INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE DINING ROOM – NIGHT
A bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild 1961 breathes between two titans of ego. The city glows below them like a subdued kingdom. Donald Trump wears a silk robe with “45” embroidered in gold. Patrick Bateman, razor-sharp in a Brioni dinner jacket, decants the wine like a surgeon handling blood. On the TV: an old clip of Arnold Schwarzenegger barking, “Stop whining!”
DONALD TRUMP
(scoffs, watching Arnold)
There he goes again—“Stop whining!” Easy for him to say. He’s the Terminator. Married into the Kennedys. Has a tank in his garage. And muscles the size of Rhode Island.
PATRICK BATEMAN
(deadpan, pouring Trump’s glass)
It’s always the musclemen and money priests telling us to shut up. Arnold. Warren Buffet. The Rothschilds. It’s like a chorus of oligarchs anonymous.
DONALD TRUMP
(snorts)
Buffet lectures me on taxes. Arnold tells me to stop whining. Meanwhile, we’re sitting here drinking wine worth more than most Americans’ annual salary—and we’re still not even close to Rothschild rich.
PATRICK BATEMAN
(raising his glass)
You ever meet a Rothschild?
DONALD TRUMP
(shaking his head)
No. I invited one to Mar-a-Lago once. They sent back a polite rejection letter… written in Latin.
PATRICK BATEMAN
(dark chuckle)
They don’t go on Forbes lists. They own the lists. Their idea of poor is probably us drinking a bottle from the 1960s instead of something from Napoleon’s cellar.
DONALD TRUMP
(grumbles)
I own towers. Golf courses. A Boeing 757. And still—somehow—I’m a peasant to them.
PATRICK BATEMAN
(swirling his glass)
We’re nouveau royalty, Donald. Flash. Gold. Hotels. But they’re dynastic. Old money. Banking bloodlines. Illuminati whispers and Swiss vaults. We’re rich. They’re immortal.
DONALD TRUMP
(half-laughing)
And Arnold thinks we need him to motivate us? He’s a movie star from Austria who got famous pretending to be a robot. Great guy, by the way, but I don’t need a Terminator telling me to work harder.
PATRICK BATEMAN
(mocking tone)
“Stop whining,” he says—as if our problem is attitude. Not the fact that every central bank probably owes the Rothschilds interest payments until the end of time.
DONALD TRUMP
(toasting)
To being poor—by billionaire standards.
PATRICK BATEMAN
(clinks glasses)
And to whining about it—with style.
They drink. The Rothschild bottle gleams in the low light like an artifact of another world. On the screen, Arnold flexes. Somewhere far away, the Rothschilds don’t notice—or care.
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.
INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE WINE CELLAR – NIGHT
A vault-like room lit with warm, antique light. Rows of vintage wine bottles sleep behind glass like holy relics. Patrick Bateman runs his gloved finger along a dusty label: 1962 Château Margaux. Donald Trump trails behind him in a red satin robe, casually holding a McDonald’s apple pie.
PATRICK BATEMAN
(without looking back)
We drink only pre-Monsanto. No glyphosate. No chemical residue. No RoundUp in the bouquet. If I wanted to taste weed killer, I’d join a tailgate party in Jersey.
DONALD TRUMP
(smirking)
Let the hoi polloi drink weed killer. I’ll serve it at the rallies. “Trump Red: Now With More Glyphosate!” They’ll love it. Blue-collar flavor. But us? We drink real wine.
PATRICK BATEMAN
(turns slowly, deadly serious)
It’s not just about taste, Donald. It’s about purity. These new vintages? Corrupted. Vineyards saturated with corporate poison. Plastic in the soil. Microtoxins in the finish.
(grimly)
Even the tannins are anxious.
DONALD TRUMP
(laughs, then blinks)
Tannins… are anxious?
PATRICK BATEMAN
(stone-faced)
Everything is stressed. The grapes are absorbing climate dread and post-industrial despair. You can taste it. The 2020s vintage is basically fermented anxiety with notes of lithium.
DONALD TRUMP
(suddenly serious)
That’s why I liked the ‘80s. Greed, glamor, no guilt. We drank wine because we deserved it. Not because it was vegan or biodynamic or “carbon-aware.”
PATRICK BATEMAN
(nods, pulling a bottle of 1959 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti)
This is what God intended. Grown before globalization. Bottled before gene patents. No CRISPR. No modified yeast. Just grapes, soil, and aristocratic indifference.
DONALD TRUMP
(admiring the label)
And probably some child labor in the vineyard. The real stuff.
PATRICK BATEMAN
(smirks)
Exactly.
(raises the bottle like a chalice)
Let the masses sip their synthetic blends. We drink the blood of the old world. Unadulterated. Unapologetic.
DONALD TRUMP
(toasting with his Big Mac box)
To purity. And to letting the peasants drink RoundUp.
They descend deeper into the cellar—like Pharaohs guarding forgotten truths, while the rest of the world gulps down poisoned vintage and calls it progress.