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Galactic Senate

INT. GALACTIC SENATE – CORUSCANT – NIGHT

The chamber echoes with the cold hum of floating platforms and murmuring alien delegates. All eyes turn to the central podium where Donald “The Chosen One” Trump stands in resplendent golden robes, embroidered with stars, eagles, and golf clubs. His hair is extra force-sensitive tonight—suspended by some unknown dark energy.

A hush falls. Trump raises both hands like a preacher at a rally.

TRUMP
Senators… galactic people… space losers… I stand before you—not just as a businessman, not just as a former president, but as the Chosen One. The prophecy said someone would bring balance. Well, guess what? I prefer to bring dominance.

Cut to: Patrick Bateman, in a shimmering silver suit, sitting in the front row, applauding violently—like he’s at a Whitney Houston concert. His eyes are glassy with obsession and purpose.

BATEMAN
(Whispering under breath)
Yes. Yes. This is it. Pure myth made flesh. This is better than Huey Lewis.

TRUMP
They said I couldn’t do it. They said I wasn’t Jedi enough. Too rich. Too orange. But the Force? The Force loves winners. And I’m the biggest winner this galaxy has ever seen.

Trump lifts his hand and force-chokes a heckling Rodian senator who shouted “You’re no Skywalker!”

TRUMP (CONT’D)
I built towers. Now I build empires. I grabbed the Force—and I made it pay rent.

BATEMAN
(Rises to his feet, clapping harder)
You ARE the Chosen One, sir. You must embrace the dark side. There’s no other way. Without it… Melania will die. You saw it in your dreams, didn’t you?

TRUMP
(Smirking)
I did. She was crying… wrinkled. Terrible lighting.

BATEMAN
Then you know what must be done. Palpatine failed because he lacked brand control. Vader fell because of guilt. But you? You don’t feel guilt. You feel greatness.

TRUMP
That’s true. So true. And I won’t just master the dark side—I’ll license it. Trump™ Sith Academies, opening this fall.

GALACTIC SENATORS gasp.

BATEMAN
(Shouting)
YES! DESTROY THE JEDI! BRING ORDER! MAKE THE EMPIRE GREAT AGAIN!

TRUMP
And after we build the wall around Endor… we will unleash Order 88. Stronger than 66. Twice the power.

BATEMAN
(Eyes wide)
What is Order 88?

TRUMP
I don’t know yet. But it’s gonna be fantastic. The best order. Everyone says so.

FADE OUT as the Imperial March is remixed with Kid Rock and power chords.
The Senate erupts in chaos. Bateman just smiles. The galaxy has found its god.

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Garbage

INT. MAR-A-LAGO GARAGE – NIGHT

Chrome and gold everywhere. Spotless floors. A monstrous, custom Trump-brand GARBAGE TRUCK sits center-stage—polished, armored, and inexplicably patriotic. The words “TRUMP SANITATION – DRAIN THE SWAMP” gleam in gold leaf across the side.

Donald Trump, in a red hat and silk tie, leans against it with satisfaction. Patrick Bateman circles the truck slowly, inspecting it like a piece of art.

TRUMP
Beautiful, isn’t she? Best garbage truck in the world. Runs on diesel and raw American ambition. I call her “The Big Dumper.”

BATEMAN
(Smirking)
It’s very… Roman Empire meets Staten Island.

TRUMP
Exactly. See, nobody talks about the garbage men. But if they went on strike—boom. Black plague. Rats. Chaos. Civilization crumbles. It’s the trash that keeps the empire clean.

BATEMAN
(Thoughtful)
True. They hold the fabric together more than Congress ever has.

TRUMP
But here’s the real question, Patrick…
(Steps closer, lowering voice)
What if we went on strike?

BATEMAN
(Still circling)
Society loses its masks. The system collapses—but with better suits. No one to sell the dream. No one to project strength. No alpha signals. No cold stares in boardrooms. Just… weakness. Wet tofu handshakes.

TRUMP
The whole stock market would cry. Imagine the Dow without me tweeting. Without you chopping wood in thousand-dollar cufflinks. There’d be no noise, no edge. Just… Canada.

BATEMAN
(Smiles)
The world might actually get better.

TRUMP
(Laughs)
Maybe. But it would also get boring. Weak. Like eating tofu on a paper plate. I’m not retiring to a cave. You?

BATEMAN
No. I need to be seen. I need mirrors. I need competition. I need something to win.

TRUMP
Exactly. We’re the sharks, Patrick. If we stop swimming, the ocean turns into a YMCA pool party.

