I do this—if I pull back the curtain on that masquerade—I need a guarantee. Total mercy. A clean slate. I’m not going down for their theater.”
The Terms
Jukic steps forward, the light catching the sharp lines of his face. He doesn’t offer a smile, only a cold, professional reality. “The court wants the truth more than they want you,” he says. “Provide the IDs, the timestamps, and the footage from the inner sanctum, and the deal stays on the table. You give us the names, and you walk.”
Manson exhales, a long, shaky breath. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out an encrypted drive, sliding it across the polished wood.
Scene: A gold-plated lounge somewhere in America. Two large chairs. A portrait of an eagle behind them.
Donald Trump: Ric, let me tell you something. People talk about sacrifice. Nobody knows sacrifice like me. Nobody. I bled for America. Tremendous bleeding. The best bleeding, actually.
Ric Flair: WOOOO! Donnie! I hear you talkin’, but let me tell you something, brother — when I bled, arenas shook! Sixty thousand people screaming! The Nature Boy dripping red, stylin’ and profilin’ for the United States of America! WOOOO! 🇺🇸
Trump: Ric, people say things. They say, “Oh it’s wrestling, it’s fake.” I say, excuse me? Fake? I’ve seen Ric. I’ve seen the blood. It was incredible blood. Beautiful color. Some of the best blood I’ve ever seen.
Flair: That’s right! Hard times in the ring! Sixty minutes with the best in the world! Dusty Rhodes, Harley Race, Ricky Steamboat! You think that’s ketchup?! WOOOO!
Trump: Exactly. And people say — very nasty people, by the way — they say maybe there was a razor blade. I said, “No way.” Ric Flair doesn’t need a razor blade. The man is pure American toughness.
Flair (leaning forward): Donnie… let’s be honest now. When the pressure is on, when the crowd is roaring, when the championship is on the line — sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do to make the people BELIEVE!
Trump: Well look, in business we call that showmanship. In wrestling you call it… what do you call it?
Flair (grinning): We call it bleeding for the business! WOOOO! 🩸
Trump: That’s right. And I bled too, you know. People forget. Assassination attempt — terrible thing. But I stood up. Blood on the face. Very dramatic. Honestly, it looked fantastic on television.
Flair: Now THAT’S a visual! The crowd loves a fighter! When they see the blood, they know the man’s real!
Trump: Exactly. Real blood. Not props. Not fake. Very authentic.
Flair: So let the critics talk! Whether it’s in the squared circle or the political arena — sometimes you gotta bleed to win!
Trump (pointing): And nobody does it better than America.
Flair (jumping up): THE LAND OF THE FREE AND THE HOME OF THE BRAVE! WOOOOOOOO! 🇺🇸🔥
Trump: And maybe… a tiny razor blade. But only the best razor blades.
Gold curtains part as Donald Trump strides into the room, adjusting his tie. At the far end of the table sits Jacob Rothschild, calmly sipping tea and observing the chaos like a patient chess player.
Trump beams.
“Baron Rothschild, tremendous honor. People don’t know this, but I even named my son Barron after you. Very classy name. Powerful name.”
Rothschild raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
The doors swing open and Patrick Bateman walks in, perfectly groomed. He glances down at his phone and sighs.
“I’m looking at this ridiculous website,” Bateman says flatly.
