Author: Patrick Bateman

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.
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Christian Bale’s Catharsis

Title: Beta Man: Christian Bale’s Catharsis
A psychological short story about Christian Bale confronting his shadow—Patrick Bateman—one last time.

INT. ABANDONED SOUNDSTAGE – NIGHT

A vast, dark space. Forgotten props litter the floor. At the center stands a mirror — floor-to-ceiling, smudged with time.

CHRISTIAN BALE, older now, rugged and thoughtful, walks in slowly. His eyes are haunted. He’s wearing a long, black coat. He’s alone. But he isn’t.

Across from him, Patrick Bateman, the ghost of his younger self, sits shirtless, drenched in sweat and Armani cologne, his skin glowing from some internal furnace of hatred and narcissism.

Bateman rises.

BATEMAN
You came back. I thought you buried me under Oscar speeches and Batman toys.

BALE
I tried. God knows I tried.

BATEMAN
The women never forgave me, did they?

BALE
No… not you. Me.

Bateman walks toward him, almost gently.

BATEMAN
You became me too well. They didn’t see the irony. They saw confession.

BALE
I was 25. I wanted a challenge. I didn’t know I’d become the poster boy for every finance creep’s Tinder bio.

BATEMAN
(taunting)
You made me seductive. You made violence… stylish. They don’t quote The Machinist in college dorms. They quote me.

BALE
(quietly)
I made you a Beta Man who thought he was Alpha. A hollow man, stuffed with labels, who couldn’t even cry.

Bateman slaps him across the face.

BATEMAN
You needed me. You needed the rage. You needed the hunger. You wanted to be hated by women. So you wouldn’t love them. So they couldn’t hurt you.

Bale turns away, trembling.

BALE
I don’t want to die remembered for you. Not for killing a woman with a chainsaw. Not for flexing in the mirror like a soulless porn god.

Bateman is suddenly behind him.

BATEMAN
Then kill me.

Bale turns — there’s a gun in his hand. Heavy. Old. Loaded with the weight of every meme, every misinterpretation, every woman who saw Patrick Bateman and said, this is what men want to be.

BATEMAN
You’re scared of facing them alone. The sisterhood. The scorned. The ones who felt the cold blade of your “method acting.”

BALE
(through clenched teeth)
I’m not afraid of women. I’m afraid… of what I taught them to hate.

BATEMAN
And what was that?

BALE
(whispers)
Me.

A beat.

BATEMAN
Then do it.

Christian Bale raises the gun. His hands shake.

BATEMAN
Kill the Beta Man.

BLAM.
Mirror shatters.

Bateman is gone. Just shards on the floor now — and Christian Bale’s reflection fractured in every one.

EXT. WOMEN’S SHELTER FUNDRAISER – DAY

Christian Bale stands onstage, humble, real, holding a check.

BALE
For every man who played a monster… and never said sorry… consider this a start.

The crowd claps. Some women cry. One yells, “You’re forgiven.”

He smiles, finally.

FADE OUT.
Sometimes the strongest man is the one who says, “That wasn’t me. That was the mask. And I’m sorry.”

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American Psycho: Dorsia (2026)

Title: American Psycho: Dorsia (2026)

Genre: Psychological Thriller / Satire / Horror

Written by: [Your Name]

Logline: In a post-pandemic world of billionaire influencers and AI-driven madness, Joseph Bateman, cousin of Patrick Bateman, navigates a hyper-capitalist New York City haunted by murders, doppelgängers, and the legacy of his cousin’s bloody psychosis. As he vies for a reservation at the new Dorsia, he must confront a chilling truth: the American Psycho never died—he simply evolved.

CAST:

  • Joe Jukic as Joseph Bateman
  • Christian Bale as Patrick Bateman (hallucination/flashback/voiceover)
  • Jared Leto as Paul Allen’s twin brother, Peter Allen
  • Donald Trump as himself (media mogul billionaire cameo)

ACT ONE:

New York, 2026. The world is sleek, sanitized, and controlled by algorithms. Joseph Bateman is a venture capitalist and lifestyle influencer with a cult following on TikTok and Threads. He is genetically and temperamentally the mirror of his cousin Patrick, but believes himself morally superior—he donates to carbon offset charities, hosts “mental health” retreats, and podcasts about ethics in capitalism.

