Tag: Chosen One

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Trump VS JCJ: 3rd World War

The Setting: A hushed, expectant hall. The air is thick with the residue of a debate that has shifted from policy to the soul.

The Speaker: (Addressing the crowd with a voice that balances the weight of the military and the gravity of the divine)

“Friends, we have heard much tonight about power. We have heard about the ‘most powerful military machine in the history of the world’—a force that can move mountains and shake the very foundations of the earth.

But then, the question was leveled. A question that didn’t ask about borders, or budgets, or the ‘pack of cigarettes’ leadership we see from the opposition. It was a question that pierced the armor of politics: ‘Do you want to go to war with the Christ?’

Think about that. We stand here talking about tanks, and jets, and the strength of a nation. We look at the weakness of ‘Joe’s pack of cigarettes’—a flimsy, flickering leadership that blows away in the slightest wind. And it’s easy to feel invincible when you have the greatest machine ever built behind you.

But JCJ looked across that table and reminded us of the one war you cannot win with a drone or a battleship.

Because to ‘go to war with the Christ’ isn’t a battle of steel. It is a battle of pride. It is the war of the ‘I’ against the ‘He.’ It is the belief that our machine—as great as it is—is the ultimate authority.

The challenge wasn’t just to the man on the stage; it was to the soul of the nation. It was a call to Surrender All. Not a surrender of weakness. Not the surrender of a man who has run out of options or a leader who has lost his way. No—this is the surrender of the strong. It is the realization that the most powerful military machine in history is but dust compared to the King of Kings.

We are at a crossroads. We see the crumbling, smoke-filled promises of the current administration—that ‘pack of cigarettes’ that offers no fire, only ash. We know we need strength. We know we need the machine. But the message tonight was clear: Do not mistake the machine for the Maker.

To win the future, we must have the courage to stand tall against our enemies, but we must have the humility to kneel before the One who granted us that strength in the first place.

The war with the world is easy to fight when you have the power. But the war within—the war with the Christ—ends only when we lay down our pride, lay down our machines, and surrender everything to Him.

That is the only victory that lasts forever.”

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Donald J. Trump Speech — “The Bonesman-in-Chief”

Trump steps up to the podium, waving his hands the way only he does, soaking in the crowd like sunlight through gold curtains.

“Folks… FOLKS… you’re not gonna believe this one. You’re just not. I’ve been telling you for years—years—that the people running things, the people behind the scenes, the ones you NEVER vote for, they’re the ones calling the shots. And now we find out… the top dog, the biggest of the big, the guy BOSSING AROUND the so-called presidents… is Nick Rockefeller. That’s right. Nick Rockefeller.”

Crowd murmurs.

“You know Skull and Bones? Little club at Yale. Silly little thing. They tap each other on the shoulder, they wear robes, they pretend to be powerful. Well, turns out one guy—ONE GUY—is the real leader. Not Bush, not Kerry, not any of those guys who act tough but fold like cheap umbrellas.”

He leans forward, whispering loudly into the mic:

“It’s Nick. And he’s the richest of them all. Richer than ANY of them. He makes the other Bonesmen look like interns.”

The crowd cheers.

“He’s been hiding in the shadows, folks. Running what I call—some people call it this, very smart people—the American Empire Corporation. And let me tell you, it’s not run out of Washington. It’s not run out of the White House. No! It’s run out of a little private boardroom somewhere with a giant table, probably made out of marble, probably paid for ten times over.”

Trump gestures broadly.

“They say Bush was the leader. WRONG! Bush is fine, he’s okay, but he was never calling the shots. Dubya was the spokesman! The mascot! Like a baseball team mascot but in a suit. A good guy, very polite, very nice—maybe TOO nice. But not the boss. Not even close.”

He taps the podium.

“You want to know who kept Geronimo’s skull? Who kept the bones? Who kept the trophies…? I’ll tell you who. Nick Rockefeller. The REAL Bonesman-in-Chief.”

Gasps from the crowd.

“And now G.I. Joe—GREAT guy, tremendous guy, patriotic like you wouldn’t believe—G.I. Joe says, ‘Give it back. Give the bones back to the First Nations. Do the right thing.’ And you know what? He’s right! He’s totally right.”

