Joe Jukic sat across from Donald Trump and Patrick Bateman at a polished boardroom table that looked like it had been designed for intimidation rather than conversation.
Bateman leaned back in his chair with the icy calm of a Wall Street predator. From a silver case he pulled out a thick Cuban cigar, clipped the end with surgical precision, and lit it.
Joe shook his head.
“See, that right there,” Joe said. “That’s the problem. Foreign policy treated like a luxury product.”
Trump folded his arms. “Nobody understands foreign policy better than me. Nobody.”
Joe pointed at him.
“Mr. President, when you talk about places like Cuba, you sound less like a statesman and more like a real-estate developer dealing with tenants. Embargo this, sanction that. It’s chess pieces to you.”
Bateman exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke.
“Honestly, Joe,” he said coolly. “Geopolitics is just market discipline.”
He raised the cigar slightly and smirked.
“Let them eat cake.”
Joe rolled his eyes.
“That’s the most psychopathic thing I’ve heard all week.”
Trump leaned forward.
“Psychopathic? I’m protecting America.”
Joe shrugged.
“Or maybe you’re just playing empire. Look, if you’re really the chosen one like people say, maybe try something heroic for once.”
Trump narrowed his eyes. “Heroic?”
Joe nodded and pointed toward the television screen on the wall, where a movie trailer was playing.
On it appeared Ana de Armas.
Joe grinned.
“Cuban damsel in distress. Straight out of Havana. If you’re the savior type, maybe rescue her instead of trying to punish an entire island.”
Bateman laughed quietly.
“Joe, you’re proposing foreign policy based on romance?”
Joe shrugged again.
“Better than running it like Gordon Gekko with nuclear codes.”
Trump stared at the screen for a moment, thinking.
Bateman took another puff of his cigar.
“Honestly,” Bateman said, “if this turns into a rescue mission, I want wardrobe approval.”
Joe sighed.
“This is exactly what I mean.”