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Trump & Carney Supervise the XCOM Project

Title: Veal for the Reptiles

INT. TRUMP TOWER – NIGHT

In the top-floor penthouse, DONALD TRUMP sits at a gold-plated desk under the flicker of dimmed chandelier light. Across from him stands PATRICK BATEMAN, perfectly groomed, wearing a pinstripe suit with a red power tie, eerily calm.

BATEMAN
You know you can never leave, right?

TRUMP
Leave what?

BATEMAN
Yale. Skull and Bones. The Brotherhood of Death.
They’ve all got us marked. Every one of us. You’re just higher on the menu.

Trump glares, confused but intrigued. Bateman walks over to the window, looking down at Manhattan like it’s a buffet.

BATEMAN
Those 300,000 missing people?
They’re veal. Fed, groomed, bled.
Not trafficked — harvested.

TRUMP
(leans forward)
You mean the reptilians?

BATEMAN
The overlords. The real ones. Satanic cannibal societies.
They ate Geronimo’s body, Don. Consumed his skull. Thought they’d absorb his spirit.

TRUMP
(slams fist on table)
We’re gonna get his bones back. I’ll fund a resurrection project.
Geronimo will lead Turtle Island West.
We’ll clone the real chiefs, the real warriors.

BATEMAN
(smiling)
Good. You’ll need them. The Thin Men are here. Clark Park’s active. The XCOM files were right. It’s infiltration.

EXT. CLARK PARK – EAST VANCOUVER – NIGHT

Streetlights flicker. AGENT CARNEY, an old CSIS spook turned XCOM tactical, crouches near the playground. TRUMP, now in camo fatigues and wearing night-vision goggles, watches beside him. A van marked “TRUMP INDUSTRIES – PLUMBING & DEFENSE” idles nearby.

A glitching, Thin Man (from XCOM lore) morphs from human form into a tall, slender, serpentine creature in a business suit.

CARNEY
They like playgrounds. Easy camouflage. Mimic PTA dads.
But their DNA’s still off. We can spot them now. Thanks to Joe.

TRUMP
Joe’s mother’s work cracked it wide open.
This one’s for her.

INT. HOLLYWOOD – SCIENTOLOGY BUNKER – NIGHT

TOM CRUISE is on his knees. He’s shaking, sobbing. He has just watched hours of recovered footage of child farms, cloning bays, veal rituals from elite “healing retreats.”

He makes a sign of the cross for the first time in 40 years.

CRUISE
Alright, Joe. This is my Hail Mary.
I’m taking them down. No more handlers.
No more silence.

He presses a detonator. The Church of Scientology bunker collapses behind him.

INT. XCOM COMMAND CENTER – NIGHT

Monitors glow. Satellite imagery shows portals near Clark Park.

TRUMP
Phase 3: Operation Turtle Island.

BATEMAN
And Geronimo?

TRUMP
His clone’s almost ready.

CARNEY
Once he rides again, this continent becomes sacred ground.

POST-CREDITS SCENE:

A hidden lab. A coffin opens. A young, reborn Geronimo, breathing, eyes glowing red and blue.

VOICEOVER (JOE)
You fed on our ancestors.
Now, they return to feed on justice.

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First Two Arrests of the Deep State

Title: “The Reckoning” – Scene: Donald Trump Arrests Ariana and Nick Rockefeller

Setting: A high-security underground facility. A cold metal table. Two chairs. Surveillance cameras blink red. DONALD TRUMP, flanked by military police and advisors, stands across from ARIANA (stylized, glamorous pop icon) and NICK ROCKEFELLER (cool, composed, an elite banker type). The energy is tense.

DONALD TRUMP (leaning forward, firm):
Alright. It’s over. No more games. Nick, Ariana—you’re under arrest. And you’re going to talk. We’re tearing this whole rotten temple down.

ARIANA (defiant):
I’m just an artist. I don’t know anything about what you’re talking about.

