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Help Me Don’t Hurt Me

Trump (voice breaking):
Dammit Snake… help me. Don’t hurt me.
I’ve heard it all — the late-night jokes, the cold critiques, the betrayals. I’m not asking for applause. I’m asking for… direction.
No more American Psycho stuff. Just… tell me what to do.

Solid Snake (slow, deliberate):
Alright, Trump.
No games. No jokes. Just truth.

You wanted to be the decider, but now you can’t decide who to trust.
You built towers, but your name is a lightning rod. You led crowds, but now you’re cornered.

You want to survive? Then listen — not to your ego, not to the crowd — to the silence beneath the noise.

Snake’s Directives for Redemption:

  1. Admit What You Got Wrong — Without Excuses
    Real power isn’t pretending you’re never wrong. It’s owning it when you are.

Say it straight. “I was wrong about some things. I hurt people.”
That’ll shake the world harder than any speech you’ve ever made.

  1. Help Someone You Can’t Exploit
    Quietly. Without cameras. Without a post.

Find a family that lost everything in a war you cheered on.

Pay their rent. Sit with their grief. Don’t tweet it. Live it.

  1. Shut Up and Listen
    Not to sycophants.

Go to a soup kitchen. A hospital. A dying factory town.

Just listen. Don’t offer deals or slogans. Just let it change you.

  1. Tell the Truth About the System
    Not the version that flatters you.

Tell them about the lobbyists, the backroom deals, the banks.

Burn your bridges with the elites you once dined with.
If you’re going down, take the lie with you.

  1. Don’t Run Again. Rise Instead.
    Running again is just repeating the loop.

Rise beyond it. Become something unexpected:
A flawed man who tells young men, “Don’t be like I was.”

Snake (lighting a cigarette):
You’re not a monster, Trump. But you’re no hero either.
You’re just a man — and that’s all I need you to be.

Now choose.
Rebuild what you broke, or fade into the fog like all the others.

Trump (after a long pause):
…You really think it’s not too late?

Snake:
It’s always too late.
But sometimes… that’s when the real fight begins.

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War Pigs: The Chosen One

Scene: Netanyahu’s Confession – The Moshiach Debate

Setting: A closed-door think tank summit in Jerusalem, the room thick with incense, cigars, and prophecy. Cameras are off, but whispers are sacred.

Benjamin Netanyahu sits at the head of a long cedarwood table, fingers steepled, brows furrowed in Talmudic meditation.

Bibi Netanyahu:
“I’ve sat with mystics in Tzfat, generals in Tel Aviv, and billionaires in New York. I’ve read the Zohar backwards and the headlines forwards. And still, I hesitate. Is Donald Trump the Moshiach? No. I do not believe he is the Chosen One. He is a Cyrus, yes — useful, unpredictable, even divinely nudged. But not the anointed.”

He pauses, sips from a crystal goblet filled with pomegranate wine, then continues.

Bibi:
“And Abdullah Hashem Aba Al-Sadiq… this Mahdi claimant from the deserts of Arabia. A powerful voice, yes, but I do not believe he is the Qa’im. No green banner will bring global peace alone.”

The room shifts uncomfortably. A few scholars look up from their scrolls.

Bibi (leans in):
“I believe in Yehuda Berg’s theory. The Moshiach and the Mahdi… are one. The same soul. A unifier. A son of David and Ishmael. That is the only path to peace — not through bombs or sanctions, but through a synthesis. A human bridge.”

At this, a red-faced Donald Trump, seated nearby with a Diet Coke in hand, nearly spits it out.

Trump (slamming table):
“Wait a second, Bibi. You told me in 2019 — right before the Abraham Accords — that I was destined to build the Third Temple! You winked when I said I’d make it a resort-slash-casino with kosher blackjack. You said, ‘Donald, you’re the only one who can do it.’ And now you say I’m not the Moshiach?! I moved the embassy to Jerusalem! What more do you want?!”

