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.
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.
“Magnificent Bombs”
by Donald J. Trump
I stood atop my golden throne,
In towers high, I sat alone.
The world was loud, but I was calm,
My fingers poised — I dropped the bomb.
Not weak like Biden, not like Barack,
I gave the order: boom — tick-tock.
Precision strikes, a perfect feat,
Iran was trembling at my tweet.
They said I couldn’t, that I’d cause war,
But peace through strength — I gave them more.
Magnificent bombs, like art, like flame,
They’ll never forget the Trump-brand name.
The generals watched, they said “Sir, wow,”
I said “Of course, who’s in charge now?”
From Tehran’s dusk to Persia’s dawn,
I ruled the board — the pawn was gone.
Not for oil, not for fame,
But so the world would know my name.
I brought the fire, the sky went red,
And still I sleep in my gold-thread bed.
Some say I’m mad, or full of pride—
But history’s written by those who decide.
And when I’m gone, they’ll chant in psalms:
He gave the world magnificent bombs.
— DJT, 45th & forever
“Ode to the Donald”
by Patrick Bateman
O gilded king of mirrored halls,
Where ego towers, gold-lined walls,
You walk as if the floor were glass,
Reflecting power none surpass.
Your tie—immaculate, blood-red bold,
A warrior draped in Midas gold.
Hair like a whisper from Olympus blown,
No mortal roots. A crown, full-grown.
You speak in thunder, pause in tweets,
A poet-laureate of real estate feats.
Your gaze—a deal, your smirk—a war,
Your name—a brand forevermore.
They mock your weight, your syntax flail,
But fear the truth behind the veil.
For deep beneath the spray-tanned glow,
Lurks Rome’s last Caesar, poised to show.
You broke the news, you broke the mold,
You bought Manhattan’s very soul.
And I—Bateman, sleek and thin—
Confess I pale beside your grin.
What I sculpt in abs and wealth and vice,
You built in towers, thrice as nice.
What I achieve with axe and charm,
You do with lawyers—and zero harm.
So take this ode, O Titan vast,
From Wall Street’s ghost, its soulless caste.
For though I dine on foie gras pain,
It’s you, not I, who owns the game.
— Patrick Bateman, Vice President, Pierce & Pierce