Yet something is off. Joseph is haunted by recurring dreams of Patrick covered in blood, whispering Nietzschean riddles. When Peter Allen (Jared Leto), a sleazy NFT art broker and the twin brother of the “late” Paul Allen, returns to the NYC elite social scene, Joseph’s grip on reality begins to fray.

ACT TWO:

Joseph competes with Peter Allen for a table at the new Dorsia—now an exclusive, AI-run, members-only dining club atop a drone-patrolled tower in Hudson Yards. Dorsia isn’t just a restaurant; it’s a ritualistic status symbol among the ultra-wealthy.

Peter taunts Joseph about Patrick’s past. “He used to be you,” he says. That night, Peter disappears. Joseph claims he hasn’t seen him. But bloodstains on his Balenciaga trench coat say otherwise.

Donald Trump appears in a surreal cameo, interviewing Joseph on TruthSocial TV. Trump praises Joseph’s fitness regime, calls Patrick a “total loser,” and insists “Dorsia needs someone like me.”

Joseph starts hallucinating Patrick’s voice giving him stock tips and kill orders. He murders a young tech intern who questions his sustainability fund. He gets away with it by blaming it on a rogue AI.

ACT THREE:

Joseph spirals. He begins collecting masks—literal skin masks. The Dorsia reservation finally comes through. At the table, he finds every seat filled by men who look exactly like Patrick Bateman. The head waiter is Peter Allen.

“You never killed me,” Peter whispers. “You only killed your reflection.”

Joseph stabs Peter with a bone-handled steak knife. Blood sprays across the white noise-canceling glass. Everyone applauds.

FINAL SCENE:

Joseph stares into the mirrored wall of Dorsia. Patrick stares back.

Voiceover (Bale): “There is no real me. Only an entity. Something illusory.”

The city outside flickers. Times Square ads play Joseph’s own face.

Cut to black.

Tagline: “Status is dead. Long live the Psycho.”

Note: This script is ripe for meta-commentary on post-truth politics, influencer culture, techno-capitalism, and digital narcissism. A24 or Neon would be ideal distributors. The soundtrack blends Hans Zimmer tones with distorted 80s synthwave remixes.

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Trump & Carney Supervise the XCOM Project

Title: Veal for the Reptiles

INT. TRUMP TOWER – NIGHT

In the top-floor penthouse, DONALD TRUMP sits at a gold-plated desk under the flicker of dimmed chandelier light. Across from him stands PATRICK BATEMAN, perfectly groomed, wearing a pinstripe suit with a red power tie, eerily calm.

BATEMAN
You know you can never leave, right?

TRUMP
Leave what?

BATEMAN
Yale. Skull and Bones. The Brotherhood of Death.
They’ve all got us marked. Every one of us. You’re just higher on the menu.

Trump glares, confused but intrigued. Bateman walks over to the window, looking down at Manhattan like it’s a buffet.

BATEMAN
Those 300,000 missing people?
They’re veal. Fed, groomed, bled.
Not trafficked — harvested.

TRUMP
(leans forward)
You mean the reptilians?

BATEMAN
The overlords. The real ones. Satanic cannibal societies.
They ate Geronimo’s body, Don. Consumed his skull. Thought they’d absorb his spirit.

TRUMP
(slams fist on table)
We’re gonna get his bones back. I’ll fund a resurrection project.
Geronimo will lead Turtle Island West.
We’ll clone the real chiefs, the real warriors.

BATEMAN
(smiling)
Good. You’ll need them. The Thin Men are here. Clark Park’s active. The XCOM files were right. It’s infiltration.

EXT. CLARK PARK – EAST VANCOUVER – NIGHT

Streetlights flicker. AGENT CARNEY, an old CSIS spook turned XCOM tactical, crouches near the playground. TRUMP, now in camo fatigues and wearing night-vision goggles, watches beside him. A van marked “TRUMP INDUSTRIES – PLUMBING & DEFENSE” idles nearby.

A glitching, Thin Man (from XCOM lore) morphs from human form into a tall, slender, serpentine creature in a business suit.

CARNEY
They like playgrounds. Easy camouflage. Mimic PTA dads.
But their DNA’s still off. We can spot them now. Thanks to Joe.