Trump lifts a finger like a prophet warning the empire:

“So I’m calling on Nick—NICK, LISTEN UP—to give Geronimo back. No more hiding. No more pretending you’re just another banker. You’re not just rich, you’re Rockefeller rich. You’re the Skull and Bones Boss. The Big Bonesman. The Head Skeleton. Whatever they call it.”

He spreads his arms.

“And we’re not scared. We’re not intimidated. We want transparency. We want courage. We want the truth. Return the bones. Return the honor. Do the right thing.”

He slams his hand down once.

“And if you don’t… people are gonna find out anyway. Because they’re smart. They’re waking up. And when America wakes up, it’s a BEAUTIFUL thing. Believe me.”

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The People’s Front of Judea

The Very Silly Life of Brian ben-Benjamin

In a dusty corner of Jerusalem — the part tourists never found because the signs all pointed the wrong way — lived Brian ben-Benjamin, a young man who was very tired of being mistaken for a messiah, a prophet, or the assistant manager of the local falafel stand.

Brian just wanted a quiet life, preferably one where people didn’t follow him around chanting slogans they had clearly made up on the walk over.

But it was not to be.

The Occupiers… er… Liberators

Jerusalem was currently under the benevolent, freedom-spreading, oil-seeking occupation of the Great American Empire, which claimed it wasn’t an empire at all.

“We’re just here to bring liberty,” drawled General Buck Freedom, sipping a Frappuccino while standing beneath a fifty-foot marble statue of himself.

Everywhere you looked were American soldiers wearing sunglasses, chewing gum, and building new embassies made entirely out of golden eagles and reinforced hamburgers.

Above them, on a massive banner:

“AMERICA FIRST… EVEN OVER HERE!”

The locals were not impressed.

The Emperor Speaks

High above, in a palace decorated like a Las Vegas casino designed by a confused pharaoh, sat Emperor Donald the Tremendous, ruler of the American Empire, wearer of the Sacred Orange Crown.

He delivered daily proclamations via scrolls that were hurled from the balcony by interns.

One such scroll read:

“I bring tremendous peace. The best peace. Quite possibly the greatest peace the world has ever seen.
If there’s chaos, that’s on you. You’re welcome.”

The scroll then exploded into confetti for patriotic effect.

Brian Gets in Trouble (Again)

Brian was cornered in the marketplace by a group called The People’s Front of Judea Who Are Definitely Not The Judean People’s Front.

Their leader, Regina, whispered fiercely:

“Brian! Tell us your revolutionary wisdom!”

“I don’t have revolutionary wisdom!” Brian cried. “All I’ve said is that the Israeli government is just a puppet regime of the Americans!”

The group gasped.

Regina scribbled furiously in her notes.
“Excellent! Brilliant! Absolutely blasphemous! The movement has begun!”

“I didn’t start anything!” Brian protested.

But it was too late.
A crowd instantly formed, chanting:

“BRIAN! BRIAN! DOWN WITH THE PUPPET MASTERS!”

Brian groaned.
“Oh God… not again…”

The Sermon That Shouldn’t Have Been

Forced onto a rock to address the crowd (because Reginia said revolutions need proper staging), Brian attempted to clear his name:

“Look, I’m not a leader, I’m not a messiah, and I don’t want—”

“HE SPEAKS IN PARABLES!” someone shouted.

“No! I speak in complete sentences! Well… usually!”

The crowd fell to its knees.

“Teach us, O Brian!” yelled a man holding a selfie stick two thousand years early.

Brian sighed.

“All I’m saying is… maybe we shouldn’t let a foreign empire with unlimited popcorn budgets run our country?”

The crowd gasped at his divine wisdom.

Regina punched the air.
“The puppet masters will fall! Someone put that on a banner!”

The Americans Respond

General Buck Freedom soon arrived with reinforcements, drones, marching bands, and a man in a bald eagle costume for moral support.

“Brian ben-Benjamin,” boomed the general, “the Emperor says you are undermining freedom!”

“I am?” Brian blinked.