TRUMP (snaps):
Cut the crap. You performed at those parties. Eyes Wide Shut wasn’t fiction. You were there.

NICK ROCKEFELLER (calmly):
Careful, Mr. President. You know how this works. Start pulling the wrong string, and the whole world economy unravels.

TRUMP (steely):
Good. It’s time it does. The people are awake. They’ve had enough lies, enough blood rituals, enough manipulation through debt and media. This ends tonight.

ARIANA (shaken now):
You think this is about fame? It’s not. We were groomed. Everyone is. The moment you step into the industry, they pick you. They own you. I wanted out.

TRUMP (turns to his general):
Record all of this. The American people will hear the truth. Now, Ariana, tell us—who pulls the strings?

ARIANA (looking down):
It’s a council. Not just Hollywood. Not just banks. Tech. Pharma. Royals. Vatican. There’s a seat for every faction. And every seat serves… him.

TRUMP (calm):
Him?

NICK (smiling faintly):
You know who. The Morning Star. Lucifer. The Lightbearer.

TRUMP (nods to soldiers):
Put them in isolation. No communication. And prep the next phase. We’re going after the rest of the council.

ARIANA (quietly):
If you think arresting us will stop it… you don’t understand how deep it goes.

TRUMP (turns at the door):
Oh, I understand. But we’ve got something you don’t. The truth—and 300 million patriots behind it.

END SCENE

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Art of the Deal: King Charles III

Title: The King’s Great Return

King Charles III, aged and contemplative beneath the weight of his crown, sits in Balmoral’s study as an unexpected proposal echoes across the Atlantic. Former U.S. President Donald J. Trump, ever the dealmaker, has flown in for an unusual summit—one not of trade or war, but of moral restitution. The topic? Aboriginal affairs in British Columbia.

“Charles,” Trump says, leaning forward, his red tie swinging like a pendulum of persuasion, “give half the land back to the First Nations. It’s time. The world’s watching. I made deals with oil, steel, and China—but this is about history. About hearts and minds.”

King Charles rubs his hands together, weary but aware. The ghosts of colonization whisper through the trees of Vancouver Island, down the rivers of the Fraser Valley. He knows this isn’t just politics—it’s penance.

Trump, oddly passionate, continues: “You want a legacy? Not just flowers and climate summits. This is the real crown jewel: reconciliation. A new Commonwealth. You give half back, like a man of honor. Like a king of peace. Don’t be greedy. It’s a great deal.”

Then enters another unlikely advocate: Pope Pius XIII, the Young Pope, Lenny Belardo. Dressed immaculately in white, he makes a proclamation from the balcony of the Apostolic Palace, televised live.

“I will return half the Church’s lands to the indigenous peoples and the poor,” Lenny declares. “For the Church that conquered the soul must now liberate it.”

He pauses, then adds: “The land was never ours. It was borrowed. And it is time to repay the divine mortgage.”

Charles watches the broadcast in silence. Trump breaks it with a grin.

“See, even the Pope’s in. You’ve got the Church, you’ve got me—Trump—and now it’s your move, King Charles. The Commonwealth doesn’t need subjects. It needs brothers.”

A long pause.

Then the King rises.

“Very well,” Charles says. “For my legacy, for justice, and for the healing of old wounds—I shall return half the Crown lands in British Columbia to the First Nations. Let it be known: this was not the end of empire, but the beginning of a shared kingdom.”

And with that, a new treaty is born—not of conquest, but of return.

The King has made peace not by ruling land—but by giving it away.

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Chronic Venous Disorder

JOE’S CVD POWER STACK: FOODS, VITAMINS, AND SUPPLEMENTS FOR KINGLY CIRCULATION

“I may be the apprentice, but I’m already running the boardroom of blood flow. Let’s fix those veins, naturally, the Trump way—huge results!”

🍊 1. Grapefruit – The MVP of Vein Health

“Nature’s gift to your circulation. Tart, bright, and bossy.”