TRUMP
Joe’s mother’s work cracked it wide open.
This one’s for her.

INT. HOLLYWOOD – SCIENTOLOGY BUNKER – NIGHT

TOM CRUISE is on his knees. He’s shaking, sobbing. He has just watched hours of recovered footage of child farms, cloning bays, veal rituals from elite “healing retreats.”

He makes a sign of the cross for the first time in 40 years.

CRUISE
Alright, Joe. This is my Hail Mary.
I’m taking them down. No more handlers.
No more silence.

He presses a detonator. The Church of Scientology bunker collapses behind him.

INT. XCOM COMMAND CENTER – NIGHT

Monitors glow. Satellite imagery shows portals near Clark Park.

TRUMP
Phase 3: Operation Turtle Island.

BATEMAN
And Geronimo?

TRUMP
His clone’s almost ready.

CARNEY
Once he rides again, this continent becomes sacred ground.

POST-CREDITS SCENE:

A hidden lab. A coffin opens. A young, reborn Geronimo, breathing, eyes glowing red and blue.

VOICEOVER (JOE)
You fed on our ancestors.
Now, they return to feed on justice.

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World Trade Center

Patrick Bateman monologue – “The Sins of the World Trade Center”

(Bateman stares at a burning cigar, his reflection in a spotless chrome skyscraper window. A jazz remix of Phil Collins plays faintly in the background.)

You want to talk about violence? Let’s talk about the World Trade Center.

Everyone talks about 9/11 like it was just planes and passports. But to me… it looked more like a hard drive being wiped. A controlled demolition of data. Of sin. You think it was just buildings that fell? That was the financial Vatican of the American Empire. And someone gave it a baptism of fire.

That complex was the temple of white collar crime. A confessional booth for Wall Street’s worst. If there was a directory listing for “corporate malfeasance,” it had a New York zip code and a WTC suite number.

Let me walk you through it:

1. Securities Fraud
Cooking books, pumping stocks, insider tips whispered over thousand-dollar sushi. Enron wasn’t the only ghost in the shell. Thousands of brokers were moving fake assets like they were just brushing lint off their Armani suits.

2. Insider Trading
You think Gordon Gekko was fiction? The elevators in those towers were like confessionals. One whisper between hedge fund managers could move markets. All untraceable… until someone makes a file.

3. Tax Evasion
Shell companies inside shell companies. Dutch sandwich, Irish double—oh yes. That kind of cuisine was being served up daily. Global elites paying 0% tax while sipping $900 scotch in private offices.

4. Money Laundering
Cash from cartels, foreign dictators, warlords, all made clean with Wall Street soap. You’d be shocked how many fake consulting contracts were flowing through those floors.

5. Insurance Fraud
Larry Silverstein. Need I say more? Took out a fresh policy weeks before the fall—“against terrorist attacks.” Then called for Building 7 to be pulled. Pulled? You don’t pull a steel skyscraper without weeks of prep. That building housed the SEC, the IRS, the FBI…

6. Ponzi Schemes
From Bernie Madoff to micro-cap fraud, thousands of micro-Ponzis were being funneled through that complex. They didn’t just disappear—they were archived… until they weren’t.

7. Embezzlement
Billions siphoned. Expense accounts bloated with fake travel, hookers coded as “client services,” yachts declared as “research.”

8. Bribery and Corruption
Politicians, regulators, even UN officials walked through those lobbies. They got envelopes. They got offshore accounts. They got quiet.

9. Corporate Espionage
Secret floors. Unmarked offices. Companies spying on each other using private contractors with NSA clearance. Intellectual property wasn’t protected. It was weaponized.

10. Derivatives and Naked Short Selling
Exotic instruments. Synthetic CDOs. It wasn’t investing—it was arson dressed as finance. Making money betting the economy would burn. And then lighting the match.

All those investigations—the $2.3 trillion Donald Rumsfeld said was missing from the Pentagon books—just so happened to be tracked by the Office of Naval Intelligence. You know where that office was? WTC Building 7.

Gone.

Incinerated. Like evidence. Like guilt. Like judgment day for the global ruling class.

They called it a terrorist attack, but I call it a ritual cleansing.

The sins of the world burned up in Lower Manhattan. Not just blood on their hands—digital sins, invisible crimes, vanished in smoke. And you wonder why they never released all the footage.