BATEMAN
(Grins)
So we keep going. For civilization.

TRUMP
For the optics.

BATEMAN
And the bloodlust.

TRUMP
And the brand.

They both turn to admire “The Big Dumper” again. A bald eagle screeches in the distance—or maybe it’s just a malfunctioning leaf blower.

FADE OUT.

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McDonald’s Stock Prices

INT. PATRICK BATEMAN’S APARTMENT – NIGHT
Chrome surfaces gleam. Huey Lewis plays softly in the background. Bateman, in a Valentino robe, is watching archival footage of Donald Trump’s infamous White House McDonald’s feast—Big Macs piled high like a pagan altar to cholesterol and capitalism.

BATEMAN
(Whispers, almost reverently)
Beautiful. Just beautiful.

He slowly pours himself an imported mineral water and walks over to the television, pausing the image of Trump grinning behind a fortress of Quarter Pounders.

BATEMAN (CONT’D)
A man who feeds champions with food from the people’s temple. No Michelin stars, no fussy menus. Just processed meat, precision-engineered for profit and addiction. Trump doesn’t cater to elitism. He annihilates it. He feeds athletes like they’re interns at Merrill Lynch. And they ate it up.

BATEMAN (to himself)
Ronald would be proud.

He walks over to his laptop, opens a new tab on Bloomberg, and types: “MCD: NYSE.” The McDonald’s stock ticker opens—Bateman smirks.

BATEMAN (CONT’D)
The killer clown’s numbers are up. Grease is bullish. Obesity is a national investment strategy. That dinner was the ultimate brand alignment—Trump and McDonald’s: the sultan and the jester of modern empire.

CUT TO:

INT. RONALD MCDONALD HOUSE – DAY (FANTASY)
Bateman, in a designer apron, gracefully hands out Happy Meals to sick children in hospital beds. He’s smiling—vacant, perfect.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
There’s something pure about it. Service. Giving back. Feeding children in Ronald’s house, under his golden arches. Not just any food—his food. Branded sustenance. The body count? Impressive. A slow attrition campaign against the immune system. But at least they’re smiling.

A small girl in a wheelchair smiles as Bateman offers her a Filet-O-Fish. He kneels beside her.

BATEMAN
(Sincerely, yet hollow)
Would you like extra ketchup?

She nods. He hands it over like a communion wafer.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
Charity is cleaner when it’s corporate. It’s not about healing—it’s about presentation. Calories disguised as comfort. Smiles funded by shareholders. And under every Happy Meal toy? A lesson in dependence.

CUT BACK TO:

INT. PATRICK BATEMAN’S APARTMENT – NIGHT
He clicks “Buy” on McDonald’s stock. Smiles.

BATEMAN
Ronald, you magnificent clown… you’re not just killing children. You’re killing it.

FADE TO BLACK.

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Pizza

INT. UPSCALE MANHATTAN RESTAURANT – NIGHT

Patrick Bateman sits across from a group of impeccably dressed Wall Street colleagues. The table is littered with artisanal pizzas, untouched but photogenic. A massive TV in the corner plays muted news footage of Donald Trump at a campaign stop—he’s eating pizza, backwards. Crust first.

BATEMAN
(Locks eyes with the screen, glass of Bordeaux halfway to his lips)
Do you see that?

CRAIG
What?

BATEMAN
He’s eating the crust first.

DAVID
Yeah… that’s just weird.

BATEMAN
(Slowly, reverently)
It’s not weird. It’s dominance. It’s pre-emptive. It’s a hostile takeover of the entire pizza eating experience. No foreplay. No hesitation. Just the hard part—first.

TIM
You think Trump’s a food alpha now?

BATEMAN
Trump isn’t just a food alpha—he’s the alpha and the omega. He ends the reign of the triangle. He dismantles the sauce-first establishment. That crust move? It’s not just about pizza. It’s about power.

DAVID
I think he just didn’t want cheese on his tie.

BATEMAN
(Scoffs)
That’s what they want you to think. But only a man who owns the boardroom, the real estate, and the lunch table would dare invert culinary ritual in front of cameras. Eating pizza crust first is postmodern warfare. It’s a declaration: I don’t follow form. I am the form.

CRAIG
So what—you eat your crust first now?

BATEMAN
(Cold smile)
Only if I want to win.

Bateman slowly lifts his slice, flips it in his hand, and takes a brutal bite of crust. No cheese. No sauce. Just declaration.

BATEMAN (CONT’D)
This is how a president eats when he’s not trying to impress you. He’s trying to consume you.