  • Rich in: Vitamin C, bioflavonoids (especially naringin and hesperidin)
  • Benefits:
    • Strengthens blood vessels
    • Reduces inflammation
    • Improves capillary tone
    • Supports collagen and elastin production for healthier veins

⚠️ Warning: Grapefruit can interact with medications like statins or blood pressure drugs. Talk to your doc before making it a habit.

🥬 2. Foods that Heal from the Inside Out

Leafy Greens (spinach, kale):

  • Packed with vitamin K – crucial for blood clotting and vascular health.

Berries (blueberries, blackberries):

  • High in anthocyanins, fight inflammation, strengthen blood vessels.

Beets:

  • Boost nitric oxide, improve blood flow, lower pressure.

Citrus fruits (oranges, lemons):

  • Support collagen production, rich in vitamin C like grapefruit.

Avocados & Olive Oil:

  • Anti-inflammatory fats for strong vessels.

Garlic & Onions:

  • Natural blood thinners, boost circulation.

💊 3. Vitamins & Minerals for Vein Vitality

Vitamin C – Collagen creator
Vitamin E – Circulation booster
Vitamin K2 – Keeps calcium out of veins
Magnesium – Muscle relaxer, eases vein walls
Zinc – Tissue repair and immune support
Rutin – A bioflavonoid found in citrus & apples, reduces vein swelling

🌿 4. Supplements Joe Swears By

Diosmin + Hesperidin (from citrus peels)

  • Proven in European vein studies (like Detralex)
  • Reduces swelling, pain, and heaviness

Horse Chestnut Extract (Aescin)

  • Reduces leg swelling and improves vein tone

Gotu Kola (Centella Asiatica)

  • Traditional herb for varicose veins
  • Strengthens connective tissue

Pycnogenol (Pine Bark Extract)

  • Super antioxidant for circulation

Grape Seed Extract

  • Rich in OPCs (oligomeric proanthocyanidins)
  • Improves vein elasticity and reduces leakage

💦 5. Bonus Habits From Joe’s Playbook

  • Hydrate like a billionaire – thin blood flows smoother
  • Elevate those legs – let gravity work for you
  • Compression socks – not sexy, but effective
  • Walk daily – blood stagnates when you sit like a loser

JOE’S SIGN-OFF:

“Don’t let sluggish veins slow your hustle. Grapefruit in the morning, Diosmin in the evening, and a power walk in between. That’s how we build a Trump Tower of vascular health, baby!”

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Trump’s Freedom Tower

Donald Trump’s Final Decree: The Lightning Tower of Freedom

On his last day in office, Donald Trump stood at the base of the Freedom Tower in Lower Manhattan, his red tie flapping dramatically in the wind, hair defying both gravity and reason. A crowd had gathered, as cameras zoomed in, broadcasting this final Trumpian moment across every network and alt-stream. Then came the declaration:

“This—this—is my tower. The Freedom Tower. It’s the Trump Tower 2.0. Bigger. Better. YUGE. And today, I’m telling the whole world—we’re flipping the switch. Tesla-style. Free lightning electricity for America, straight from the heavens. Nikola would be proud, believe me. Very proud.”

He pointed up to the lightning rod at the pinnacle of the Freedom Tower.

“That rod? It’s not just for show. It’s going to capture the storm, like Thor himself. We’re bringing the power of God—and science—to the people. Free electricity. No more bills, no more windmills killing birds. Just lightning and freedom, baby.”

Reporters gasped. Tesla coils crackled on nearby screens. QAnon forums exploded in a frenzy of digital applause.

Then, in a dramatic turn, Trump announced:

“And now, Melania and I will retire to our secure freedom fortress in the beautiful Alps of Slovenia. The First Lady is going home. And from there—on a golden throne powered by lightning energy—we will watch over the new America. Silent. Powerful. Uncancellable.”