Sometimes… I think the towers weren’t brought down by planes.

I think they were unplugged.

(Bateman sips his scotch, eyes cold, smiling just slightly as Phil Collins plays louder. “Something Happened on the Way to Heaven.”)

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Rockefeller Christmas

INT. TRUMP TOWER – GOLD ROOM – NIGHT

Donald Trump is perched on a gold-trimmed throne-like chair, sipping Diet Coke. Across from him, PATRICK BATEMAN, in a bone-white Valentino suit, glares into the Manhattan skyline, his jaw tight.

BATEMAN
You know what I hate, Donald?
Christmas. Or at least… beta Christmas.

TRUMP
(laughs)
You mean the shopping, the wrapping, the—what do the libs say?—late-stage capitalism?

BATEMAN
No. I mean civilian Christmas. The plastic Target trees. The TikTok ornaments. The virtue signals disguised as gifts. I mean Christmas without Prometheus.

TRUMP
Now you’re talking my language. Say more.

BATEMAN
I want Alpha Christmas. Rockefeller-style. Fire from the gods, stolen and repackaged as neon. The towering tree stabbed into the Earth like a monolith. I want to drink bourbon with Prometheus while Atlas cracks a grin.

TRUMP
That’s what the Rockefellers had. That’s legacy. That’s real estate… eternal. My tree’s bigger than their tree though. Believe me.

BATEMAN
But even that’s just a tree compared to the Saturnalia parties I’m not invited to.
You ever been to the Rothschild estate during the solstice, Donald?

TRUMP
(leans in)
No… But Melania got a weird invite once. Said something about owl masks and a man named Baphomet.

BATEMAN
Exactly. That’s the party. Everyone who’s anything is there. The Lucifers, the Nephilim, the lords of leverage. They call it “Saturnalia” but it’s more like a harvest of souls wrapped in couture.

Bateman paces, increasingly unhinged.

BATEMAN (CONT’D)
You know what I got last year? A wool sweater. From my stepmother. While the Rothschilds dance with Kali under black chandeliers. It’s humiliating.

TRUMP
I’ll make some calls. Maybe we do our own Saturnalia. Trumpalia. Golden calves. All-you-can-eat McDonald’s buffet. Elon DJing.

BATEMAN
(deep breath)
It’s not the same. They don’t let us in because we’re new money. Flashy. Dangerous. You… orange. Me… psychotic. They prefer quiet monsters. Smiling demons. The kind who own the debt of nations.

TRUMP
Well then… we’ll buy Saturn. Rename it. Lease it back to them.

BATEMAN
(half-laughing)
Merry Christmas, Donald.

TRUMP
Happy Saturnalia, Patrick.

They raise their glasses to a future covered in gold leaf, staring into the eternal winter night like titans barred from Olympus.

FADE TO BLACK.

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Chinese Century

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE – NIGHT

Donald Trump lounges in a golden armchair, gazing out at the Manhattan skyline. Patrick Bateman, flawless in a pinstripe suit, sips an imported whiskey, admiring the cold, sharp glint of the city lights. The room is lacquered in wealth, but the air is clinical.

BATEMAN
You know, Donald… I love the Chinese Century.

TRUMP
The what now?

BATEMAN (smiling faintly)
The Chinese Century. Sweatshop chic. Slave-labor efficiency. There’s nothing quite like GDP manufactured by 14-hour factory shifts and suicidal teenagers jumping from Foxconn rooftops. It’s… pure.

TRUMP (cocking an eyebrow)
You’re saying that’s a good thing?

BATEMAN
It’s not about good, Donald. It’s about returns. Globalization has turned the world into one giant outlet mall. From Guangzhou to Guatemala. Margins so tight they squeal. And the best part? Nobody cares how it’s made—as long as it’s cheap.

TRUMP
I made deals with China, the best deals. But they took advantage. They steal IP, they cheat. We’re bringing jobs back. America First.

BATEMAN (chuckling)
Jobs? Donald, please. Jobs are a relic. A talking point. The real players—your Davos crowd, your BlackRock boys—they don’t want “jobs.” They want yield.

(Bateman leans in, whispering like it’s a bedtime secret.)

