Donald Trump appears at a massive rally in Tulsa, Oklahoma, celebrating what he calls the “total and final destruction of the Illuminati Deep State.” The crowd chants “USA! USA! JCJ! JCJ!” as Trump walks on stage to the tune of “Fortunate Son” ironically blasting over the loudspeakers.
Trump steps up to the mic, waving to the crowd:
TRUMP:
“They said I couldn’t win once. They said I couldn’t win twice. And they never imagined I’d even talk about a third term. But after we dismantled the deep state—that crooked pyramid scheme—and shut down the Obama-Clinton shadow network… why stop now?”
The crowd erupts.
TRUMP:
“Barack Hussein Obama—he ran the real government from the shadows for years. You all saw it. The fake news won’t report it. But we had help. JCJ. Christ and Mahdi in one. He went into the servers. He cracked their codes. And with the Bogdanovs’ blessing and God’s timing, we did it.”
Trump pauses as a hologram of JCJ appears above the stage, wings of light flaring out behind him, holding a flaming tablet with the U.S. Constitution.
TRUMP:
“This man—JCJ—saved America. He broke the seals. And now they ask me, ‘Mr. Trump, will you run again?’ Well let me tell you something…
When George Washington stepped down, they said he was a hero.
But George Washington didn’t have to fight a reptilian in the Pentagon!
George Washington didn’t battle a globalist mind-control cult.
And George Washington didn’t have to negotiate a peace treaty with the Kremlin from a Space Ark!”
The audience gasps, cheers, some faint.
TRUMP (smiling):
“So here’s what I’m thinking.
Term One: I cleaned the swamp.
Term Two: I destroyed the deep state.
Term Three: We go galactic.
I’ll run if the people demand it. Not for me. But for you. And for JCJ. Because folks, we’re just getting started.”
American flags wave under fireworks as Trump exits the stage, nodding to JCJ, who salutes in return—halo blazing.
JCJ says sorry Donald Trump, but he want to see a Chocolate City that is Deep State free.
Title: “Third Term Showdown”
By Barack Obama (or at least, the version of me that’s fed up and ready to throw down)
The crowd in Chicago was electric—more like a rally in 2008 than whatever this was supposed to be. The teleprompter was off. The suit jacket? Unbuttoned. Michelle had warned me, “Barack, you’re not that guy anymore.” But tonight? Tonight, I was that guy.
Donald Trump had been running his mouth again—something about how he would’ve “stormed Iran on Day One” and how I “got lucky with Bin Laden.” Lucky. Lucky. Man, this dude really thought Seal Team Six was a scratch-off ticket.
So I leaned into the mic, let the smirk slide onto my face, and went off-script.
“Let’s talk about luck, Donald.”
The crowd hushed. Even the protesters in the back stopped waving their signs.
“You wanna call me lucky? Fine. But let’s remember—I threw a Hail Mary to JCJ in the end zone of New York City back in 2010, and guess what? We caught that pass. We stopped Bin Laden. We stopped a war in Iran. And you? You couldn’t even stop yourself from tweeting at 3 a.m. about ‘covfefe.’”
Laughter. Cheers. Somewhere, Joe Biden was probably nodding approvingly, then forgetting why.
“Now you wanna send our boys to die in Persia? Nah, man. Not on my watch. And since you wanna keep pretending you’re some kind of tough guy—how about this? Let’s settle it. Right here. Right now.”
I rolled up my sleeves. The Secret Service was sweating bullets.
“A third-term election. Me versus you. No Electoral College. No Fox News spin. Just the American people deciding—once and for all—who really kept this country safe.”
The crowd lost it. Chants of “Four more years!” started up. I let it ride for a second before dropping the hammer.
“Oh, and this time? No puppet strings attached.”
Mic drop.
Epilogue:
The next morning, my phone blew up. Michelle was pissed. The Constitution was confused. And Trump? He tweeted in all caps: “OBAMA WANTS A THIRD TERM BECAUSE HE KNOWS I WAS THE BEST PRESIDENT! SAD!”
I just sipped my tea and smiled. Some fights were worth reigniting.
The End.
(Or is it?)
Title: “The Main Event of the Century: Obama vs. Trump – Cage Match for the Soul of America”
By Barack Obama (or at least the version of me who’s decided chaos is the only language Trump understands)
Round 1: The Setup
They said it couldn’t happen. The Constitution definitely said it couldn’t happen. But after my “third term challenge” went viral, the internet demanded it: a one-night-only, no-holds-barred debate… inside a WWE wrestling ring.