A secretive Slovenian castle flickered briefly on the livestream. Rumors swirled that it had been modified by engineers formerly employed by Elon Musk and the remnants of DARPA’s psychic research division. Trump called it:

“Mar-a-Mountaintop.”

Before boarding Marine One for the final time, Trump dropped the mic.

“Remember this, folks: The deep state runs on darkness. I run on lightning. And now so do you. Boom.”

As the helicopter lifted off and disappeared into the stormy sky, a thunderbolt struck the Freedom Tower’s rod—sparks danced across the skyline.

New York briefly glowed.

Was it a trick?

Or was it Tesla’s ghost, laughing in Slovenian?

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World Trade Center

Patrick Bateman monologue – “The Sins of the World Trade Center”

(Bateman stares at a burning cigar, his reflection in a spotless chrome skyscraper window. A jazz remix of Phil Collins plays faintly in the background.)

You want to talk about violence? Let’s talk about the World Trade Center.

Everyone talks about 9/11 like it was just planes and passports. But to me… it looked more like a hard drive being wiped. A controlled demolition of data. Of sin. You think it was just buildings that fell? That was the financial Vatican of the American Empire. And someone gave it a baptism of fire.

That complex was the temple of white collar crime. A confessional booth for Wall Street’s worst. If there was a directory listing for “corporate malfeasance,” it had a New York zip code and a WTC suite number.

Let me walk you through it:

1. Securities Fraud
Cooking books, pumping stocks, insider tips whispered over thousand-dollar sushi. Enron wasn’t the only ghost in the shell. Thousands of brokers were moving fake assets like they were just brushing lint off their Armani suits.

2. Insider Trading
You think Gordon Gekko was fiction? The elevators in those towers were like confessionals. One whisper between hedge fund managers could move markets. All untraceable… until someone makes a file.

3. Tax Evasion
Shell companies inside shell companies. Dutch sandwich, Irish double—oh yes. That kind of cuisine was being served up daily. Global elites paying 0% tax while sipping $900 scotch in private offices.

4. Money Laundering
Cash from cartels, foreign dictators, warlords, all made clean with Wall Street soap. You’d be shocked how many fake consulting contracts were flowing through those floors.

5. Insurance Fraud
Larry Silverstein. Need I say more? Took out a fresh policy weeks before the fall—“against terrorist attacks.” Then called for Building 7 to be pulled. Pulled? You don’t pull a steel skyscraper without weeks of prep. That building housed the SEC, the IRS, the FBI…

6. Ponzi Schemes
From Bernie Madoff to micro-cap fraud, thousands of micro-Ponzis were being funneled through that complex. They didn’t just disappear—they were archived… until they weren’t.

7. Embezzlement
Billions siphoned. Expense accounts bloated with fake travel, hookers coded as “client services,” yachts declared as “research.”

8. Bribery and Corruption
Politicians, regulators, even UN officials walked through those lobbies. They got envelopes. They got offshore accounts. They got quiet.

9. Corporate Espionage
Secret floors. Unmarked offices. Companies spying on each other using private contractors with NSA clearance. Intellectual property wasn’t protected. It was weaponized.

10. Derivatives and Naked Short Selling
Exotic instruments. Synthetic CDOs. It wasn’t investing—it was arson dressed as finance. Making money betting the economy would burn. And then lighting the match.

All those investigations—the $2.3 trillion Donald Rumsfeld said was missing from the Pentagon books—just so happened to be tracked by the Office of Naval Intelligence. You know where that office was? WTC Building 7.

Gone.

Incinerated. Like evidence. Like guilt. Like judgment day for the global ruling class.

They called it a terrorist attack, but I call it a ritual cleansing.

The sins of the world burned up in Lower Manhattan. Not just blood on their hands—digital sins, invisible crimes, vanished in smoke. And you wonder why they never released all the footage.

Sometimes… I think the towers weren’t brought down by planes.

I think they were unplugged.