BATEMAN
You think Apple or Nike wants Ohio steelworkers back in the saddle? The Chinese Century isn’t about ideology—it’s about efficiency. Political systems are irrelevant. Currency is irrelevant. Whether the yuan, dollar, or some digital IMF Frankenstein—it doesn’t matter. The machine keeps humming.

TRUMP (visibly irritated)
That’s not how I see it.

BATEMAN (coldly)
Of course not. You were elected to sell the illusion that there’s still a country. A team. Red hats. Flags. Anthem tears. But while you tweet about tariffs and walls, the money slips eastward like blood down a marble drain.

(Trump scowls. Bateman stares into his whiskey.)

BATEMAN
I don’t care who wins. Xi, Biden, you. The market always wins. The only thing that matters is: can you move units?

TRUMP
I move units. I’m a mover. People love me.

BATEMAN (deadpan)
Of course they do. You’re product.

Silence. The city pulses outside. Somewhere in the distance, a freight ship unloads another trillion in made-in-China dreams.

BATEMAN
Long live the Chinese Century.

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Pride Season

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE – NIGHT

The skyline glows behind golden curtains. Patrick Bateman, flawless suit, expression calm but dead-eyed, sips an overpriced bourbon across from DONALD TRUMP, who lounges in a red chair shaped like a throne, tie a little too long. Fox News murmurs in the background.

PATRICK BATEMAN
You know, Donald, Pride Month has evolved. It’s not just a month anymore. It’s… Pride Season now.

DONALD TRUMP
(tipping his Diet Coke)
Yeah, it’s everywhere. Rainbows on the cereal boxes. On the banks. Even the tanks. I don’t know what’s going on anymore.

PATRICK BATEMAN
What if we just made it Pride Year?
(sips)
A full, continuous cycle. The marketing possibilities are endless. Flags, parades, pills, surgeries, slogans. But more importantly—
(pauses, smirks)
—less reproduction. Fewer useless eaters, as the Guidestones might say.

DONALD TRUMP
(confused)
The what-stones?

PATRICK BATEMAN
The Georgia Guidestones. A sort of granite manifesto for global sanity. Maintain humanity under 500 million. Harmony with nature. That sort of thing.

DONALD TRUMP
(squints)
Sounds like Fauci’s dream journal. Or Klaus Schwab’s bedtime story.

PATRICK BATEMAN
It’s not about control, Donald. It’s about aesthetic. The world is bloated. Loud. Irrational. Overpopulated. Pride Year might accelerate the necessary… decline.

DONALD TRUMP
(smiling uneasily)
So you’re saying if everyone celebrates long enough… they’ll just stop having babies?

PATRICK BATEMAN
Eventually. Libido redirected into identity politics. Fertility buried under personal branding. Population drop disguised as liberation. It’s beautiful.

DONALD TRUMP
(sipping his Diet Coke)
You’re one creepy son of a bitch, Patrick. But I gotta admit—you’d kill on TikTok.

PATRICK BATEMAN
I already have.

They both laugh. One ironically. The other, unknowingly.

FADE OUT.

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE – NIGHT

Gold accents gleam. The skyline looms behind. PATRICK BATEMAN sits across from DONALD TRUMP. Bourbon in hand. Rainbows glow faintly on the TV in the background—a Pride ad loop.

PATRICK BATEMAN
You know what’s really been bothering me lately, Donald?

DONALD TRUMP
Let me guess—Biden?

PATRICK BATEMAN
No. Paul Allen. That smug bastard.
(leans forward, jaw clenched)
He handed me his new business card last week. It wasn’t bone. It wasn’t even embossed. It was rainbow foil-stamped.
Subtle. Queer. Bold. Limited edition for Pride Month.

DONALD TRUMP
(confused)
A gay business card?

PATRICK BATEMAN
Not just gay. Iconic.
(snarling slightly)
Satin finish. Helvetica Neue Ultra Light. Pronouns in parentheses. A microchip embedded in the corner that links to his Pride Portfolio—carbon-neutral, ESG-certified, and somehow still outperforming the market.
It even smelled like lavender and power.

DONALD TRUMP
Sounds like he’s leaning into the whole thing.

