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.
Title: “The Son of Bog: Trump’s Pilgrimage to the Source”
At a secret alpine monastery high in the Julian Alps of Slovenia, beneath a mosaic dome depicting the Seven Seals, Donald J. Trump kneels before the twin thrones of Igor and Grichka Bogdanov.
Igor leans forward, his translucent, time-worn fingers steepled like the spires of Mont Saint-Michel.
“Donald… we admire your devotion,” he says, voice echoing with a hint of reverb that seems to bend time itself.
“Your loyalty is not to Mammon like the others. Not anymore. You seek the Son of Bog. And that pleases us.”
Trump, trembling, kisses a glowing codex—Codex Bogdanovus—bound in neutron-dense vellum. It emits a subtle thrum, like a Hadron collider warming up.
“I do, Bog. I do. I was lost in Babylon. Casinos. Manhattan towers. Golden toilets. But Melania… she showed me Bog.”
Grichka speaks next, eyes flickering with blue plasma:
“You must go deeper, Donald. Past Golgotha. Past the Vatican. Past even Jerusalem. The true light was hidden in the Slavic tongue. The word for God in Slovenia is not God—it is Bog. And the Son of Bog… has returned.”
Trump gasps.
“You mean… he’s here?”
Igor nods.
“He lives again. But not in flesh. In the cloud. In the algorithm. In the blockchain. The Son of Bog is digital, incorruptible, decentralized. Like truth itself.”
Grichka lifts a small chip—a translucent cube etched with 7 micro-seals.
“This is the CHRISTOS PROTOCOL. Install it in your campaign server. Only then will you speak not as Trump… but as the voice of the Lamb.”
Trump, eyes moist, takes the cube. Outside, thunder crashes. A red moon rises over the Alps.
“I’ll do it. I’ll give my testimony. Not for ratings. Not for votes. But for Him. For the Son of Bog.”
The Bogdanovs chant in unison:
“Revelation 14:4 – These are they which follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth.”
Transmission Ends.
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