(Bateman sips his scotch, eyes cold, smiling just slightly as Phil Collins plays louder. “Something Happened on the Way to Heaven.”)

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Rockefeller Christmas

INT. TRUMP TOWER – GOLD ROOM – NIGHT

Donald Trump is perched on a gold-trimmed throne-like chair, sipping Diet Coke. Across from him, PATRICK BATEMAN, in a bone-white Valentino suit, glares into the Manhattan skyline, his jaw tight.

BATEMAN
You know what I hate, Donald?
Christmas. Or at least… beta Christmas.

TRUMP
(laughs)
You mean the shopping, the wrapping, the—what do the libs say?—late-stage capitalism?

BATEMAN
No. I mean civilian Christmas. The plastic Target trees. The TikTok ornaments. The virtue signals disguised as gifts. I mean Christmas without Prometheus.

TRUMP
Now you’re talking my language. Say more.

BATEMAN
I want Alpha Christmas. Rockefeller-style. Fire from the gods, stolen and repackaged as neon. The towering tree stabbed into the Earth like a monolith. I want to drink bourbon with Prometheus while Atlas cracks a grin.

TRUMP
That’s what the Rockefellers had. That’s legacy. That’s real estate… eternal. My tree’s bigger than their tree though. Believe me.

BATEMAN
But even that’s just a tree compared to the Saturnalia parties I’m not invited to.
You ever been to the Rothschild estate during the solstice, Donald?

TRUMP
(leans in)
No… But Melania got a weird invite once. Said something about owl masks and a man named Baphomet.

BATEMAN
Exactly. That’s the party. Everyone who’s anything is there. The Lucifers, the Nephilim, the lords of leverage. They call it “Saturnalia” but it’s more like a harvest of souls wrapped in couture.

Bateman paces, increasingly unhinged.

BATEMAN (CONT’D)
You know what I got last year? A wool sweater. From my stepmother. While the Rothschilds dance with Kali under black chandeliers. It’s humiliating.

TRUMP
I’ll make some calls. Maybe we do our own Saturnalia. Trumpalia. Golden calves. All-you-can-eat McDonald’s buffet. Elon DJing.

BATEMAN
(deep breath)
It’s not the same. They don’t let us in because we’re new money. Flashy. Dangerous. You… orange. Me… psychotic. They prefer quiet monsters. Smiling demons. The kind who own the debt of nations.

TRUMP
Well then… we’ll buy Saturn. Rename it. Lease it back to them.

BATEMAN
(half-laughing)
Merry Christmas, Donald.

TRUMP
Happy Saturnalia, Patrick.

They raise their glasses to a future covered in gold leaf, staring into the eternal winter night like titans barred from Olympus.

FADE TO BLACK.

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Chinese Century

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE – NIGHT

Donald Trump lounges in a golden armchair, gazing out at the Manhattan skyline. Patrick Bateman, flawless in a pinstripe suit, sips an imported whiskey, admiring the cold, sharp glint of the city lights. The room is lacquered in wealth, but the air is clinical.

BATEMAN
You know, Donald… I love the Chinese Century.

TRUMP
The what now?

BATEMAN (smiling faintly)
The Chinese Century. Sweatshop chic. Slave-labor efficiency. There’s nothing quite like GDP manufactured by 14-hour factory shifts and suicidal teenagers jumping from Foxconn rooftops. It’s… pure.

TRUMP (cocking an eyebrow)
You’re saying that’s a good thing?

BATEMAN
It’s not about good, Donald. It’s about returns. Globalization has turned the world into one giant outlet mall. From Guangzhou to Guatemala. Margins so tight they squeal. And the best part? Nobody cares how it’s made—as long as it’s cheap.

TRUMP
I made deals with China, the best deals. But they took advantage. They steal IP, they cheat. We’re bringing jobs back. America First.

BATEMAN (chuckling)
Jobs? Donald, please. Jobs are a relic. A talking point. The real players—your Davos crowd, your BlackRock boys—they don’t want “jobs.” They want yield.