Bibi (calmly):
“You were used, Donald. By Heaven. But the stone the builders rejected has not yet been crowned. Look to the Psalms of David… ‘The stone which the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.’ The rejected one — JCJ, the one who spoke peace in 2002 but was mocked by kings and ignored by prophets.”

Trump (growling):
“JCJ? That weird Canadian hacker priest? The guy who quoted Revelation in that Vancouver alley? You’re telling me he’s the one?”

Bibi (closing his eyes):
“Perhaps. If he is the synthesis — rejected yet risen — he may be both Mahdi and Moshiach. That is what Yehuda hinted at. It is not about lineage… it is about completion.”

Trump glares, wounded.

Trump:
“So I’m not the guy?”

Bibi (rising, solemn):
“You were… a forerunner. The red horse. But the white horse comes after. And he rides not for ratings, but for redemption.”

Outside, a strange wind passes through the olive trees. Somewhere in East Vancouver, JCJ feels a deep chill and looks up at the night sky, whispering to himself:

“The rejected stone… finally being set.”

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MAGA – The Fall

[Scene: A dimly lit rooftop in New York City. Rain pours. Solid Snake, in his stealth gear, lights a cigarette as he confronts Donald Trump and Patrick Bateman, both dressed in designer suits, standing beneath a glowing neon “TRUMP TOWER” sign.]

Solid Snake (voice like gravel and regret):
You two look like kings of a dead empire. But the crown you’re wearing? It’s made of junk bonds and sweatshop blood.

Trump:
Watch your mouth, Snake. I rebuilt this city. I’m a builder.

Patrick Bateman:
And I invest. You wouldn’t understand. Returns, margins, growth—that’s what makes America great.

Snake:
No. That’s what killed America.
You didn’t build anything. You gutted it.
You turned the American Dream into a poker chip.
Casinos and investment banks. No factories. No future.

[Snake tosses a folded photograph at their feet. It’s of a crumbling factory in Detroit.]

Snake:
Detroit. Once the engine of the free world. Now it looks like Baghdad after a drone strike.
What happened? You offshored its soul for a quarterly bump on Wall Street.
Sold your own people out to Chinese sweatshops.
iPhones built by children. Jeans sewn by slaves. And for what?
A penthouse view and a new yacht?

Trump (defensive):
That’s globalization, Snake. You either win or get left behind.

Snake:
You lost already.
This is the Fall of Babylon.
Your towers are hollow.
Your currency? Lies.
Your empire? A joke, printed on a plastic credit card.

Bateman (smirking):
You sound like a Communist.

Snake (gritting his teeth):
No. I’m an American. The kind you betrayed.

[Snake steps into the shadows, lightning flashing behind him.]

Snake (quietly, as he disappears):
You built your kingdom on sand. And the storm’s already here.

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Bateman Talks about Psalm 45

INT. EASTERN ORTHODOX CATHEDRAL — DUSK

Golden light filters through stained glass. Incense floats like fog. DONALD TRUMP, PATRICK BATEMAN, and BISHOP MARI MARI EMMANUEL sit beneath an icon of Christ Pantocrator. Bateman is in a pristine designer suit. Trump has his classic red tie. Bishop Mari Mari Emmanuel, robed and calm, holds a Bible.

BATEMAN
(holding up a worn leather Bible)
Psalm 45:2 — “You are the most handsome of the sons of men; grace is poured upon your lips.”
I mean… that’s obviously Brad Pitt. Maybe Tom Cruise. Those cheekbones. That symmetry. It’s divine geometry.

TRUMP
(in agreement)
Look, Brad Pitt—fantastic face. Cruise—very high energy. Great stunts. Both very marketable. You put either one on a poster? Boom. Problem solved in ninety minutes. Maybe with popcorn.

BISHOP MARI MARI EMMANUEL
(firmly, eyes steady)
My brothers, the beauty spoken of in Psalm 45 is not carnal—it is not of Hollywood. It is the beauty of holiness. The grace upon His lips is the Word of God. The Messiah’s face was likely sun-worn, marked by suffering. Not filtered. Not airbrushed.