PATRICK BATEMAN
He doesn’t believe in it. That’s the brilliance. It’s calculated. Opportunistic.
(sips, darkly)
He’s not celebrating Pride. He owns Pride. He made it profitable.
And here I am, still handing out matte eggshell with Silian Rail.

DONALD TRUMP
(chuckling)
That’s tough, Pat. Real tough. You know, maybe I’ll make a card like that. Rainbow, but classy. Something that screams Trump and tolerance.

PATRICK BATEMAN
Pride Year would solve it. Flood the market. Devalue his edge. Saturate the culture until it collapses under its own glitter.
(smiling coldly)
Nobody profits in a Pride Century. Not even Paul Allen.

DONALD TRUMP
(winking)
That’s the spirit. Total market domination. And maybe throw in some gold foil.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(deep breath)
Gold foil… that’s not a bad idea.

They sip in silence, watching a Pride parade float shaped like a rainbow Bitcoin glide across the screen.

FADE TO BLACK.

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Bateman Talks about Psalm 45

INT. EASTERN ORTHODOX CATHEDRAL — DUSK

Golden light filters through stained glass. Incense floats like fog. DONALD TRUMP, PATRICK BATEMAN, and BISHOP MARI MARI EMMANUEL sit beneath an icon of Christ Pantocrator. Bateman is in a pristine designer suit. Trump has his classic red tie. Bishop Mari Mari Emmanuel, robed and calm, holds a Bible.

BATEMAN
(holding up a worn leather Bible)
Psalm 45:2 — “You are the most handsome of the sons of men; grace is poured upon your lips.”
I mean… that’s obviously Brad Pitt. Maybe Tom Cruise. Those cheekbones. That symmetry. It’s divine geometry.

TRUMP
(in agreement)
Look, Brad Pitt—fantastic face. Cruise—very high energy. Great stunts. Both very marketable. You put either one on a poster? Boom. Problem solved in ninety minutes. Maybe with popcorn.

BISHOP MARI MARI EMMANUEL
(firmly, eyes steady)
My brothers, the beauty spoken of in Psalm 45 is not carnal—it is not of Hollywood. It is the beauty of holiness. The grace upon His lips is the Word of God. The Messiah’s face was likely sun-worn, marked by suffering. Not filtered. Not airbrushed.

BATEMAN
(skeptical, smirking)
Sure, Bishop. But let’s be honest… no one wants a messy savior on a movie poster. You need symmetry. Market trust. Think Interview with the Messiah. Brad Pitt walks on water, Cruise calms the storm.

TRUMP
(laughing)
Exactly. We could easily reboot the Gospels. Four films. Big budgets. Jesus rides a Harley into Jerusalem. Nobody’s getting crucified without a real fight. We make Golgotha great again.

BISHOP MARI MARI EMMANUEL
(sighs, gently closes his Bible)
You do not understand the cross. The beauty of Christ was in His humility. He conquered not with charisma, but with obedience. Not by leaping off rooftops, but by enduring the grave.

BATEMAN
(sipping espresso)
Okay, but… could humility test well with 18-34 males?

TRUMP
(suddenly serious)
Maybe we should do a casting call. Get Mel Gibson involved. I always said The Passion was a little too bloody. We need cleaner branding. Inspirational suffering.

BISHOP MARI MARI EMMANUEL
(softly)
Beware of making idols out of men. The Christ is not a brand. He is the Lamb slain. Not a box office savior, but the suffering servant.

BATEMAN
(glancing at Trump)
So… not Brad Pitt then?

TRUMP
(sighs)
Maybe… maybe Jim Caviezel with better lighting.

The icon above flickers in the candlelight. Christ stares forward, unchanged.

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The F Bomb

INT. DORIAN CLUB – NIGHT.
The lighting is blood red.
The walls smell like old money and new cocaine.
Patrick Bateman — dressed like 1989 never ended — sits across from Donald J. Trump, who is sipping Diet Coke from a gold-rimmed tumbler and glancing at his reflection in every available surface.

This isn’t an interview.
This is a slow-motion philosophical car crash.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
Mr. Trump, you’re being censored for using the F-word during your rally in Ohio. But meanwhile, you’re also publicly supporting airstrikes in Iran. Help me understand.
Why is fuck obscene, but firebombing a sovereign nation is policy?