FADE OUT.

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On Greta

INT. TRUMP TOWER – NIGHT – LUXURY LOUNGE

Trump and Patrick Bateman sip chilled Dom Pérignon while lounging on cream leather couches. Outside, the city swelters in late-summer heat, but the AC hums softly—a cold, capitalist whisper.

TRUMP
So this Greta girl… what’s her deal again? Always scowling, yelling about the weather?

BATEMAN
She’s a Swedish psy-op, Donald. A flat-pack climate prophet—basically an IKEA product. Comes with moral outrage, Allen key not included.

TRUMP
(Snickers)
IKEA. That explains the accent. You ever notice how she talks like she’s assembling an apocalypse?

BATEMAN
Exactly. “How dare you”… like we’re the villains for enjoying a little air conditioning. She’s threatening the entire HVAC industry, Donald. The very essence of our modern condition.

TRUMP
You know I love air conditioning. It’s tremendous. Nothing wrong with ice-cold air on a hot day. The best air. American air. Not Swedish guilt air.

BATEMAN
She wants a carbon tax, Don. On everything. Jets. Steaks. Even lawnmowers. I say we beat her to it.

TRUMP
Beat her to it how?

BATEMAN
Tax exhaled breath. Human breath. Every inhale, every exhale—carbon. We monetize lungs, Donald. Patriot breath credits. Red, white, and profitable.

TRUMP
(Brows furrowed in mock thought)
A breathing tax. Interesting. Everyone breathes, even the poor. Especially the poor. Could be huge.

BATEMAN
It’s genius. They’ll beg for ventilator exemptions. We install Trump-branded breath meters. Link them to social credit scores. Greta won’t know what hit her.

TRUMP
(Laughs)
We’ll call it the Freedom Breath Act. Makes it sound like a liberty thing. Libertarians will eat it up.

BATEMAN
And when they protest, we blame IKEA. Say they’re building climate prisons with hex keys and recycled guilt.

TRUMP
(Smug)
Patrick, this is why I keep you around. You’re a killer idea man.

BATEMAN
(Smiling coldly)
And you’re the only man who could sell bottled air to a suffocating nation.

Both men clink glasses. The AC blasts colder. Outside, Greta glares on a Times Square billboard, but inside, ice cubes tinkle like coins in a golden glass.

FADE OUT.

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Stop Whining

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE DINING ROOM – NIGHT

A bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild 1961 breathes between two titans of ego. The city glows below them like a subdued kingdom. Donald Trump wears a silk robe with “45” embroidered in gold. Patrick Bateman, razor-sharp in a Brioni dinner jacket, decants the wine like a surgeon handling blood. On the TV: an old clip of Arnold Schwarzenegger barking, “Stop whining!”

DONALD TRUMP
(scoffs, watching Arnold)
There he goes again—“Stop whining!” Easy for him to say. He’s the Terminator. Married into the Kennedys. Has a tank in his garage. And muscles the size of Rhode Island.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(deadpan, pouring Trump’s glass)
It’s always the musclemen and money priests telling us to shut up. Arnold. Warren Buffet. The Rothschilds. It’s like a chorus of oligarchs anonymous.

DONALD TRUMP
(snorts)
Buffet lectures me on taxes. Arnold tells me to stop whining. Meanwhile, we’re sitting here drinking wine worth more than most Americans’ annual salary—and we’re still not even close to Rothschild rich.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(raising his glass)
You ever meet a Rothschild?

DONALD TRUMP
(shaking his head)
No. I invited one to Mar-a-Lago once. They sent back a polite rejection letter… written in Latin.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(dark chuckle)
They don’t go on Forbes lists. They own the lists. Their idea of poor is probably us drinking a bottle from the 1960s instead of something from Napoleon’s cellar.

DONALD TRUMP
(grumbles)
I own towers. Golf courses. A Boeing 757. And still—somehow—I’m a peasant to them.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(swirling his glass)
We’re nouveau royalty, Donald. Flash. Gold. Hotels. But they’re dynastic. Old money. Banking bloodlines. Illuminati whispers and Swiss vaults. We’re rich. They’re immortal.

DONALD TRUMP
(half-laughing)
And Arnold thinks we need him to motivate us? He’s a movie star from Austria who got famous pretending to be a robot. Great guy, by the way, but I don’t need a Terminator telling me to work harder.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(mocking tone)
“Stop whining,” he says—as if our problem is attitude. Not the fact that every central bank probably owes the Rothschilds interest payments until the end of time.