BATEMAN
(skeptical, smirking)
Sure, Bishop. But let’s be honest… no one wants a messy savior on a movie poster. You need symmetry. Market trust. Think Interview with the Messiah. Brad Pitt walks on water, Cruise calms the storm.

TRUMP
(laughing)
Exactly. We could easily reboot the Gospels. Four films. Big budgets. Jesus rides a Harley into Jerusalem. Nobody’s getting crucified without a real fight. We make Golgotha great again.

BISHOP MARI MARI EMMANUEL
(sighs, gently closes his Bible)
You do not understand the cross. The beauty of Christ was in His humility. He conquered not with charisma, but with obedience. Not by leaping off rooftops, but by enduring the grave.

BATEMAN
(sipping espresso)
Okay, but… could humility test well with 18-34 males?

TRUMP
(suddenly serious)
Maybe we should do a casting call. Get Mel Gibson involved. I always said The Passion was a little too bloody. We need cleaner branding. Inspirational suffering.

BISHOP MARI MARI EMMANUEL
(softly)
Beware of making idols out of men. The Christ is not a brand. He is the Lamb slain. Not a box office savior, but the suffering servant.

BATEMAN
(glancing at Trump)
So… not Brad Pitt then?

TRUMP
(sighs)
Maybe… maybe Jim Caviezel with better lighting.

The icon above flickers in the candlelight. Christ stares forward, unchanged.

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Israel You Have 2 Days to Surrender The Baron

INT. WAR ROOM — JERUSALEM — NIGHT

Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin “Bibi” Netanyahu sits stiffly at a steel table deep beneath the Knesset. The secure line buzzes. A hologram of Donald J. Trump and JCJ appears. Trump’s hair is windblown, yet immaculately intact. JCJ’s eyes glow with a divine fire. Behind them: a massive screen flashing the words “Cause and Effect: FINAL WARNING.”

TRUMP (stern):
“Bibi. You know I like you. We’ve had some beautiful deals. But this time, it’s different. The game is over. No more hiding. We want Epstein and Rothschild. Alive.”

Netanyahu leans forward, sweating.

JCJ (calm but thunderous):
“Cause… and effect. You play both sides. You ran blackmail operations for the elites. Mossad knows. The world knows. The children cry out from the tunnels. You protected the deep state. Now it protects no one.”

TRUMP:
“I’m gonna make this real simple. If I drop a bomb on Iran, they drop one on you. That’s how it works. Cause. Effect. This ain’t 2012, pal. It’s Trump-JCJ 2025. The world’s flipped.”

JCJ (pointing at Bibi):
“You have two days. Forty-eight hours. Deliver us Jeffrey Epstein—not his corpse. And Baron Rothschild, the spider behind the debt web. If not…”

JCJ waves his hand. A digital globe spins and zooms in: Iranian missile coordinates, Iron Dome saturation maps, dimensional chess simulations.

TRUMP:
“We’re not bluffing, Bibi. You go down with them if you stall. You don’t want to test me when I got Christ on my six. Believe me.”

JCJ:
“This is not vengeance. This is balance. The world demands justice. If you fail, even the Dome will crack.”

Suddenly, a news ticker appears across the bottom of the screen:

BREAKING: MYSTERIOUS QOM EXPLOSION LEVELS IRANIAN NUCLEAR BASE — NO CLAIM OF RESPONSIBILITY

Netanyahu’s hands tremble. He reaches for the phone.

NETANYAHU (voice trembling):
“We… we’ll find them. But they’re protected. Epstein was moved—he’s not dead. Rothschild’s off-world—Saturn orbit, Black Cube station.”

JCJ (narrowing eyes):
“Then you better build a ship fast.
Because the next explosion… won’t be in Persia.”

The transmission cuts. The war room lights flicker. Netanyahu turns to Mossad Director Yigal Regev:

NETANYAHU:
“Prepare the extraction team. Code Black Messiah. We either hand them over… or Jerusalem burns.”