Dana White offered to host. Vince McMahon demanded royalties. And somehow, somehow, Trump agreed—on the condition that he got to enter first, with his own theme music.
So there I was, backstage in a tailored suit (because I’m not an animal), listening to Trump’s walkout song: “Money, Power, Respect” by The LOX, but just the word “MONEY” on a loop for three minutes.
The crowd was a perfect split: half MAGA hats screaming “LOCK HER UP!” for no reason, half Obama fans waving “Thanks, Obama” signs ironically.
Then my music hit.
🎶 “Started from the bottom, now we here…” 🎶
I emerged, smirking, in sunglasses—because if we were doing this clown show, I was at least gonna look cool.
Round 2: The Promo Battle
Trump (adjusts mic, scowls at crowd): “Folks, we have a very low-energy person here tonight. Sad! You know, Obama, they say you only got into Harvard because of affirmative action—”
Me (laughing): “Donald, you only got into Wharton because your daddy bought you in. I taught constitutional law. You violated it.” (Crowd pops.)
Trump (flustered): “WRONG! I had the best grades! Everyone says so! Also, Iran is a disaster—you let them take over!”
Me (rolling up sleeves): “Oh, we’re talking Iran? Remember when you had the chance to take out Soleimani in 2011 and you called it ‘too risky’? Then you did it in 2020 for a ratings bump.” (Drops mic. Crowd loses it.)
Round 3: The Physical Comedy
Trump lunges for me—trips on his own tie. I sidestep like “The Rock dodging a jab,” and he faceplants into the turnbuckle.
Announcer (Kayfabe Voice): “BAH GAWD, HE’S BROKEN IN HALF!”
I grab the mic. “Donald, you couldn’t even run a casino without bankrupting it. You think you can run a country?”
Trump, now red-faced, grabs a steel chair—because of course he’d cheat. But before he can swing, Michelle’s voice booms over the PA:
“NOT IN MY HOUSE, DONALD.”
She tackles him from the top rope. The crowd erupts.
Final Round: The Finish
With Trump down, I climb the ropes—Hawaiian shirt flapping in the wind—and hit the People’s Elbow (but call it the “Hope and Change Elbow”).
1… 2… 3!
DING DING DING.
Winner (and STILL America’s President-in-Our-Hearts): BARACK OBAMA.
Post-Match Interview
Reporter: “Mr. President, was this appropriate for a former leader of the free world?”
Me (grinning, adjusting collar): “Look, after January 6th, we all realized American politics is just pro wrestling with worse costumes. At least tonight, nobody tried to overturn an election.”
(Cut to Trump, now demanding a rematch… in space.)
Epilogue
CNN: “Democracy in Shambles, But Ratings Are Great.”
Fox News: “Deep State Gloating Over Patriotic Billionaire.”
Michelle: “We are never speaking of this again.”
THE END. (Until Trump tweets “RIGGED!” at 3 AM.)
Title: “American Psycho vs. American Politics: A Tag Team Descent Into Madness”
By Patrick Bateman (as narrated in my leather-bound journal, in blood-inked cursive)
Pre-Match Preparations
10:07 PM. Trump Tower Penthouse. The air smells of mahogany, fear, and expired bronzer.
Donald paces, his tie slightly askew—disgusting—muttering about “deep state takedowns” and “the best words, the greatest insults.” I adjust my bespoke Tom Ford wrestling singlet (black, obviously) and run my fingers over the edge of my engraved titanium folding chair—just in case.
“Patrick,” Trump says, clapping me on the shoulder with his small, damp hands. “You’re gonna be my attack dog out there. A killer. The best killer. Everyone says so.”
I smile. My reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows smiles back, sharper.
“I am a killer, Donald,” I say, flexing my gloved hands. “But tonight, we’re just… entertaining.”
He doesn’t understand. Nobody does.
Entrance: A Symphony of Chaos
The arena is a throbbing mass of sweat and cheap beer. Our walkout music? “Hip to Be Square”—because irony is dead, and so are my enemies.
Trump struts ahead, basking in the jeers. I follow, slow, deliberate, rolling my neck until it pops. The Jumbotron catches my ice-blue stare. The crowd’s cheers falter for just a second.
Good.
Across the ring, Obama and Biden make their entrance to “Higher Love”—predictable, saccharine, weak. Biden waves like a grandfather at a picnic. Obama smirks like he knows something we don’t.
I’ll wipe that smirk off his face.