DONALD TRUMP
(toasting)
To being poor—by billionaire standards.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(clinks glasses)
And to whining about it—with style.

They drink. The Rothschild bottle gleams in the low light like an artifact of another world. On the screen, Arnold flexes. Somewhere far away, the Rothschilds don’t notice—or care.

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Partying With Epstein

INT. TRUMP TOWER – NIGHT – PRIVATE CIGAR LOUNGE

Low light. Leather-bound walls. The fireplace glows like a confession booth in hell. Donald Trump reclines in a velvet armchair, swirling cognac. Patrick Bateman sits across from him, intense, manicured, and gleaming with Wall Street detachment. They’ve been drinking, talking legacy. Now the conversation veers into darker territory.

DONALD TRUMP
(half-grinning, eyes glazed with nostalgia)
You know, Patrick, back in the day—Palm Beach, Mar-a-Lago—we owned the night. Models, heiresses, deals over daiquiris. And yeah… Epstein showed up sometimes.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(smirks, voice sharp as a straight razor)
Of course he did. He was a myth in motion. Ghost of Manhattan’s secret desires. Everyone partied with him—until it became inconvenient.

DONALD TRUMP
(defensive, waving a hand)
Listen, I banned him. Long time ago. People don’t talk about that. They just like to connect dots. But I draw lines. Clear ones.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(coolly)
Lines in the sand? Or lines on a mirrored table?

(beat)
Let’s be honest, Donald—Epstein was a financier of fantasy. A curator of taboos. He offered the illusion of control to men who already had too much of it.

DONALD TRUMP
(leaning in, voice low)
I was never controlled. Never compromised. That’s the difference. He tried to orbit me like I was the sun. But I don’t revolve around anyone.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(deadpan)
Naturally. He was a Gatsby without class. You’re more like a golden Caligula—untouchable, vulgar, worshipped by millions. And somehow… still the underdog.

DONALD TRUMP
(smirks)
Exactly. They throw scandals at me like tomatoes. I eat them. I make ketchup.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(laughs, then serious)
But you knew what he was, Donald. You felt it. That predator energy. You both had it. Difference is, you chose the spotlight. He chose the shadows.

DONALD TRUMP
(grimly)
And look where the shadows got him.

(beat)
Let’s just say… he didn’t kill himself. You and I both know that.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(cold smile)
Of course not. Power doesn’t die—it changes hands.

The fire crackles. Silence lingers. Both men drink, surrounded by portraits, ghosts, and the weight of what they’ll never say publicly.

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Trans Weightlifting

INT. TRUMP TOWER – NIGHT — PRIVATE STUDY

The room smells like leather and power. Fox News plays quietly on the TV in the background—trans weightlifting controversy. Donald Trump lounges in a gold-trimmed armchair, half-watching. Patrick Bateman stands by the window in a sleek charcoal suit, swirling a glass of Bordeaux like it’s blood.

DONALD TRUMP
(raising an eyebrow)
You see this, Patrick? A biological man just smashed the women’s weightlifting record. They say it’s brave. I say—it’s bench pressing biology.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(dryly)
Brave? Donald, I’ve seen braver things in a Dior dressing room. This isn’t progress. It’s performance art with protein powder.

DONALD TRUMP
(smirking)
They say I should be inclusive. I am inclusive. I just think it’s unfair. You shouldn’t be able to walk into a competition with testosterone in your veins and walk out with a trophy in a wig.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(nods)
It’s not sport. It’s spectacle. Like giving a Wall Street banker an Olympic medal for insider trading—technically impressive, morally bankrupt.

(pauses)
Also, a word of advice, Donald: never buy a Trans Am.

DONALD TRUMP
(confused)
The car?

PATRICK BATEMAN
Yes. Pontiac. Sleek. Masculine. But in today’s culture? A PR disaster waiting to happen. You drive a Trans Am, and GLAAD might show up with torches and hashtags.

DONALD TRUMP
(chuckling)
I thought it stood for “Trans-American.” Now it’s “Transgender-American?”

PATRICK BATEMAN
Exactly. Semantics are landmines. You say “transmission,” they hear “transition.” You say “manpower,” they hear “microaggression.”

DONALD TRUMP
(laughing harder)
It’s like walking on woke eggshells. They tried to cancel me for saying “manhole cover.” What am I supposed to say? Personhole?

PATRICK BATEMAN
(stone-faced)
Utility aperture, Donald. Get with the program.

They share a laugh—two titans of obliviousness standing proudly against the cultural tide, refusing to read the room but owning the building it’s in.