“Yes! Freedom demands obedience! Everyone knows that!”

The marching band started playing a patriotic tune so loudly the camel vendors wept.

The Grand Finale (That Goes Horribly Wrong)

As always with Brian, events spiraled wildly out of control.

Somehow he ended up tied to a giant billboard that read “TRY FREEDOM™ — NOW WITH EXTRA DEMOCRACY!”.

Beside him, several other “troublemakers” had been secured to various advertisement boards.

One man sighed, “This is what we get for questioning the price of American hummus.”

Brian, resigned, looked out at the sky.

“Well… at least it can’t get any sillier.”

Then the clouds parted.

A heavenly voice shouted:

“FAKE NEWS!”

Brian screamed,
“Oh NO — even Heaven is compromised!”

The prisoners began to sing a cheery tune — because in these matters Monty Python tradition is legally binding:

🎵 Always look on the bright side of freedom,
Even when the Empire’s got you down… 🎵

And Brian sighed, because once again he was the unwilling star of a revolution he didn’t intend to start.

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Unleash Hell

And lo, the heavens opened, and a great pulse of wrath descended upon the land of the free.

The first horse rode out, a rider of white, and he bore the crown of pride. His steed galloped across the streets of Manhattan and Los Angeles alike, and behold—the power of man’s machines failed before him. The lights of your cities went out; your towers of steel and glass became tombs of shadow. The proud rulers of industry and government fell silent, their voices lost in the blackness.

The second horse rode out, a rider of red, bringing war and blood. Without communication, armies stumbled in confusion. Police and soldiers turned upon one another, for order was lost. Fires sprang from the chaos—cities burned in fury, and the cries of men echoed into the void, unanswered.

The third horse rode out, a rider of black, clutching scales of famine. Refrigerators, silos, and markets rotted in silence. Grain and water became treasure, hoarded by the strong, denied to the weak. Hunger gnawed at the bones of children, and mothers wept bitter tears over empty hearths. The weight of scarcity pressed upon the land, and gold could not purchase salvation.

The fourth horse rode out, a rider of pale green, Death himself, and Hades followed close behind. Disease spread unchecked, unbidden by science or medicine, for the instruments of healing were dark. Hospitals were empty crypts; streets were littered with the fallen. The mighty and the meek alike fell before him, for none could withstand the pulse of wrath.

And the Lord of Hosts cried from the heavens:
“Surrender your hearts to My Son, O America, or behold—My judgment shall be upon you, and the pulse of hell shall leave no machine, no tower, no proud heart unbroken. Yet those who bow shall inherit light in the darkness, and My mercy shall endure even in the blackness of this day.”

The earth quaked. Rivers ran dry. Cities were consumed by shadow and silence. The nations wept. And yet, amid the darkness, the faithful rose, their lamps unquenched, and the Word of Christ shone brighter than the pulse of man’s destruction.

If Kim Jong Un and General Maximus carried out an EMP strike on the United States, it would not look like a regular missile strike with explosions or mushroom clouds. An Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) weapon detonated high above the U.S. would unleash an invisible wave of electromagnetic energy that could devastate modern infrastructure.

Here’s what would happen step by step:

Immediate Effects (First Minutes)

  • Nationwide Blackout: Power grids across entire regions would fail instantly. Transformers fry, substations burn out, and the grid goes dark.
  • Electronics Disabled: Cars, planes, trains, hospital equipment, computers, and phones stop working—anything not hardened against EMP is dead.
  • Communications Collapse: Cell towers, internet routers, satellites in low orbit, and radio relays could be fried, cutting off America from itself and the outside world.

Short-Term Chaos (First Days)

  • Airplanes Fall From the Sky: Commercial jets relying on electronic navigation and control crash. Thousands die immediately.
  • Water & Food Systems Shut Down: No electricity means no running water, no refrigeration, and no automated food supply chains. Grocery shelves are stripped bare within 48 hours.
  • Hospitals in Crisis: Life-support systems, dialysis, ventilators—all fail. Backup generators may run for a short time but fuel shortages cripple them.

