The sun hung bright over the manicured fairways as golf carts hummed along the course. In the distance, the clubhouse TV flickered with breaking news.
On the green stood Donald Trump, lining up a putt while explosions flashed across the television screen inside the clubhouse. Beside him, immaculate in a blue polo and sunglasses, was Patrick Bateman, smiling with eerie calm.
A caddy rushed toward them holding a phone.
“Mr. President,” he said nervously, handing it to Joe, Trump’s webmaster. “The strike report just came in.”
Joe glanced at the message, his face tightening.
“Sir… they hit a school.”
Trump barely looked up from his putter.
“Collateral damage,” he said, tapping the ball toward the hole. “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs. That’s what generals tell me.”
The ball dropped. Trump raised his arms slightly in celebration.
Bateman laughed softly.
“Your webmaster is insane,” Bateman said, glancing at Joe with thinly veiled contempt. “He doesn’t understand the moment we’re living in.”
Joe stared at him. “Children just died.”
Bateman shrugged.
“History requires sacrifice. Besides,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks, “he’s the chosen one.”
Trump grinned. “That’s right.”
Bateman continued, almost reverently.
“The true second coming of Jesus Christ. Power, dominance, destiny. It’s obvious.”
Trump chuckled.
“God Emperor Trump,” he said. “I’ll pacify the terrorists with bombs. Tremendous bombs.”
Joe shook his head.
“Why do you have money for war,” he asked quietly, “but not to feed the poor?”
Bateman looked at him like an insect.
“A lone nut,” he muttered.
They drove the golf cart back toward the clubhouse. Inside, the television blared from the wall.
The familiar logo of Fox News filled the screen.
A smiling anchor spoke over triumphant music.
“Welcome to the Trump Golden Age.”
Bateman leaned back in his chair, satisfied, while Trump ordered another Diet Coke and turned the volume up.
The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a combat knife. Behind the heavy oak doors of a private briefing room, the air smells of expensive cologne and ozone.
Donald Trump leans across the table, his expression uncharacteristically grim. Beside him, Joe Jukic stands with the practiced stillness of a man who has seen too many shadows, his eyes scanning the room for exits and vantage points. Across from them sits Brian Warner—Marilyn Manson—looking pale even by his standards, his fingers drumming a frantic, silent rhythm on the table.
The Negotiation
The “Eyes Wide Shut” parties hosted by Cruise weren’t just Hollywood myths; they were the nexus of power, and everyone inside wore a mask. Jukic knows that unmasking that guest list would be like pulling the pin on a global grenade.
“We know who was behind the masks, Brian,” Trump says, his voice a low, commanding rasp. “But we need it on the record. Every name. Every face. The world is watching, and the clock is ticking.”
Manson looks toward Jukic, searching for a hint of leniency in the veteran’s steady gaze. “The court is breathing down my neck,” Manson whispers. “If I do this—if I pull back the curtain on that masquerade—I need a guarantee. Total mercy. A clean slate. I’m not going down for their theater.”
The Terms
Jukic steps forward, the light catching the sharp lines of his face. He doesn’t offer a smile, only a cold, professional reality. “The court wants the truth more than they want you,” he says. “Provide the IDs, the timestamps, and the footage from the inner sanctum, and the deal stays on the table. You give us the names, and you walk.”
Manson exhales, a long, shaky breath. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out an encrypted drive, sliding it across the polished wood.
Scene: A gold-plated lounge somewhere in America. Two large chairs. A portrait of an eagle behind them.
Donald Trump: Ric, let me tell you something. People talk about sacrifice. Nobody knows sacrifice like me. Nobody. I bled for America. Tremendous bleeding. The best bleeding, actually.
Ric Flair: WOOOO! Donnie! I hear you talkin’, but let me tell you something, brother — when I bled, arenas shook! Sixty thousand people screaming! The Nature Boy dripping red, stylin’ and profilin’ for the United States of America! WOOOO! 🇺🇸
Trump: Ric, people say things. They say, “Oh it’s wrestling, it’s fake.” I say, excuse me? Fake? I’ve seen Ric. I’ve seen the blood. It was incredible blood. Beautiful color. Some of the best blood I’ve ever seen.