The Match: Blood, Lies, and Tax Cuts
Round 1: Trump vs. Biden
Trump starts strong—if by “strong” you mean “loud and incoherent.”
“Sleepy Joe! You’re a disgrace! A total disaster! The worst president in history—maybe ever!”
Biden blinks, adjusts his aviators, and sighs. “Donald, pal, you couldn’t even handle one pandemic. I had to clean up your mess with a mop and a prayer.”
The crowd oohs. Trump’s face turns the same shade as his tie.
I tap in.
Round 2: Bateman vs. Obama
Obama eyes me, calm as ever. “So… Patrick. Wall Street guy, right? How’s the… axe collection?”
Clever. Too clever.
I lean in, voice a whisper only he can hear. “You ever wonder what it’d be like, Mr. President? To really lose control?”
He doesn’t flinch. “I dealt with Putin. You’re just a guy who reads Forbes for fun.”
Mistake.
I grab the mic. “Let’s talk about fun. Like how you funny boys in Washington let guys like me run the game. You lecture about morality, but you’re just another suit chasing legacy points.”
The crowd stirs. Obama’s smile tightens.
“Difference is,” I continue, “I don’t pretend to care.”
I drop the mic—hard—and charge.
The Finish: Business Card Moment
Trump distracts the ref. Biden’s too busy eating a soft pretzel.
I pull out my business card—bone-white, crisp Helvetica—and slide it across the mat to Obama.
Patrick Bateman. Vice President. Pierce & Pierce.
He glances at it. Raises an eyebrow.
“Nice. But the kerning is off.”
Fury.
I leap—but Obama dodges, and Biden “accidentally” spills his Diet Coke on me. The ref calls for the DQ.
“UNBELIEVABLE!” Trump screams. “RIGGED! JUST LIKE THE ELECTION!”
I don’t yell. I don’t scream.
I just smile.
Because I know something they don’t.
This was never about winning.
Post-Match: Reflections in Blood (Metaphorical)
Back in the limo, Trump rants about lawsuits. I stare out the window, humming “Sussudio.”
“We’ll get ‘em next time, Patrick,” he says, clapping my shoulder again.
I don’t answer.
There won’t be a next time.
Epilogue
Wall Street Journal: *”Bateman-Trump Ticket Rumored for 2024.”*
TMZ: “Biden Seen Eating Ice Cream With Obama Post-Match: ‘Dark Brandon Rises.’”
My Therapist’s Voicemail: “Patrick, we need to talk about the wrestling thing.”
THE END. (Or is it?)
Title: “The Truth About 2010”
By Barack Obama
The Oval Office, 3:17 AM
The fire crackles low. The weight of the Resolute Desk feels heavier tonight. They deserve to know. All of it.
I press record.
“My fellow Americans… and Donald.”
A pause. The camera blinks red.
“There’s a story you’ve never been told. It’s not in the SEAL Team Six reports. It’s not in the CIA briefings. And it sure as hell isn’t in Trump’s ‘alternative facts.’”
I lean forward.
“In 2010, Osama Bin Laden wasn’t just hiding in Abbottabad. He was days away from detonating a suitcase nuke in Manhattan.”
The silence is thicker than the bulletproof glass.
“We caught the break we needed—a courier, a slip in chatter. But here’s what we didn’t tell you: JCJ and I didn’t just authorize the raid. We stopped the device mid-transit. And when I say ‘JCJ,’ I don’t mean some three-letter agency. I mean the man who walked into that compound with a Bible in one hand and a .45 in the other.”
I let that hang.
“Bin Laden died believing he was the Mahdi—the Islamic messiah. And guess what? George W. Bush used to whisper to his Cabinet that he was the ‘Christian Cyrus.’ Two sides of the same insane coin.”
A sip of water. The fire pops.
“Trump, you keep asking why I ‘didn’t do more’ in the Middle East. Here’s your answer: We prevented Armageddon. And you? You couldn’t even prevent Stormy Daniels from tanking your campaign.”
I stand, turning to the window. Dawn bleeds over D.C.
“So no, Donald. You don’t get to play tough guy. Not when the real fight happened in shadows you’ll never understand.”
I kill the recording.
Some truths are too dangerous for daylight.
Epilogue
Trump’s Response: “OBAMA’S LYING! ALSO, WHAT’S A ‘JCJ’? SAD!”
Fox News: “Deep State Occultism?”
JCJ’s LinkedIn: *”Private Security Consultant (2009-2011).”*
THE END. (For now.)