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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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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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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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