Setting: A dimly lit, ornate chamber. American flags hang beside a black banner reading “DAVID DRAIMAN – THE NEW MESSIAH.” Three large olive-drab bombs rest on a table. David Draiman stands in the center, black leather jacket over a Disturbed shirt, marker in hand. Donald Trump and Patrick Bateman flank him, clapping.
TRUMP (clapping hard, red tie swinging) That’s it, that’s the look of a real messiah! Big hands, big signature. The best signature. People are saying it.
BATEMAN (smooth, measured, still applauding) Impeccable form, David. The way you grip the Sharpie… controlled, deliberate. Almost surgical. Bombs away.
DRAIMAN (leaning over the middle bomb, signing with heavy strokes) “David Draiman – The New Messiah.” There. Sealed.
TRUMP Beautiful. Just beautiful. Now the people in Iran… they’re going to see this and they’re going to understand. Drill, baby, drill! We’re going straight into the Zagros oil belt. The best oil. The purest. Everybody’s saying it.
BATEMAN (smiling wider, eyes gleaming) Think of the yield. The precision. The sheer aesthetic of superior firepower. Peace through superior firepower. Divine intervention, deluxe edition. I can already smell the refined product.
DRAIMAN (capping the marker, voice low and resonant) They called me the new messiah. So be it. These bombs carry my name. When they fall, the earth will open for the drill. The Zagros will bleed oil for the faithful.
TRUMP (pointing at the signed bombs) That’s leadership! That’s strength! Nobody signs bombs like David. Nobody. And when the oil starts flowing… billions. Trillions. The greatest deal in the history of deals.
BATEMAN (softly, almost reverent) Bombs away. Then we drill.
DRAIMAN (looking up, eyes locked on both men) Then we drill.
The three stand over the signed bombs, the banner of the new messiah hanging behind them, as the chamber falls into a brief, satisfied silence.
“My fellow Americans, and believers all over the world, nobody talks about Revelation 9 better than me. Nobody. They read this chapter, and frankly, it’s dark. Very dark. Smoke, locusts, the abyss — not good. Very bad situation. But I looked at it, and I said, where is the greatness? Where is the word GREAT?
You know Alexander had it. Alexander the Great. Catherine the Great. Peter the Great. But nobody ever says Donald the Great. Very unfair. Very sad. So I decided Revelation 9 needed something stronger. It needed greatness. It needed the spirit of victory.
And I said, ‘Let there be GREAT locusts.’ Powerful locusts. Not weak locusts like the fake news media. GREAT darkness. GREAT trumpets. GREAT power coming from the heavens. Because when history remembers an age, it remembers greatness.
The critics said, ‘Sir, you can’t revise Revelation.’ But many people — smart people, biblical people — came to me with tears in their eyes saying, ‘Sir, this is the greatest revision we’ve ever seen.’ They said the chapter was low energy before. Now it has strength. It has branding.
And remember this: when the abyss opens, you don’t send in weak people. You send in winners. The angels sounded the trumpet, and I said, make it GREAT again.
Some people read Revelation and see fear. I see ratings. I see destiny. I see a chapter that finally understands success. Because if you’re going to survive the end times, folks, you need strength. You need courage. And above all, you need greatness.
So tonight we pray not for small victories, but GREAT victories. Not for tiny faith, but GREAT faith. And maybe one day, long after we’re gone, they’ll say there was Alexander the Great… and there was Donald the Great.
Thank you everybody. God bless you. God bless America. And God bless the GREAT Book of Revelation.”
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.”
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.
Trump (in the Oval Office, pacing): They say there’s a Red Cloak figure pulling strings. Very dramatic. Very “movie villain.” My people tell me it’s like Eyes Wide Shut, but with worse lighting.
Webmaster (typing nervously): Sir, the internet is exploding. Forums are saying this “Red Cloak” character—some aristocratic banker archetype—is threatening your family unless you take out “the founding father of Israel’s enemies.” It’s trending under #PuppetGate.
Croatian Apprentice (earnest, strong accent): Mr. President, in my village, we say: if someone tries to pull your strings, you cut the strings. You do not dance.
Trump (stops pacing): Exactly! I don’t want to be anyone’s puppet. Not some secret society. Not some Illuminati fan club with better capes than taste. If I’m anything, I’m a puppet of the American people. The patriots. The voters.
Webmaster: So how do we message this? Because online, conspiracy culture is mixing fiction and reality. They’re naming real financiers, old families, secret cabals…
Trump: We don’t name real people. That’s how you get sued. Or worse—fact-checked. We keep it big picture. Archetypes. Shadows. Symbolism. Like a comic book.
