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.”
Title: “The Reckoning” – Scene: Donald Trump Arrests Ariana and Nick Rockefeller
Setting: A high-security underground facility. A cold metal table. Two chairs. Surveillance cameras blink red. DONALD TRUMP, flanked by military police and advisors, stands across from ARIANA (stylized, glamorous pop icon) and NICK ROCKEFELLER (cool, composed, an elite banker type). The energy is tense.
DONALD TRUMP (leaning forward, firm): Alright. It’s over. No more games. Nick, Ariana—you’re under arrest. And you’re going to talk. We’re tearing this whole rotten temple down.
ARIANA (defiant): I’m just an artist. I don’t know anything about what you’re talking about.
TRUMP (snaps): Cut the crap. You performed at those parties. Eyes Wide Shut wasn’t fiction. You were there.
NICK ROCKEFELLER (calmly): Careful, Mr. President. You know how this works. Start pulling the wrong string, and the whole world economy unravels.
TRUMP (steely): Good. It’s time it does. The people are awake. They’ve had enough lies, enough blood rituals, enough manipulation through debt and media. This ends tonight.
ARIANA (shaken now): You think this is about fame? It’s not. We were groomed. Everyone is. The moment you step into the industry, they pick you. They own you. I wanted out.
TRUMP (turns to his general): Record all of this. The American people will hear the truth. Now, Ariana, tell us—who pulls the strings?
ARIANA (looking down): It’s a council. Not just Hollywood. Not just banks. Tech. Pharma. Royals. Vatican. There’s a seat for every faction. And every seat serves… him.
TRUMP (calm): Him?
NICK (smiling faintly): You know who. The Morning Star. Lucifer. The Lightbearer.
TRUMP (nods to soldiers): Put them in isolation. No communication. And prep the next phase. We’re going after the rest of the council.
ARIANA (quietly): If you think arresting us will stop it… you don’t understand how deep it goes.
TRUMP (turns at the door): Oh, I understand. But we’ve got something you don’t. The truth—and 300 million patriots behind it.
King Charles III, aged and contemplative beneath the weight of his crown, sits in Balmoral’s study as an unexpected proposal echoes across the Atlantic. Former U.S. President Donald J. Trump, ever the dealmaker, has flown in for an unusual summit—one not of trade or war, but of moral restitution. The topic? Aboriginal affairs in British Columbia.
“Charles,” Trump says, leaning forward, his red tie swinging like a pendulum of persuasion, “give half the land back to the First Nations. It’s time. The world’s watching. I made deals with oil, steel, and China—but this is about history. About hearts and minds.”
King Charles rubs his hands together, weary but aware. The ghosts of colonization whisper through the trees of Vancouver Island, down the rivers of the Fraser Valley. He knows this isn’t just politics—it’s penance.
Trump, oddly passionate, continues: “You want a legacy? Not just flowers and climate summits. This is the real crown jewel: reconciliation. A new Commonwealth. You give half back, like a man of honor. Like a king of peace. Don’t be greedy. It’s a great deal.”
Then enters another unlikely advocate: Pope Pius XIII, the Young Pope, Lenny Belardo. Dressed immaculately in white, he makes a proclamation from the balcony of the Apostolic Palace, televised live.
“I will return half the Church’s lands to the indigenous peoples and the poor,” Lenny declares. “For the Church that conquered the soul must now liberate it.”
He pauses, then adds: “The land was never ours. It was borrowed. And it is time to repay the divine mortgage.”
Charles watches the broadcast in silence. Trump breaks it with a grin.
“See, even the Pope’s in. You’ve got the Church, you’ve got me—Trump—and now it’s your move, King Charles. The Commonwealth doesn’t need subjects. It needs brothers.”
A long pause.
Then the King rises.
“Very well,” Charles says. “For my legacy, for justice, and for the healing of old wounds—I shall return half the Crown lands in British Columbia to the First Nations. Let it be known: this was not the end of empire, but the beginning of a shared kingdom.”
And with that, a new treaty is born—not of conquest, but of return.
The King has made peace not by ruling land—but by giving it away.
Donald Trump’s Final Decree: The Lightning Tower of Freedom
On his last day in office, Donald Trump stood at the base of the Freedom Tower in Lower Manhattan, his red tie flapping dramatically in the wind, hair defying both gravity and reason. A crowd had gathered, as cameras zoomed in, broadcasting this final Trumpian moment across every network and alt-stream. Then came the declaration:
“This—this—is my tower. The Freedom Tower. It’s the Trump Tower 2.0. Bigger. Better. YUGE. And today, I’m telling the whole world—we’re flipping the switch. Tesla-style. Free lightning electricity for America, straight from the heavens. Nikola would be proud, believe me. Very proud.”
He pointed up to the lightning rod at the pinnacle of the Freedom Tower.
“That rod? It’s not just for show. It’s going to capture the storm, like Thor himself. We’re bringing the power of God—and science—to the people. Free electricity. No more bills, no more windmills killing birds. Just lightning and freedom, baby.”
