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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Macron Handshake

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.

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Ivana Trump

INT. TRUMP TOWER – NIGHT

Marble floors gleam. Gold everywhere. A painting of Donald Trump hangs above the fireplace like Caesar in Manhattan. Patrick Bateman sips from a crystal tumbler of 30-year-old Macallan. Donald Trump paces proudly, showing off his skyscraper like a man introducing his kingdom. The conversation drifts to ghosts of the past.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(smirking, sharp in Valentino)
You know, Donald, I always admired Ivana. She had… edge. Czech frost. The kind of cold beauty you could carve diamonds on.

DONALD TRUMP
(stops, eyes sparkle with nostalgia and a little disdain)
Ivana? Tremendous woman. Tremendous. Very strong. She could run a hotel better than most men I knew. But she wanted to be… in charge. And I don’t like being second place. Ever.

PATRICK BATEMAN
Of course not. Alpha to the bone. She had that Eastern Bloc toughness. Like she could have survived a Gulag… or run one.

DONALD TRUMP
Exactly! That’s what I used to say. “Ivana, you should be running Czechoslovakia.” I gave her the Plaza, let her run Atlantic City for a while—people forget that. But the problem is, Patrick, when you give too much power… they start thinking they’re the brand.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(leaning forward, intrigued)
And you’re not just the brand. You’re the empire.

DONALD TRUMP
That’s right. I’m Trump. The name is the business. Not her, not Marla, not even Melania. Me.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(chuckles)
It’s almost romantic. In a ruthless, Ayn Rand sort of way.

DONALD TRUMP
(grinning)
Ivana tried to negotiate the prenup. Big mistake. I told her: “You want half the kingdom? Build your own.” And she did—kind of. She’s got her hotels, her lines… Ivana Inc. But she was never Trump Inc.

PATRICK BATEMAN
That’s the thing about legacy. You either own it, or you get written out of it.

DONALD TRUMP
She got the money. I got the name. Fair trade. Besides, I upgraded.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(icy smile)
Like a car lease. Cold, efficient. Very… Reaganite.

They sip their scotch as the skyline glows behind them. Two men, high above the city, haunted by women and ambition, comparing notes on love, power, and brands.

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Trump Products

INT. TRUMP TOWER – EXECUTIVE SUITE – NIGHT
A storm of Manhattan neon reflects in the windows. Champagne chills beside a platter of rare steak. PATRICK BATEMAN, immaculate in Tom Ford, sits across from DONALD TRUMP, who’s wearing a navy suit and a red tie like a battlefield flag.

PATRICK BATEMAN (leaning back, eyes gleaming):
Donald… your brand portfolio is the most avant-garde expression of American excess I’ve ever seen.
The Trump Game? It’s Monopoly for sociopaths—perfect.
I bought four copies. Two to play, two to burn.

DONALD TRUMP (smirking):
It teaches winning. That’s what people forget. Life’s not fair. Trump: The Game is.
You either dominate or go bankrupt.

PATRICK BATEMAN (with reverence):
It belongs in MoMA. Post-capitalist abstraction in board game form.
Now… Trump Water.
I had it chilled to exactly 37.5 degrees. It’s clean. Strong.
It doesn’t just hydrate—it asserts itself.

DONALD TRUMP (nodding):
Most water’s weak. Mine’s not.
Comes from a secret American spring. We tested it—99.9% testosterone.

PATRICK BATEMAN (eyes widening):
That explains the flavor.
Now… the Trump Steaks.
Donald, those weren’t steaks. They were a challenge to mortality.
I served them at my Christmas party instead of cocaine.
People wept.

DONALD TRUMP (laughs):
They couldn’t handle the flavor.
Those steaks were aged with ambition.
Only reason they failed? America was too soft.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
Exactly. The world wasn’t worthy of them.
And don’t even get me started on Trump Vodka.
I drank half a bottle and tried to buy AT&T.

DONALD TRUMP (grinning):
I made vodka for people who hate vodka but love power.
It didn’t sell—too refined.