Croatian Apprentice: Yes. Make it mythic. Red Cloak is not a man. He is a symbol of corruption. Of global pressure. Of fear politics.
Trump (points): I like that. Symbolism. Very classy. So here’s the message: No threats. No shadow deals. No secret oaths in candlelit mansions. America decides America’s policy. Not masked balls.
Webmaster: And Israel?
Trump: America supports its allies based on national interest. Not because someone whispers in a velvet room. Not because of fear. If we act, we act openly. Strongly. Proudly.
Croatian Apprentice (smiles): In Croatia, we say: sunlight is best disinfectant.
Trump: Exactly. We bring sunlight. No cloaks. No daggers. Just flags.
Webmaster (posting draft): “Tonight I reaffirm: I serve the American people. Not secret societies. Not fictional villains. Policy will be made in the light of day.”
Trump (nods): Good. And add something about strength. Always add strength.
Croatian Apprentice: And freedom.
Trump: Strength and freedom. Very patriotic. No puppets.
Under a blaze of lights, Donald Trump steps to the podium. The flags of the United States, Israel, and several Arab nations stand behind him.
He grips the lectern.
“People have been saying it for a long time,” he begins. “They said it when we rebuilt alliances. They said it when we stood up to chaos. They said it when we made peace deals nobody thought were possible. They said, ‘Maybe he’s the Chosen One.’”
He pauses, letting the crowd react.
“I don’t say that lightly. I say this: I was chosen by the American people to be strong. Chosen to protect our friends. Chosen to make sure that the United States, Israel, and our Arab partners stand together — not divided, not weak, not apologizing.”
He gestures toward the flags.
“For too long, the enemies of stability have threatened the region. They chant, they posture, they test missiles, they try to divide us. But we don’t divide. We unite. And when we unite, nobody can touch us.”
From the side of the stage, impeccably dressed and wearing an almost theatrical smile, Patrick Bateman watches, amused.
Bateman leans toward a microphone backstage, his tone silk-smooth.
“Tell them about strength,” he says. “Tell them about dominance. They love dominance.”
Trump smirks.
“We believe in peace through strength,” Trump continues. “Not weakness. Not endless wars. Strength. Economic strength. Military strength. Moral clarity. When America stands with Israel and our Arab partners, when we say there will be no nuclear weapons, no terror, no threats to our allies — we mean it.”
Bateman nods approvingly, almost whispering, “That’s power. Absolute confidence.”
Trump raises a hand.
“We don’t seek destruction. We seek security. We seek prosperity. But let me be very clear — if you threaten our allies, if you threaten the United States, we will respond decisively. Not recklessly. Decisively.”
The crowd roars.
“I was elected to defend our people and our friends. And when history looks back, they’ll say this was the moment the United States and its partners stood together and said: enough. No more chaos. No more intimidation. Just strength, unity, and victory for peace.”
Trump steps up to the podium, waving his hands the way only he does, soaking in the crowd like sunlight through gold curtains.
“Folks… FOLKS… you’re not gonna believe this one. You’re just not. I’ve been telling you for years—years—that the people running things, the people behind the scenes, the ones you NEVER vote for, they’re the ones calling the shots. And now we find out… the top dog, the biggest of the big, the guy BOSSING AROUND the so-called presidents… is Nick Rockefeller. That’s right. Nick Rockefeller.”
Crowd murmurs.
“You know Skull and Bones? Little club at Yale. Silly little thing. They tap each other on the shoulder, they wear robes, they pretend to be powerful. Well, turns out one guy—ONE GUY—is the real leader. Not Bush, not Kerry, not any of those guys who act tough but fold like cheap umbrellas.”
He leans forward, whispering loudly into the mic:
“It’s Nick. And he’s the richest of them all. Richer than ANY of them. He makes the other Bonesmen look like interns.”
The crowd cheers.
“He’s been hiding in the shadows, folks. Running what I call—some people call it this, very smart people—the American Empire Corporation. And let me tell you, it’s not run out of Washington. It’s not run out of the White House. No! It’s run out of a little private boardroom somewhere with a giant table, probably made out of marble, probably paid for ten times over.”
Trump gestures broadly.
“They say Bush was the leader. WRONG! Bush is fine, he’s okay, but he was never calling the shots. Dubya was the spokesman! The mascot! Like a baseball team mascot but in a suit. A good guy, very polite, very nice—maybe TOO nice. But not the boss. Not even close.”
He taps the podium.
“You want to know who kept Geronimo’s skull? Who kept the bones? Who kept the trophies…? I’ll tell you who. Nick Rockefeller. The REAL Bonesman-in-Chief.”