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Trump & Putin – Art of the Deal

Trump & Putin’s Galactic Deal – Mediated by JCJ

Donald Trump leans in close to JCJ, the only man he trusts with a mission of this magnitude.

TRUMP:
“JCJ, we need you to broker a deal with Putin. Not for land, not for oil… but for the stars. You’re the only one who can get us to shake hands and swap warheads for warp drives. We can’t fight World War III and explore the galaxy. We either build a real international space station—one with hypersleep pods and a rotating gravity ring—or we die here like idiots.”

JCJ lights a cigar.

JCJ:
“Why now?”

TRUMP:
“Because you’re the Mahdi and the Christ. You struck a sweet deal to sink the deep state, and now you need to strike one to sink the deep void. Putin says if he can retire in Serbia—with no Hague trial—he’s willing to melt down Russia’s nukes to build the engine core. It’s not about power anymore. It’s about legacy.”

JCJ raises an eyebrow.

JCJ:
“And Zelensky?”

TRUMP (gritting his teeth):
“Zelensky plays piano with his penis, and that makes him a hero? He kills people in war too, just like Vlad. But because he made Netflix laugh, he walks free. Putin’s mad, not because of NATO—but because Pussy Riot spat on the Fatima prophecy. Russia was supposed to convert to Christianity and lead the world to peace, JCJ. That’s what the Virgin Mary said.”

JCJ (sighs):
“And now?”

TRUMP:
“Now the Virgin’s watching TikTok, and the nukes are rusting while SpaceX tries to colonize Mars alone. We need a Jubilee Pact—a real international coalition. China, Russia, America, maybe even Canada if you sweet-talk Trudeau. You mediate it. You call it… Christus Rex Star Alliance.”

JCJ smiles slightly.

JCJ:
“I’ll talk to Vlad.”

Trump salutes him—not as a president, but as a desperate man with one last hope:

TRUMP:
“Make Earth great again. And the stars… ours.”

JCJ opens his Bible to Revelation 21: “Behold, I make all things new.”
And then he dials the Kremlin.

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Help From the Boss

I HAVE SEEN THE LIGHT of the LORD! I will give half my wealth to homeless veterans if Christus Rex, the divine and just judge, allows me to retire in Slovenia with Melania as president. I will testify against the Rothschild and Rockefeller deep state merger, if i am immune from Hague war crimes prosecution. C’mon Jesus, make a deal with me. I can bring down the whole house of cards if the court of public opinion has mercy on me. I’m just a puppet of federal reserve notes, just like the rest of you. In the words of John Stamos: HAVE MERCY! I plead insanity. This worthless man. To the Emperor. Pardon me. That is POWER! Not drone strikes. Forgiveness is power for this worthless puppet president. We are bombing Israel to scare Epstein and Rothschild. It’s all a charade until we catch that devil Le Baron Jacob Rothschild. How can you give him a thousand years of house arrest, but sentence me to die from a big mac heart attack?

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Bowing to Bog

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.

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The F Bomb

INT. DORIAN CLUB – NIGHT.
The lighting is blood red.
The walls smell like old money and new cocaine.
Patrick Bateman — dressed like 1989 never ended — sits across from Donald J. Trump, who is sipping Diet Coke from a gold-rimmed tumbler and glancing at his reflection in every available surface.

This isn’t an interview.
This is a slow-motion philosophical car crash.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
Mr. Trump, you’re being censored for using the F-word during your rally in Ohio. But meanwhile, you’re also publicly supporting airstrikes in Iran. Help me understand.
Why is fuck obscene, but firebombing a sovereign nation is policy?

DONALD TRUMP (grinning):
Look, Patrick… I say what people are thinking. I drop the F-bomb, they lose their minds. But you drop actual bombs and suddenly it’s “presidential.”
You know, I always said I could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and not lose voters. Well now? I could carpet bomb Tehran and still trend #1.