PATRICK BATEMAN (smirking):
That’s the tragedy of genius.
I still have three bottles locked in a vault. Next to my copy of Huey Lewis’s Hip to Be Square.
Both timeless. Both violent in their clarity.

DONALD TRUMP (with finality):
They’ll understand one day. All of it.
The game, the steaks, the water—
It was never just about products.
It was a lifestyle.

PATRICK BATEMAN (raising his glass):
To the man who turned consumption into philosophy.

DONALD TRUMP (raising his glass back):
To winning. Always.

The glasses clink. Somewhere in the distance, a golden elevator opens. Cue Phil Collins.

FADE OUT.

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Trump Chocolate

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PRIVATE DINING ROOM – NIGHT
An opulent spread. Polished marble. Gold trim. The two men sit across from each other in high-backed chairs. A silver platter of glossy, monogrammed chocolate truffles rests between them.

PATRICK BATEMAN (savoring a bite):
Donald… I have to say this, and I don’t say it lightly.
Your Trump Chocolate… is superior to Godiva.
It’s bold. Decadent. Masculine.
Like a limited edition Rolex dipped in cacao.

DONALD TRUMP (beaming):
I told you. It’s the best. They said I couldn’t beat Belgium—
I beat Belgium.

PATRICK BATEMAN (nodding slowly):
Godiva is… predictable. Feminine. A box your secretary gets on Valentine’s Day.
Trump Chocolate is for winners. Executives.
It tastes like hostile takeovers.

DONALD TRUMP (laughs, taps the gold foil):
It’s handcrafted by Americans. No woke recipes.
Real cream. Real sugar. Real dominance.
And the gold wrapping? Edible. Just like my legacy.

PATRICK BATEMAN (smirking):
There’s something almost erotic about it.
Like biting into capitalism itself.
Smooth… powerful… unapologetically rich.

DONALD TRUMP:
That’s exactly it. It’s not chocolate.
It’s Trump. In cocoa form.
And when people eat it? They’re tasting success.

PATRICK BATEMAN (leans in, whispers):
You’ve turned indulgence into ideology.
If Karl Marx had tasted this, he would’ve invested in a hedge fund.

DONALD TRUMP (grinning):
That’s why they hate me, Patrick.
Because even my desserts are alpha.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
Godiva is cancelled.
From now on, it’s Trump or nothing.

They toast with chocolate truffles like cigars, smiling into the mirror of mutual admiration.

FADE OUT.

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Bombs Away!

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE – NIGHT

Gleaming gold, soft classical music, and the faint scent of cologne. PATRICK BATEMAN, in a tailored Valentino suit, clinks a crystal glass of neat bourbon and turns to DONALD TRUMP, who is lounging in his robe, scrolling Truth Social.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
Donald… your personal tanning bed is magnificent.
It’s… almost transcendental. The glow—subtle, masculine, like Apollo basking in his own radiance.

DONALD TRUMP: (without looking up)
It’s the best. NASA-grade UV. I had them import the tech from Switzerland. Fake news won’t report it, but it’s how I stay looking this good.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
Of course. The media never appreciates true aesthetic discipline.
I use the TanLux Platinum at home—timed to Bach’s Mass in B Minor. But yours…
Yours feels like power.

DONALD TRUMP: (grins)
It is power. Believe me. You look golden, people listen. You look pasty, they ask questions.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
You’re preaching to the choir, Donald.
I haven’t been pale since Yale.

DONALD TRUMP:
We’re not pale guys. We’re alpha. Pale guys write blogs.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
Or cry in bathrooms.

(They laugh. The room hums with air-conditioning and quiet narcissism.)

DONALD TRUMP:
Next time, bring your suit. We’ll tan together. Two winners. Side by side.

PATRICK BATEMAN: (smirking)
Nothing would please me more. Just don’t touch the bronzer dial—I like my tone Wall Street lethal.

DONALD TRUMP:
Done. But no chainsaws, okay? [chuckles]

PATRICK BATEMAN:
No promises.

Cut to black. Sound of Bach’s Kyrie swells.