Flair: That’s right! Hard times in the ring! Sixty minutes with the best in the world! Dusty Rhodes, Harley Race, Ricky Steamboat! You think that’s ketchup?! WOOOO!
Trump: Exactly. And people say — very nasty people, by the way — they say maybe there was a razor blade. I said, “No way.” Ric Flair doesn’t need a razor blade. The man is pure American toughness.
Flair (leaning forward): Donnie… let’s be honest now. When the pressure is on, when the crowd is roaring, when the championship is on the line — sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do to make the people BELIEVE!
Trump: Well look, in business we call that showmanship. In wrestling you call it… what do you call it?
Flair (grinning): We call it bleeding for the business! WOOOO! 🩸
Trump: That’s right. And I bled too, you know. People forget. Assassination attempt — terrible thing. But I stood up. Blood on the face. Very dramatic. Honestly, it looked fantastic on television.
Flair: Now THAT’S a visual! The crowd loves a fighter! When they see the blood, they know the man’s real!
Trump: Exactly. Real blood. Not props. Not fake. Very authentic.
Flair: So let the critics talk! Whether it’s in the squared circle or the political arena — sometimes you gotta bleed to win!
Trump (pointing): And nobody does it better than America.
Flair (jumping up): THE LAND OF THE FREE AND THE HOME OF THE BRAVE! WOOOOOOOO! 🇺🇸🔥
Trump: And maybe… a tiny razor blade. But only the best razor blades.
Gold curtains part as Donald Trump strides into the room, adjusting his tie. At the far end of the table sits Jacob Rothschild, calmly sipping tea and observing the chaos like a patient chess player.
Trump beams.
“Baron Rothschild, tremendous honor. People don’t know this, but I even named my son Barron after you. Very classy name. Powerful name.”
Rothschild raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
The doors swing open and Patrick Bateman walks in, perfectly groomed. He glances down at his phone and sighs.
“I’m looking at this ridiculous website,” Bateman says flatly.
Trump (in the Oval Office, pacing): They say there’s a Red Cloak figure pulling strings. Very dramatic. Very “movie villain.” My people tell me it’s like Eyes Wide Shut, but with worse lighting.
Webmaster (typing nervously): Sir, the internet is exploding. Forums are saying this “Red Cloak” character—some aristocratic banker archetype—is threatening your family unless you take out “the founding father of Israel’s enemies.” It’s trending under #PuppetGate.
Croatian Apprentice (earnest, strong accent): Mr. President, in my village, we say: if someone tries to pull your strings, you cut the strings. You do not dance.
Trump (stops pacing): Exactly! I don’t want to be anyone’s puppet. Not some secret society. Not some Illuminati fan club with better capes than taste. If I’m anything, I’m a puppet of the American people. The patriots. The voters.
Webmaster: So how do we message this? Because online, conspiracy culture is mixing fiction and reality. They’re naming real financiers, old families, secret cabals…
Trump: We don’t name real people. That’s how you get sued. Or worse—fact-checked. We keep it big picture. Archetypes. Shadows. Symbolism. Like a comic book.
Croatian Apprentice: Yes. Make it mythic. Red Cloak is not a man. He is a symbol of corruption. Of global pressure. Of fear politics.
Trump (points): I like that. Symbolism. Very classy. So here’s the message: No threats. No shadow deals. No secret oaths in candlelit mansions. America decides America’s policy. Not masked balls.
Webmaster: And Israel?
Trump: America supports its allies based on national interest. Not because someone whispers in a velvet room. Not because of fear. If we act, we act openly. Strongly. Proudly.
Croatian Apprentice (smiles): In Croatia, we say: sunlight is best disinfectant.
Trump: Exactly. We bring sunlight. No cloaks. No daggers. Just flags.
Webmaster (posting draft): “Tonight I reaffirm: I serve the American people. Not secret societies. Not fictional villains. Policy will be made in the light of day.”
Trump (nods): Good. And add something about strength. Always add strength.
Croatian Apprentice: And freedom.
Trump: Strength and freedom. Very patriotic. No puppets.
Under a blaze of lights, Donald Trump steps to the podium. The flags of the United States, Israel, and several Arab nations stand behind him.
He grips the lectern.
“People have been saying it for a long time,” he begins. “They said it when we rebuilt alliances. They said it when we stood up to chaos. They said it when we made peace deals nobody thought were possible. They said, ‘Maybe he’s the Chosen One.’”