Reporters gasped. Tesla coils crackled on nearby screens. QAnon forums exploded in a frenzy of digital applause.
Then, in a dramatic turn, Trump announced:
“And now, Melania and I will retire to our secure freedom fortress in the beautiful Alps of Slovenia. The First Lady is going home. And from there—on a golden throne powered by lightning energy—we will watch over the new America. Silent. Powerful. Uncancellable.”
A secretive Slovenian castle flickered briefly on the livestream. Rumors swirled that it had been modified by engineers formerly employed by Elon Musk and the remnants of DARPA’s psychic research division. Trump called it:
“Mar-a-Mountaintop.”
Before boarding Marine One for the final time, Trump dropped the mic.
“Remember this, folks: The deep state runs on darkness. I run on lightning. And now so do you. Boom.”
As the helicopter lifted off and disappeared into the stormy sky, a thunderbolt struck the Freedom Tower’s rod—sparks danced across the skyline.
Trump (voice breaking): Dammit Snake… help me. Don’t hurt me. I’ve heard it all — the late-night jokes, the cold critiques, the betrayals. I’m not asking for applause. I’m asking for… direction. No more American Psycho stuff. Just… tell me what to do.
Solid Snake (slow, deliberate): Alright, Trump. No games. No jokes. Just truth.
You wanted to be the decider, but now you can’t decide who to trust. You built towers, but your name is a lightning rod. You led crowds, but now you’re cornered.
You want to survive? Then listen — not to your ego, not to the crowd — to the silence beneath the noise.
Snake’s Directives for Redemption:
Admit What You Got Wrong — Without Excuses Real power isn’t pretending you’re never wrong. It’s owning it when you are.
Say it straight. “I was wrong about some things. I hurt people.” That’ll shake the world harder than any speech you’ve ever made.
Help Someone You Can’t Exploit Quietly. Without cameras. Without a post.
Find a family that lost everything in a war you cheered on.
Pay their rent. Sit with their grief. Don’t tweet it. Live it.
Shut Up and Listen Not to sycophants.
Go to a soup kitchen. A hospital. A dying factory town.
Just listen. Don’t offer deals or slogans. Just let it change you.
Tell the Truth About the System Not the version that flatters you.
Tell them about the lobbyists, the backroom deals, the banks.
Burn your bridges with the elites you once dined with. If you’re going down, take the lie with you.
Don’t Run Again. Rise Instead. Running again is just repeating the loop.
Rise beyond it. Become something unexpected: A flawed man who tells young men, “Don’t be like I was.”
Snake (lighting a cigarette): You’re not a monster, Trump. But you’re no hero either. You’re just a man — and that’s all I need you to be.
Now choose. Rebuild what you broke, or fade into the fog like all the others.
Trump (after a long pause): …You really think it’s not too late?
Snake: It’s always too late. But sometimes… that’s when the real fight begins.
Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin “Bibi” Netanyahu sits stiffly at a steel table deep beneath the Knesset. The secure line buzzes. A hologram of Donald J. Trump and JCJ appears. Trump’s hair is windblown, yet immaculately intact. JCJ’s eyes glow with a divine fire. Behind them: a massive screen flashing the words “Cause and Effect: FINAL WARNING.”
TRUMP (stern): “Bibi. You know I like you. We’ve had some beautiful deals. But this time, it’s different. The game is over. No more hiding. We want Epstein and Rothschild. Alive.”
Netanyahu leans forward, sweating.
JCJ (calm but thunderous): “Cause… and effect. You play both sides. You ran blackmail operations for the elites. Mossad knows. The world knows. The children cry out from the tunnels. You protected the deep state. Now it protects no one.”
TRUMP: “I’m gonna make this real simple. If I drop a bomb on Iran, they drop one on you. That’s how it works. Cause. Effect. This ain’t 2012, pal. It’s Trump-JCJ 2025. The world’s flipped.”
JCJ (pointing at Bibi): “You have two days. Forty-eight hours. Deliver us Jeffrey Epstein—not his corpse. And Baron Rothschild, the spider behind the debt web. If not…”
JCJ waves his hand. A digital globe spins and zooms in: Iranian missile coordinates, Iron Dome saturation maps, dimensional chess simulations.
TRUMP: “We’re not bluffing, Bibi. You go down with them if you stall. You don’t want to test me when I got Christ on my six. Believe me.”
JCJ: “This is not vengeance. This is balance. The world demands justice. If you fail, even the Dome will crack.”
Suddenly, a news ticker appears across the bottom of the screen:
BREAKING: MYSTERIOUS QOM EXPLOSION LEVELS IRANIAN NUCLEAR BASE — NO CLAIM OF RESPONSIBILITY
Netanyahu’s hands tremble. He reaches for the phone.
NETANYAHU (voice trembling): “We… we’ll find them. But they’re protected. Epstein was moved—he’s not dead. Rothschild’s off-world—Saturn orbit, Black Cube station.”