(Bateman leans in, whispering like it’s a bedtime secret.)

BATEMAN
You think Apple or Nike wants Ohio steelworkers back in the saddle? The Chinese Century isn’t about ideology—it’s about efficiency. Political systems are irrelevant. Currency is irrelevant. Whether the yuan, dollar, or some digital IMF Frankenstein—it doesn’t matter. The machine keeps humming.

TRUMP (visibly irritated)
That’s not how I see it.

BATEMAN (coldly)
Of course not. You were elected to sell the illusion that there’s still a country. A team. Red hats. Flags. Anthem tears. But while you tweet about tariffs and walls, the money slips eastward like blood down a marble drain.

(Trump scowls. Bateman stares into his whiskey.)

BATEMAN
I don’t care who wins. Xi, Biden, you. The market always wins. The only thing that matters is: can you move units?

TRUMP
I move units. I’m a mover. People love me.

BATEMAN (deadpan)
Of course they do. You’re product.

Silence. The city pulses outside. Somewhere in the distance, a freight ship unloads another trillion in made-in-China dreams.

BATEMAN
Long live the Chinese Century.

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Pride Season

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE – NIGHT

The skyline glows behind golden curtains. Patrick Bateman, flawless suit, expression calm but dead-eyed, sips an overpriced bourbon across from DONALD TRUMP, who lounges in a red chair shaped like a throne, tie a little too long. Fox News murmurs in the background.

PATRICK BATEMAN
You know, Donald, Pride Month has evolved. It’s not just a month anymore. It’s… Pride Season now.

DONALD TRUMP
(tipping his Diet Coke)
Yeah, it’s everywhere. Rainbows on the cereal boxes. On the banks. Even the tanks. I don’t know what’s going on anymore.

PATRICK BATEMAN
What if we just made it Pride Year?
(sips)
A full, continuous cycle. The marketing possibilities are endless. Flags, parades, pills, surgeries, slogans. But more importantly—
(pauses, smirks)
—less reproduction. Fewer useless eaters, as the Guidestones might say.

DONALD TRUMP
(confused)
The what-stones?

PATRICK BATEMAN
The Georgia Guidestones. A sort of granite manifesto for global sanity. Maintain humanity under 500 million. Harmony with nature. That sort of thing.

DONALD TRUMP
(squints)
Sounds like Fauci’s dream journal. Or Klaus Schwab’s bedtime story.

PATRICK BATEMAN
It’s not about control, Donald. It’s about aesthetic. The world is bloated. Loud. Irrational. Overpopulated. Pride Year might accelerate the necessary… decline.

DONALD TRUMP
(smiling uneasily)
So you’re saying if everyone celebrates long enough… they’ll just stop having babies?

PATRICK BATEMAN
Eventually. Libido redirected into identity politics. Fertility buried under personal branding. Population drop disguised as liberation. It’s beautiful.

DONALD TRUMP
(sipping his Diet Coke)
You’re one creepy son of a bitch, Patrick. But I gotta admit—you’d kill on TikTok.

PATRICK BATEMAN
I already have.

They both laugh. One ironically. The other, unknowingly.

FADE OUT.

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE – NIGHT

Gold accents gleam. The skyline looms behind. PATRICK BATEMAN sits across from DONALD TRUMP. Bourbon in hand. Rainbows glow faintly on the TV in the background—a Pride ad loop.

PATRICK BATEMAN
You know what’s really been bothering me lately, Donald?

DONALD TRUMP
Let me guess—Biden?

PATRICK BATEMAN
No. Paul Allen. That smug bastard.
(leans forward, jaw clenched)
He handed me his new business card last week. It wasn’t bone. It wasn’t even embossed. It was rainbow foil-stamped.
Subtle. Queer. Bold. Limited edition for Pride Month.

DONALD TRUMP
(confused)
A gay business card?