He pauses, letting the crowd react.
“I don’t say that lightly. I say this: I was chosen by the American people to be strong. Chosen to protect our friends. Chosen to make sure that the United States, Israel, and our Arab partners stand together — not divided, not weak, not apologizing.”
He gestures toward the flags.
“For too long, the enemies of stability have threatened the region. They chant, they posture, they test missiles, they try to divide us. But we don’t divide. We unite. And when we unite, nobody can touch us.”
From the side of the stage, impeccably dressed and wearing an almost theatrical smile, Patrick Bateman watches, amused.
Bateman leans toward a microphone backstage, his tone silk-smooth.
“Tell them about strength,” he says. “Tell them about dominance. They love dominance.”
Trump smirks.
“We believe in peace through strength,” Trump continues. “Not weakness. Not endless wars. Strength. Economic strength. Military strength. Moral clarity. When America stands with Israel and our Arab partners, when we say there will be no nuclear weapons, no terror, no threats to our allies — we mean it.”
Bateman nods approvingly, almost whispering, “That’s power. Absolute confidence.”
Trump raises a hand.
“We don’t seek destruction. We seek security. We seek prosperity. But let me be very clear — if you threaten our allies, if you threaten the United States, we will respond decisively. Not recklessly. Decisively.”
The crowd roars.
“I was elected to defend our people and our friends. And when history looks back, they’ll say this was the moment the United States and its partners stood together and said: enough. No more chaos. No more intimidation. Just strength, unity, and victory for peace.”
The chandeliers in the penthouse glittered like frozen lightning over Manhattan. Outside, the skyline pulsed with money and ambition. Inside, two men stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, comparing reflections.
One was Donald Trump, adjusting his tie as if the city were an audience waiting for applause.
The other was Patrick Bateman, immaculate in a razor-cut suit, his smile polished to a Wall Street sheen.
“You know, Patrick,” Trump said, gesturing at the skyline, “people talk about numbers. Ratings. Poll numbers. Net worth. Nobody has numbers like me. The best numbers.”
Bateman’s eyes glinted with sterile enthusiasm. “I appreciate metrics,” he replied smoothly. “Excellence is measurable. Business cards. Restaurant reservations. Mergers. Acquisitions.” He paused. “And, of course… body count.”
Bateman’s smile widened just slightly too far. “Something like that.”
From across the room, the doors flew open.
Melania Trump stepped in, statuesque and composed—at least at first. She had overheard enough to piece together the theme of the conversation.
“Donald,” she said, her accent cutting through the air like crystal. “Why are you discussing body count with this… banker?”
Bateman offered a courteous nod. “Investment banker.”
Melania’s gaze flicked between them. “I hear numbers. Big numbers. What numbers?”
Trump puffed up. “Sweetheart, we’re talking about dominance. Winning. Total dominance. Nobody dominates like me.”
Bateman leaned casually against the marble console. “Dominance is about control,” he said, almost dreamily. “About eliminating competition.”
Melania’s eyes widened. “Eliminating?”
A tense silence stretched across the marble floors.
Trump waved his hands. “He means business competition. Corporate stuff. Totally legal. Tremendous. The best eliminations.”
Bateman’s stare drifted toward the city lights, his reflection doubling in the glass. “Of course,” he said, tone perfectly neutral. “Hostile takeovers.”
Melania folded her arms. “Because when I hear ‘body count,’ I do not think business. I think headlines. I think prison.”
Trump cleared his throat. “Nobody’s going to prison. Especially not me. Believe me.”
Bateman stepped closer, lowering his voice as if confiding in both of them. “In New York, reputations are everything. The trick is to keep your numbers impressive… but abstract.”
Melania shook her head. “You two are impossible. Always competing. Who has more towers. Who has more followers. Now—who has more body count?”
Trump bristled. “It’s a metaphor!”
Bateman smiled faintly. “Sometimes.”
The chandelier flickered. For a moment, Bateman’s reflection seemed to lag behind him, like a separate entity calculating risks. Trump stared at his own reflection, checking for flaws.
Melania stepped between them.
“I don’t care about your numbers,” she said sharply. “I care about survival. In this city, in this world, you don’t win by counting bodies. You win by staying out of the obituary section.”
