INT. TRUMP TOWER – EXECUTIVE SUITE – NIGHT
City lights burn below. Gold-leaf ceiling above. Patrick Bateman and Donald Trump stand near the window, sipping scotch, eyes full of conquest and contempt. The TV behind them replays the infamous Trump-Macron handshake—white-knuckled, awkward, primal.
PATRICK BATEMAN
(watching the replay, amused)
Look at that. Macron trying to siphon off power from your hand like some kind of political parasite. Absurd. The man’s a beta. Not even six feet tall.
DONALD TRUMP
(snorts)
Five-seven at best. They say five-nine, but come on. I’ve stood next to the guy. He’s tiny. Trembles when I enter a room.
PATRICK BATEMAN
Exactly. He’s what we used to call in the Ivy League a “manlet.” Napoleon complex with a bank account. Overcompensating with forceful gestures and empty charm.
DONALD TRUMP
(grinning)
I felt it too, Patrick. That grip? It was desperate. Like he thought if he squeezed hard enough, he’d absorb me. Like I’m some kind of golden battery.
PATRICK BATEMAN
(smirks)
But you held firm. You didn’t flinch. That’s alpha. That’s dominance psychology. He blinked first. That’s all that matters.
DONALD TRUMP
Everyone saw it. All the generals. All the leaders. They said, “Sir, you crushed him. Just like you crushed NAFTA. Just like you crushed the debates.”
PATRICK BATEMAN
(leaning in)
Macron reads The Prince. You are The Prince.
DONALD TRUMP
(preening slightly)
He’s all theory. I’m action. I build towers. He builds metaphors.
PATRICK BATEMAN
And when he touches your hand, it’s like he’s trying to climb a ladder he’ll never reach. Because you’re not just tall, Donald. You’re high status. Macron? He’s just a well-dressed civil servant with a trophy wife and delusions of Caesar.
DONALD TRUMP
(laughs)
That’s good. I’m going to use that. “Well-dressed civil servant.” Classic.
They clink glasses. The screen freezes on Macron’s grimace, Trump’s smirk. A silent visual thesis on dominance.
Well, we have to end apartheid for one. And slow down the nuclear arms race, stop terrorism and world hunger. We have to provide food and shelter for the homeless, and oppose racial discrimination and promote civil rights, while also promoting equal rights for women. We have to encourage a return to traditional moral values. Most importantly, we have to promote general social concern and less materialism in young people.
Scene: The Valley of the Kings, Egypt — Summit of the Nations
The golden sun sinks behind the pyramids as world leaders gather in a marble pavilion draped with banners of peace. Cameras flash. The crowd murmurs.
Donald Trump and Emmanuel Macron lock eyes. Their hands meet in a firm, camera-ready handshake — the infamous rematch of their first power grip years ago. The knuckles whiten. The photographers go wild.
Suddenly, the room hushes.
From the far end of the hall, a figure in regal robes glides forward. Queen Amidala of Naboo, serene and radiant beneath her crimson headdress, raises her hand. The air itself seems to listen.
Queen Amidala:
“Enough.”
Her voice is soft, but it cuts through the marble like a lightsaber through silk.
Queen Amidala (continuing):
“Once again, power wrestles power — while the worlds burn, and the children of war starve. This is not the way of true strength. This is vanity dressed as diplomacy.”
Trump (loosening his grip):
“Look, I respect her— very classy lady— but I’ve got the strongest handshake, everyone says so.”
Macron (half-smiling, half-wincing):
“Madame Amidala, perhaps he forgets that strength also means restraint.”
Amidala steps between them, her gown trailing like a living flame.
Queen Amidala:
“Gentlemen, Naboo once stood at the brink of destruction because our leaders mistook pride for leadership. I will not watch another galaxy fall the same way. Let diplomacy resume — not as a contest of hands, but as a meeting of hearts.”
She extends her hand — open, calm, disarming.
Trump and Macron exchange a look. Slowly, awkwardly, they both place their hands atop hers.
For a moment, the cameras catch something different: not dominance, but a flicker of understanding.
Queen Amidala (softly, as if to herself):
“The Republic will only survive if ego does not.”
And with that, she turns toward the horizon — where the sands of Egypt shimmer like the twin suns of Tatooine.