The sun hung bright over the manicured fairways as golf carts hummed along the course. In the distance, the clubhouse TV flickered with breaking news.
On the green stood Donald Trump, lining up a putt while explosions flashed across the television screen inside the clubhouse. Beside him, immaculate in a blue polo and sunglasses, was Patrick Bateman, smiling with eerie calm.
A caddy rushed toward them holding a phone.
“Mr. President,” he said nervously, handing it to Joe, Trump’s webmaster. “The strike report just came in.”
Joe glanced at the message, his face tightening.
“Sir… they hit a school.”
Trump barely looked up from his putter.
“Collateral damage,” he said, tapping the ball toward the hole. “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs. That’s what generals tell me.”
The ball dropped. Trump raised his arms slightly in celebration.
Bateman laughed softly.
“Your webmaster is insane,” Bateman said, glancing at Joe with thinly veiled contempt. “He doesn’t understand the moment we’re living in.”
Joe stared at him. “Children just died.”
Bateman shrugged.
“History requires sacrifice. Besides,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks, “he’s the chosen one.”
Trump grinned. “That’s right.”
Bateman continued, almost reverently.
“The true second coming of Jesus Christ. Power, dominance, destiny. It’s obvious.”
Trump chuckled.
“God Emperor Trump,” he said. “I’ll pacify the terrorists with bombs. Tremendous bombs.”
Joe shook his head.
“Why do you have money for war,” he asked quietly, “but not to feed the poor?”
Bateman looked at him like an insect.
“A lone nut,” he muttered.
They drove the golf cart back toward the clubhouse. Inside, the television blared from the wall.
The familiar logo of Fox News filled the screen.
A smiling anchor spoke over triumphant music.
“Welcome to the Trump Golden Age.”
Bateman leaned back in his chair, satisfied, while Trump ordered another Diet Coke and turned the volume up.