BATEMAN (leaning forward, voice lowering):
“We train young men to drop fire on people… but their commanders won’t allow them to write the word ‘fuck’ on their airplanes because it’s obscene.”

TRUMP:
What’s that, Shakespeare?

BATEMAN:
Colonel Kurtz. Apocalypse Now. Coppola’s masterpiece.
He saw the lie. The hypocrisy.
We worship destruction but panic at the sound of a four-letter word.

TRUMP:
He sounds like a real smart guy. Maybe I should’ve hired him instead of Bolton.
Look, Patrick, let me ask you something: You ever drop an F-bomb on Wall Street?

BATEMAN (smirking):
Every time I shorted a pension fund.

🔥 CUTAWAY: THE REAL BOMBS

As the two speak, stock footage rolls behind them:

  • Drones dropping payloads over desert cities.
  • Children screaming under rubble.
  • Meanwhile, media headlines flash:
    • “TRUMP DROPS F-BOMB AT OHIO RALLY – NATION OUTRAGED”
    • “UN CONDEMNS STRIKES IN IRAN – WHITE HOUSE SILENT”

TRUMP (winking):
It’s all branding, Patrick. You drop a bomb on a wedding? That’s defense.
Say “fuck” on a mic? That’s outrage.
America’s more offended by syllables than shrapnel.

BATEMAN (cold):
Because we don’t hear the bombs.
Only the broadcast.

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The Chosen One

INT. TRUMP TOWER – NIGHT

Gold reflects gold. Mirrors reflect nothing. Patrick Bateman stands before Donald J. Trump, who sits enthroned on a golden couch. A smirk dances on Bateman’s lips, barely hiding the mania in his eyes.

BATEMAN:
Donald… you’re the Chosen One.

TRUMP (tilting his head):
I’ve heard that before. People say that. A lot of people say that.

BATEMAN (intensely):
Not like this. Not from me. See, you don’t feed the people fish and bread. That’s passé. You give them fire. Precision drone strikes. Beautiful, spectacular violence. You turned the Sermon on the Mount into a State of the Union.

Trump smiles like a man hearing his favorite bedtime story.

BATEMAN (cont’d):
Your father’s name was Frederick Christ. Your mother, Mary. A Gaelic-speaking Celt. It’s too perfect. You’re the Anti-Christ or the Messiah, depending on whether you’re buying or selling.

TRUMP:
My father was a great man. Built homes. Taught me everything. I was an apprentice, just like Jesus… only I used better materials. Marble. Gold. Class.

BATEMAN (dreamy):
Exactly. Jesus built benches for fishermen. You built casinos and missile deals. He turned water into wine… you made Trump Vodka. He multiplied bread… you multiplied debt.

TRUMP (proudly):
And ratings.

BATEMAN:
Yes. You gave the world spectacle. When I watch the fireworks over the Middle East, I don’t feel horror. I feel… ecstasy. It’s like watching a Fourth of July orgy in the sky. Your wrath… is biblical.

TRUMP:
Fire and fury, baby. Like the world has never seen.

BATEMAN:
You’re the new Christ for the algorithm age. A Christ who monetizes miracles. Who tweets the Beatitudes in all caps.

TRUMP (nodding slowly):
BLESSED ARE THE RICH, FOR THEY SHALL OWN THE EARTH.

BATEMAN:
Yes. Yes! And the poor? Let them eat tariffs.

A long silence. Only the soft hum of power. Then:

TRUMP (reflectively):
I always thought I was special. Like maybe I was meant to fix things. But not with kindness. That’s weak. I fix it with deals.

BATEMAN:
You didn’t come to bring peace. You came to bring branding. And a sword.

TRUMP:
A Trump sword. Diamond-studded. Limited edition.

BATEMAN (grinning):
The Book of Donald. Chapter 1: “And lo, the kingdom of heaven shall be franchised.”

TRUMP:
Amen to that.

The two men smile at each other, disciples of power, bonded by ego, capitalism, and bloodless conquest. Somewhere, a drone hums in the distance, and a new commandment uploads to the cloud.

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