Gasps from the crowd.
“And now G.I. Joe—GREAT guy, tremendous guy, patriotic like you wouldn’t believe—G.I. Joe says, ‘Give it back. Give the bones back to the First Nations. Do the right thing.’ And you know what? He’s right! He’s totally right.”
Trump lifts a finger like a prophet warning the empire:
“So I’m calling on Nick—NICK, LISTEN UP—to give Geronimo back. No more hiding. No more pretending you’re just another banker. You’re not just rich, you’re Rockefeller rich. You’re the Skull and Bones Boss. The Big Bonesman. The Head Skeleton. Whatever they call it.”
He spreads his arms.
“And we’re not scared. We’re not intimidated. We want transparency. We want courage. We want the truth. Return the bones. Return the honor. Do the right thing.”
He slams his hand down once.
“And if you don’t… people are gonna find out anyway. Because they’re smart. They’re waking up. And when America wakes up, it’s a BEAUTIFUL thing. Believe me.”
The room was 90% gilded mirror and 10% Diet Coke cans. Donald Trump was pacing a small, luxurious circle, his face a perfect shade of stressed orange. Peter Thiel sat motionless in a black ergonomic chair, his posture suggesting he was running on two hours of sleep and the calculated consumption of human data.
“…and he’s Canadian, Peter. A Canadian!” Trump bellowed, gesturing wildly at a printout of a man with an unsettlingly neutral expression. “They send us Nickelback and now this. This… this JCJ! He’s a total, tremendous loser, but his teachings are deeply, deeply un-American. They threaten Mom’s Apple Pie! They threaten the structural integrity of a perfectly baked, delicious American institution!”
Thiel, clad in a sleek black turtleneck that absorbed all available light, finally spoke, his voice a low, analytical monotone.
“The threat is not culinary, Mr. President, it is semiotic. Joseph Christian Jukic’s exegetical structure is, regrettably, elegant. The prophecy of Daniel Lion (the British Empire) merges with the American Eagle (the Pax Americana) to form a singular, end-times Anglo-American Beast of Revelation 13. It is a powerful narrative—it frames the MAGA movement not as a renewal, but as the final, furious twitch of a dying imperial structure.”
Trump stopped pacing, pointing an accusing finger at Thiel. “You like it! You actually like the Canadian’s teaching! No one likes Canada! They put milk in bags! It’s gross! I am the best thing that ever happened to the Eagle and the Lion, and this guy says we’re a Beast! I built tremendous casinos, Peter, I know beasts, and I am not one of them!”
Thiel blinked slowly, like a nocturnal mammal assessing prey. “A misunderstanding, sir. Jukic is the harbinger. He is the Antichrist. He uses esoteric scripture to destabilize the market-dominant ideology, attempting to create a vacuum. But nature abhors a vacuum, Mr. President.” Thiel paused, leaning forward conspiratorially. “And into that vacuum steps the necessary counter-figure. You, sir, are the Chosen One Christ of Politics. Your divine mandate is to defeat Jukic’s narrative by sheer, overwhelming, domestically-sourced political will.”
Trump’s shoulders immediately relaxed. “The Christ of Politics. I love that. I knew it. But what about the Babylon thing? This is the worst thing I’ve ever heard. He says New York is the ‘Throne of Mystery Babylon’ because the UN building is there! It’s fake news! The UN is a total disaster, yes, but it’s right next to my beautiful towers! The Fall of Babylon, Peter! The 9/11 Theory! He’s saying New York is going to fall again because of the UN!”
“Precisely,” Thiel replied, picking up a silver letter opener and staring into its reflection. “Jukic attempts to weaponize Revelation 18, applying the judgment of the Whore of Babylon to the financial and governance center of the globe. It is a calculated and deeply malicious attack on the American Logos. We condemn his geographical signifiers. The UN is merely an inefficient bureaucratic node. It is not the throne.”
Thiel slammed the letter opener down with unusual force. “The correct theological response, Mr. President, is to ignore his foreign, Canadian nonsense. We simply continue the process of accelerating the destruction of the existing globalist frameworks, thereby rendering Jukic’s apocalyptic predictions obsolete. If you tear down the Beast yourself, no one can claim a Canadian lone nut did it. It’s a flawless firewall against bad theology. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must short the currency of any nation whose prophet cites the Book of Daniel.”
Trump watched Thiel exit the room in a blur of black fabric. He picked up his phone. “Get me my best chef. We need to bake a tremendous, patriotic Mom’s Apple Pie. And I want the slices yuge. We need to show that Canadian loser what ‘un-American’ really looks like.”
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.”