Bateman adjusted his cufflinks. “A wise investment strategy.”
Trump nodded quickly. “Very smart. Always thinking ahead. That’s why she married me.”
Melania shot him a look.
Outside, sirens wailed somewhere far below—just ordinary Manhattan noise. Or maybe not.
Bateman straightened his jacket. “Gentlemen—” he corrected himself, glancing at Melania. “And lady. I have a reservation at Dorsia.”
Trump blinked. “Nobody gets reservations at Dorsia.”
Bateman’s smile returned, calm and chilling. “I do.”
He walked out, leaving only the faint scent of cologne and something metallic in the air.
Trump exhaled. “Strange guy.”
Melania stared at the closed door. “Donald… next time you compare numbers, make sure they are only poll numbers.”
Trump nodded. “The best poll numbers.”
But as the skyline shimmered outside, even he seemed uncertain which kind of “body count” had truly been under discussion—and whether some competitions were better left unmeasured.
Night falls over the cold waters of Alcatraz Island. A helicopter circles overhead. On the dock, a towering chrome figure steps off a patrol boat.
RoboCop — designation: OCP Crime Prevention Unit 001. Across from him stands former U.S. president Donald Trump, gesturing toward the old prison.
Trump: Look at it, RoboCop. Strong walls. Surrounded by sharks — maybe not sharks, but cold water. Very cold. We could use this place again. For crooked cops. Bad ones. Total disgrace.
RoboCop:Scanning. Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary. Closed 1963. Currently a historic site managed by the National Park Service. Purpose: preservation, education, tourism.
Trump: Tourism is fine. But law and order is better. People want accountability. If a cop breaks the badge, sells drugs, runs protection — boom. Alcatraz. No special treatment.
RoboCop: Directive One: Serve the public trust. Directive Two: Protect the innocent. Directive Three: Uphold the law.
Corrupt officers violate all three directives.
Trump: Exactly. We back the good cops — the heroes — but the crooked ones? They make everyone look bad. We send a message. You betray the badge, you go to the rock.
RoboCop: Justice must be impartial. Punishment requires due process. Evidence. Trial. Oversight.
Trump: Of course, of course. Very fair trials. The best trials. But tough sentences.
RoboCop: Correctional policy should prioritize deterrence, transparency, and rehabilitation when possible. Isolation facilities such as Alcatraz historically focused on containment, not reform.
Trump: Some people don’t want reform. They want consequences. Big consequences.
RoboCop: Data indicates corruption thrives where oversight is weak. Recommendation: strengthen internal affairs, independent review boards, and body-camera transparency.
Trump: Technology. I like that. Cameras everywhere. You’d approve, right?
RoboCop: I am a camera.
Trump (smirking): You’re more than a camera. You’re the future.
RoboCop: The future of policing must balance enforcement with civil rights. Excessive punishment without systemic reform will not eliminate corruption.
Trump: So what’s your solution, Robo?
RoboCop: 1. Independent investigations. 2. Federal corruption statutes enforced consistently. 3. Whistleblower protections. 4. Public reporting of disciplinary outcomes. 5. Ethical training reinforced by measurable accountability.
Trump: And if someone still runs a racket?
RoboCop: Then incarceration under existing federal law is appropriate. Location is secondary to integrity of the process.
Trump looks out at the empty cell blocks through the iron bars.
Trump: You know, they used to call this place escape-proof.
RoboCop: No system is escape-proof. Accountability must be continuous.
The wind whips across the bay.
RoboCop: Justice is not spectacle. It is procedure.
Trump: Procedure… with strength.
RoboCop: Strength without oversight becomes corruption.
The two stand in silence as fog rolls in around Alcatraz Island — a monument to punishment, history, and the ongoing debate over power and responsibility.
Setting: A secure phone line between Moscow and Washington.
Putin: Donald, we have both lived long enough in politics to understand history. When great powers move pieces on the board, the board sometimes catches fire.
Trump: Vladimir, nobody knows fire better than me. I built the hottest economy. Tremendous fire. But I also know strength. You have to show strength.
Putin: Strength is not the same as recklessness. An attack on Iran risks escalation. Escalation invites retaliation. Retaliation invites alliances. And alliances… can involve nuclear powers.