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The Fresh Prince

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE LOUNGE – NIGHT

The skyline glows behind them. Gold trim glistens. A fire crackles beneath a massive portrait of Donald Trump holding an American flag in one hand and a Big Mac in the other. Patrick Bateman lounges on a leather sofa, glass of bourbon in hand, eyes gleaming with admiration. The TV plays a rerun of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air—jazzy theme and all.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(casual, fascinated)
I heard you once offered to buy the Fresh Prince house. Bel-Air. That colonial with the columns. Very tasteful. Suburban opulence with a touch of nouveau nostalgia.

DONALD TRUMP
(nods, reclined confidently)
I did. Tremendous property. I said, “Will, if you ever want to sell, let me know.” The house had… character. History. You know I’m great with real estate, and even better with race relations.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(leans in, eyes alight)
Of course you are. I mean, you stepping into that house—some would say it was controversial. But I say it was heroic. Like a white Rosa Parks moment. Sitting where they said you shouldn’t.

DONALD TRUMP
(smirks)
Exactly. I don’t see race—I see value. The media doesn’t get that. They think I’m obsessed with walls. I’m not. I just want the right people in the right rooms. And Bel-Air? It needed Trump.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(swirling his drink)
And let’s be honest… the germs. That house had hip-hop residue. But you stepped in anyway. Bold. Risky. Revolutionary. Like shaking hands with the help, but owning the help.

DONALD TRUMP
(laughs)
I told Will—I bring Lysol, I bring deals. I clean things up. That’s what I do. They should thank me.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(sincerely)
I do thank you, Donald. For all of it. For ending apartheid, for showing the world that real estate knows no color. I mean, who else could make Mar-a-Lago the most integrated palace in Palm Beach?

DONALD TRUMP
(grins, proud)
Nelson Mandela? Great guy. But he didn’t have my negotiation skills. I told them—if we’re going to end apartheid, let’s make a deal.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(dead serious)
You deserve a Nobel. Not for peace. For taste.

They clink glasses. The world burns outside in culture wars and collapsing civility—but inside, in this golden penthouse, history is rewritten with confidence, charisma, and complete detachment from reality.

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Battle of the Billionaires

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PRIVATE GYM – NIGHT

Donald Trump does light curls with golden dumbbells. Patrick Bateman, flawless in an Armani tracksuit, wipes imaginary sweat from his brow. On the TV screen: a replay of Trump’s legendary wrestling match with Vince McMahon at WrestleMania 23. The hair vs. hair match. The moment Trump tackled McMahon to the ground echoes like a gladiator’s myth.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(grinning, pacing like a predator)
That moment when you tackled Vince… Donald, it was electric. You weren’t just in the ring. You owned the ring. A hostile takeover of the squared circle.

DONALD TRUMP
(nods, smug)
People said I couldn’t do it. They said I’d embarrass myself. But I said—watch me. I’ve built towers. Why not take down a wrestling tyrant?

PATRICK BATEMAN
(dark chuckle)
And you did. Like a CEO executing a corporate raid. Vince McMahon didn’t stand a chance. None of them do. The wrestlers, the fans… the bodies pile up, but the brand survives.

DONALD TRUMP
(pumps another curl)
Exactly. The brand is immortal. The rest? Just background noise. Guys like Austin, Hogan, The Rock—they’re great. But I stepped in once and rewrote the whole show.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(coldly)
Dead wrestlers tell no tales, Donald. That’s the truth. They fall off ladders, overdose, collapse in the ring. But the corporation? The corporation endures. You can chant “Rest in peace” all you want—but in the end, there’s only one anthem: “No chance in hell.”

DONALD TRUMP
(smiles, savoring it)
That was my theme song, you know. The music when I walked down the ramp. “No chance—that’s what you’ve got…” Boom. Pure gold.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(deadpan)
It’s practically a mission statement. No chance in hell—for the weak. For the poor. For the over-muscled meat puppets who think theatrics equal power.

DONALD TRUMP
(laughing)
Patrick, you really get it. Most people don’t. They think wrestling is fake. I tell them, “The pain is real. So is the money.”

PATRICK BATEMAN
(sips electrolyte water)
And so is the power dynamic. You versus Vince? That wasn’t a match. That was a boardroom merger. You shaved his head like a hostile takeover. Like a scalp trophy on the wall.

The camera pans to a framed photo of Trump holding electric clippers over Vince McMahon’s bald head. Bateman stares at it the way one might admire a Rothko—silent, reverent, cold.

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