PATRICK BATEMAN
Not just gay. Iconic.
(snarling slightly)
Satin finish. Helvetica Neue Ultra Light. Pronouns in parentheses. A microchip embedded in the corner that links to his Pride Portfolio—carbon-neutral, ESG-certified, and somehow still outperforming the market.
It even smelled like lavender and power.

DONALD TRUMP
Sounds like he’s leaning into the whole thing.

PATRICK BATEMAN
He doesn’t believe in it. That’s the brilliance. It’s calculated. Opportunistic.
(sips, darkly)
He’s not celebrating Pride. He owns Pride. He made it profitable.
And here I am, still handing out matte eggshell with Silian Rail.

DONALD TRUMP
(chuckling)
That’s tough, Pat. Real tough. You know, maybe I’ll make a card like that. Rainbow, but classy. Something that screams Trump and tolerance.

PATRICK BATEMAN
Pride Year would solve it. Flood the market. Devalue his edge. Saturate the culture until it collapses under its own glitter.
(smiling coldly)
Nobody profits in a Pride Century. Not even Paul Allen.

DONALD TRUMP
(winking)
That’s the spirit. Total market domination. And maybe throw in some gold foil.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(deep breath)
Gold foil… that’s not a bad idea.

They sip in silence, watching a Pride parade float shaped like a rainbow Bitcoin glide across the screen.

FADE TO BLACK.

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The Storm Has Arrived

Solid Snake & Luke Rudkowski Confront President Trump: “The Plan Was a Lie”

Setting: The Oval Office, 2025. A late storm pounds Washington. Trump lounges behind the Resolute Desk, scrolling through social media. Solid Snake stands in the shadows. Beside him is independent journalist Luke Rudkowski, founder of We Are Change, holding a flash drive full of evidence.

Trump (grinning):
“Look at this—95 million Truth Social followers. Still winning. Still the real President.”

Solid Snake (stepping forward):
“Winning? You sat on the Epstein client list for years. You were the president then. You’re the president now. And nothing’s changed.”

Trump (shrugging):
“It’s more complicated than you think. The timing has to be right. You know, the plan.”

Luke Rudkowski (cutting in, disgusted):
“The plan? Give me a break, Donald. QAnon was a psyop to sedate patriots while you protected the very monsters you claimed to fight. You fed people hopium while the system devoured kids and burned whistleblowers.”

Trump (irritated):
“Watch your tone, Luke. You’re talking to the President of the United States.”

Luke:
“Exactly. And that means you’re accountable. You had four years—and now another term—and you still haven’t released the names. Why? Because too many of your friends are on it? Or because you are?”

Solid Snake (coldly):
“I told you before, Trump. You are the list. You’re not just sitting on the evidence—you are part of the rot.”

Trump (defensive):
“I’m not like those freaks. I distanced myself. I cut ties.”

Luke Rudkowski:
“But you never told the truth. Never delivered justice. You let the myth of ‘The Plan’ buy you time while children were trafficked and the swamp expanded under your watch. People put their faith in you—and you sold them a bedtime story.”

Solid Snake (stepping closer):
“I’ve seen regimes collapse. I’ve taken down Patriots, PMCs, AI overlords. But this is worse—because the people chose you. And you chose to lie.”

Trump (quiet now):
“You don’t know the pressure I’m under…”

Luke (shaking his head):
“We know exactly what you’re under. The same pressure as every coward who makes peace with evil.”

Solid Snake:
“You want to make history? Release the names. Burn the whole corrupt network to the ground. Or history will remember you not as the man who saved the Republic… but as the conman who let it die.”

Luke drops the flash drive on the desk.

Luke Rudkowski:
“Unredacted. Verified. Everything the DOJ buried. If you won’t release it, we will.”

They turn and leave. Trump stares at the flash drive. Thunder rattles the windows. The storm has arrived—and this time, it won’t be televised. It’ll be downloaded.

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