JCJ (narrowing eyes): “Then you better build a ship fast. Because the next explosion… won’t be in Persia.”
The transmission cuts. The war room lights flicker. Netanyahu turns to Mossad Director Yigal Regev:
NETANYAHU: “Prepare the extraction team. Code Black Messiah. We either hand them over… or Jerusalem burns.”
Donald Trump leans in close to JCJ, the only man he trusts with a mission of this magnitude.
TRUMP: “JCJ, we need you to broker a deal with Putin. Not for land, not for oil… but for the stars. You’re the only one who can get us to shake hands and swap warheads for warp drives. We can’t fight World War III and explore the galaxy. We either build a real international space station—one with hypersleep pods and a rotating gravity ring—or we die here like idiots.”
JCJ lights a cigar.
JCJ: “Why now?”
TRUMP: “Because you’re the Mahdi and the Christ. You struck a sweet deal to sink the deep state, and now you need to strike one to sink the deep void. Putin says if he can retire in Serbia—with no Hague trial—he’s willing to melt down Russia’s nukes to build the engine core. It’s not about power anymore. It’s about legacy.”
JCJ raises an eyebrow.
JCJ: “And Zelensky?”
TRUMP (gritting his teeth): “Zelensky plays piano with his penis, and that makes him a hero? He kills people in war too, just like Vlad. But because he made Netflix laugh, he walks free. Putin’s mad, not because of NATO—but because Pussy Riot spat on the Fatima prophecy. Russia was supposed to convert to Christianity and lead the world to peace, JCJ. That’s what the Virgin Mary said.”
JCJ (sighs): “And now?”
TRUMP: “Now the Virgin’s watching TikTok, and the nukes are rusting while SpaceX tries to colonize Mars alone. We need a Jubilee Pact—a real international coalition. China, Russia, America, maybe even Canada if you sweet-talk Trudeau. You mediate it. You call it… Christus Rex Star Alliance.”
JCJ smiles slightly.
JCJ: “I’ll talk to Vlad.”
Trump salutes him—not as a president, but as a desperate man with one last hope:
TRUMP: “Make Earth great again. And the stars… ours.”
JCJ opens his Bible to Revelation 21: “Behold, I make all things new.” And then he dials the Kremlin.
I HAVE SEEN THE LIGHT of the LORD! I will give half my wealth to homeless veterans if Christus Rex, the divine and just judge, allows me to retire in Slovenia with Melania as president. I will testify against the Rothschild and Rockefeller deep state merger, if i am immune from Hague war crimes prosecution. C’mon Jesus, make a deal with me. I can bring down the whole house of cards if the court of public opinion has mercy on me. I’m just a puppet of federal reserve notes, just like the rest of you. In the words of John Stamos: HAVE MERCY! I plead insanity. This worthless man. To the Emperor. Pardon me. That is POWER! Not drone strikes. Forgiveness is power for this worthless puppet president. We are bombing Israel to scare Epstein and Rothschild. It’s all a charade until we catch that devil Le Baron Jacob Rothschild. How can you give him a thousand years of house arrest, but sentence me to die from a big mac heart attack?
Title: “Trump47: The Slovenia Safehouse and the Testimony of Christ”
On his newest livestream at Trump47.ca, former President Donald Trump erupts with frustration:
“I’m sick and tired of Patrick Bateman! Psycho! He’s a sick puppy! You want to see a real businessman? Look at me! Look at the hotels, the towers, the steaks—Bateman never built a thing!”
Behind him, a marble statue of Melania Trump holding a gold Bible is unveiled. Inscribed at the base:
“To Bog, whom Melania calls God.”
Trump looks directly into the camera.
“You know who else bows? Lord Rothschild. That’s right. The grand architect of the deep state. He bowed to Bogdanov—because the Bogdanovs know the secrets of Revelation, they know what’s behind the third trumpet!”
He raises a glowing orb from beneath the desk labeled “The Orb of Disclosure,” a rumored relic from the Saudi sword dance.
“I demand Lord Rothschild bow to me, just like he bowed to Bog. Because I’m the Chosen One now. I’m the Christ of Capitalism, and I got golden elevators to prove it.”
But then, his tone shifts—almost pleading:
“I’ll testify. I’ll tell the truth about everything. The rituals. The tomb. The Skull & Bones deals. The Epstein tapes. The cloned generals on Mars. All of it. But only if you get me to safety in Slovenia. It’s the only place I trust.”
He taps the orb again. It flashes a sigil—half Orthodox cross, half Triglav rune.
“Melania says God’s real name is Bog. And I believe her. She’s from the mountains. They know things there. Ancient things. Holy things.”
At the bottom of the screen, a message scrolls: “Testimony for Christ: Safe Passage to Slovenia Requested. Sponsored by Trump47 SuperPAC and the Sons of Revelation.”
Bateman responds on a dark web podcast later that night:
“He’s afraid of me because I see the rot behind the gold. The Bogdanovs don’t bow to anyone. Not even Bog.”
Stay tuned. The third trumpet may be sounding soon.