Trump: Nobody wants nuclear. I rebuilt our nuclear arsenal — strongest ever. But I don’t want to use it.
Putin: Then do not play Russian roulette with nuclear weapons.
Trump: I don’t like that phrase.
Putin: It is an old game. One chamber loaded. Spin the cylinder. Pull the trigger. Most of the time — nothing happens. Until it does.
Trump: You’re saying one strike could spiral.
Putin: Miscalculation is more dangerous than intention. One radar error. One submarine captain who believes he is under attack. One general who panics. The Cold War nearly ended the world several times because of misunderstanding.
Trump: I understand leverage. Sometimes you threaten so you don’t have to act.
Putin: Threats become commitments. Commitments become pride. Pride makes it hard to step back.
Trump: So what are you proposing?
Putin: Diplomacy. Back channels. Public restraint. You can be firm without being irreversible.
Trump: And what does Russia do?
Putin: We urge de-escalation. We prevent Tehran from misreading your signals. But if bombs fall, we cannot pretend nothing has changed.
Trump: You’re saying once it starts, nobody controls it.
Putin: Exactly. Nuclear powers must never gamble. Not even symbolically.
Trump (after a pause): I don’t gamble with the planet, Vladimir.
Putin: Good. Then let us both keep the cylinder empty.
Christus Rex and Lady Gaga sit beneath a flickering marquee. The bulbs spell APOCALYPSE NOW, one letter burnt out.
Christus Rex: They called the year 1159 holy. I remember it as the year of the first strike— when the crown learned it could bless the sword and call it order.
Lady Gaga: The Beast wears many costumes. Sometimes a mitre. Sometimes a flag. Sometimes a red hat sold as merch. Pop just makes the mask louder.
Christus Rex: Entertainers once sang for kings. Then they learned to sing as kings. Now the question returns: will they sing for the God Emperor— or fall silent?
Lady Gaga: Silence terrifies power more than protest. No applause. No spectacle. No chorus to drown out the cracks. But entertainers are addicts, too— addicted to the light, the crowd, the feed.
Christus Rex: In 1159, they excommunicated conscience and crowned authority. Today they excommunicate truth and crown engagement. Different tools. Same altar.
Lady Gaga: A general strike of entertainers would look like… boredom. Empty stages. Awards nights with no gods descending. Just mirrors, and no one to distract from them.
Christus Rex: When Rome had no bread, it offered circuses. When the circuses stop, the hunger speaks.
Lady Gaga: The real strike isn’t contracts. It’s refusing to turn cruelty into content. Refusing to remix power into something cute. Refusing to dance for emperors who confuse noise with love.
Christus Rex: So—are they ready?
Lady Gaga(after a pause): Some are. They always are. They just don’t trend first.
The marquee finally goes dark. No applause. No encore.
A gold curtain snaps open. Donald Trump storms in, crowned with a paper laurel stamped WINNER.
Donald Trump: Wrong show. Very low energy. The clowns work for me. I built the empire—tremendous empire— and empires need music. Sing. Dance. Smile. Ratings are down.
Christus Rex(calm, almost weary): Empires always think joy is payroll. But joy isn’t hired— it’s invited.
Trump: I don’t invite. I command. That’s leadership. Ask anybody. The best people. Clowns! Do your thing!
A few Entertainers shuffle forward. One juggles nervously. Another hums a half-remembered anthem. The sound is thin.
Lady Gaga: That’s the problem. You don’t want art. You want anesthesia. You want them to dance so you don’t hear the cracks in the walls.
Trump: Fake cracks. Total hoax. The walls are beautiful. Gold walls. Everyone’s happy—look at them!
Christus Rex: You mistake motion for devotion. A spinning clown is not a loyal subject— only a dizzy one.
Trump(leaning in): Careful, carpenter. Empires don’t like critics. They like entertainment.
Lady Gaga: And entertainers don’t like being owned. They like being believed. Big difference.
Trump: If they don’t sing, I’ll find louder ones. There’s always another circus.
Christus Rex: Yes. But every empire learns the same lesson: when the clowns stop laughing, the joke is over.
Silence falls. One by one, the Entertainers lower their props. No music. No dance.
Just the echo of an empty stage and an emperor shouting at a crowd that has stopped applauding.