DONALD TRUMP (grinning):
Look, Patrick… I say what people are thinking. I drop the F-bomb, they lose their minds. But you drop actual bombs and suddenly it’s “presidential.”
You know, I always said I could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and not lose voters. Well now? I could carpet bomb Tehran and still trend #1.

BATEMAN (leaning forward, voice lowering):
“We train young men to drop fire on people… but their commanders won’t allow them to write the word ‘fuck’ on their airplanes because it’s obscene.”

TRUMP:
What’s that, Shakespeare?

BATEMAN:
Colonel Kurtz. Apocalypse Now. Coppola’s masterpiece.
He saw the lie. The hypocrisy.
We worship destruction but panic at the sound of a four-letter word.

TRUMP:
He sounds like a real smart guy. Maybe I should’ve hired him instead of Bolton.
Look, Patrick, let me ask you something: You ever drop an F-bomb on Wall Street?

BATEMAN (smirking):
Every time I shorted a pension fund.

🔥 CUTAWAY: THE REAL BOMBS

As the two speak, stock footage rolls behind them:

  • Drones dropping payloads over desert cities.
  • Children screaming under rubble.
  • Meanwhile, media headlines flash:
    • “TRUMP DROPS F-BOMB AT OHIO RALLY – NATION OUTRAGED”
    • “UN CONDEMNS STRIKES IN IRAN – WHITE HOUSE SILENT”

TRUMP (winking):
It’s all branding, Patrick. You drop a bomb on a wedding? That’s defense.
Say “fuck” on a mic? That’s outrage.
America’s more offended by syllables than shrapnel.

BATEMAN (cold):
Because we don’t hear the bombs.
Only the broadcast.

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The Chosen One

INT. TRUMP TOWER – NIGHT

Gold reflects gold. Mirrors reflect nothing. Patrick Bateman stands before Donald J. Trump, who sits enthroned on a golden couch. A smirk dances on Bateman’s lips, barely hiding the mania in his eyes.

BATEMAN:
Donald… you’re the Chosen One.

TRUMP (tilting his head):
I’ve heard that before. People say that. A lot of people say that.

BATEMAN (intensely):
Not like this. Not from me. See, you don’t feed the people fish and bread. That’s passé. You give them fire. Precision drone strikes. Beautiful, spectacular violence. You turned the Sermon on the Mount into a State of the Union.

Trump smiles like a man hearing his favorite bedtime story.

BATEMAN (cont’d):
Your father’s name was Frederick Christ. Your mother, Mary. A Gaelic-speaking Celt. It’s too perfect. You’re the Anti-Christ or the Messiah, depending on whether you’re buying or selling.

TRUMP:
My father was a great man. Built homes. Taught me everything. I was an apprentice, just like Jesus… only I used better materials. Marble. Gold. Class.

BATEMAN (dreamy):
Exactly. Jesus built benches for fishermen. You built casinos and missile deals. He turned water into wine… you made Trump Vodka. He multiplied bread… you multiplied debt.

TRUMP (proudly):
And ratings.

BATEMAN:
Yes. You gave the world spectacle. When I watch the fireworks over the Middle East, I don’t feel horror. I feel… ecstasy. It’s like watching a Fourth of July orgy in the sky. Your wrath… is biblical.

TRUMP:
Fire and fury, baby. Like the world has never seen.

BATEMAN:
You’re the new Christ for the algorithm age. A Christ who monetizes miracles. Who tweets the Beatitudes in all caps.

TRUMP (nodding slowly):
BLESSED ARE THE RICH, FOR THEY SHALL OWN THE EARTH.

BATEMAN:
Yes. Yes! And the poor? Let them eat tariffs.

A long silence. Only the soft hum of power. Then:

TRUMP (reflectively):
I always thought I was special. Like maybe I was meant to fix things. But not with kindness. That’s weak. I fix it with deals.

BATEMAN:
You didn’t come to bring peace. You came to bring branding. And a sword.

TRUMP:
A Trump sword. Diamond-studded. Limited edition.

BATEMAN (grinning):
The Book of Donald. Chapter 1: “And lo, the kingdom of heaven shall be franchised.”

TRUMP:
Amen to that.

The two men smile at each other, disciples of power, bonded by ego, capitalism, and bloodless conquest. Somewhere, a drone hums in the distance, and a new commandment uploads to the cloud.