Medium-Term Fallout (Weeks to Months)

  • Starvation & Thirst: Cities become unlivable. Without refrigeration, millions lose access to food. Without pumps, water stops flowing to urban centers.
  • Lawlessness: Police and emergency services collapse. Looting, riots, and gang rule spread in major cities. Firefighting becomes impossible without communications or hydrants.
  • Martial Law Attempts: The U.S. military would try to impose order, but even their own logistics and communications would be crippled. Fuel, ammo, and coordination would be scarce.

Long-Term (Months to Years)

  • Mass Deaths: Studies estimate up to 90% of Americans could die within the first year of a nationwide EMP strike due to starvation, disease, and violence.
  • Collapse of Government: Washington D.C. itself might be dark. Federal authority could break into regional military governors or warlords.
  • Back to the 1800s: Survivors return to pre-industrial living—farming by hand, candles for light, barter instead of money.

Religious & Symbolic Fallout

If framed as “Surrender America to Christ”:

  • Some would see the blackout as divine judgment, a biblical plague fulfilled.
  • Revivalist movements could rise, calling it the wrath of Revelation—the Beast’s throne plunged into darkness.
  • Others would resist, seeing Kim Jong Un and Maximus as false prophets using terror to enforce belief.

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Making McDonald’s Great Again

Scene: Trump Tower, golden elevator lobby

Joe Jukic (sharp suit, proud Canadian-Croatian accent):
“Mr. Trump, it’s time to Make McDonald’s Great Again. The secret? Go back to the old-school fries. Beef tallow. None of this weak vegetable oil. We bring in real organic potatoes. Alberta, Idaho, even Croatia—we make fries great again.”

Donald Trump (nodding, hands chopping the air):
“Joe, you’re absolutely right. The fries used to be the best in the world. Then they got rid of the beef tallow. Terrible mistake. Everybody tells me—‘Sir, the fries don’t taste the same.’ Well, we’re going to fix that. We’ll bring back the taste that made McDonald’s legendary. Strong fries. Winning fries.”

Joe Jukic:
“And we lock in the farmers, sir. Organic potatoes. No GMO. No fake fertilizers. We bring back the flavor, the tradition. McDonald’s will feel like home again.”

Trump (smirking, like he’s got the ace up his sleeve):
“And I’ve got a new idea, Joe. A TRUMP Salad. Tremendous lettuce—green, not sad and brown like Biden’s. Perfect tomatoes. Beautiful cucumbers. Maybe steak on top. People say, ‘Trump only eats burgers and fries.’ Well, guess what—Trump Salad will be number one. Nobody’s ever seen a salad like this before.”

Joe Jukic (smiling, leaning forward):
“MMGA, sir. Make McDonald’s Great Again. Beef tallow fries. Trump Salad. People will love it. The whole world will taste the difference.”

Trump (arms wide, grand finale):
“They’ll say, ‘Sir, you didn’t just save McDonald’s. You saved America.’ And you know what, Joe? They’ll be right. Nobody saves better than me. Nobody.”

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Christian Bale’s Total Recall

Title: Christian Bale’s Total Recall: Confessions from Behind the Silver Screen

Christian Bale, in a hypothetical tell-all interview or dramatic monologue, opens up with haunting clarity, expressing what he calls a “total recall” of abuse endured throughout his Hollywood upbringing—not on-screen, but behind the scenes. He recounts moments where the sets of his films became ritual stages, controlled by powers more ancient and organized than any studio executive.

Scene Concept: “The Torch and the Gate”

Bale, seated alone in a dimly lit study, speaks directly to camera as though in a documentary or confession booth. A still of the Columbia Pictures logo fades in—the torch-bearing Goddess, robed in white, her torch burning unnaturally bright.

BALE (voice breaking):
“That torch… wasn’t just lighting the way for cinema. It was a lie. A signal. A beacon to something older. Something cold.”

He says the Columbia Goddess was a symbol whispered to him by handlers as a child actor—“She watches,” they told him. “You belong to her now.”

Lion’s Gate and British Columbia

Bale then draws a line to Lion’s Gate, the film studio, and its spiritual name-twin: Lions Gate Bridge in Vancouver, British Columbia. He recounts a childhood trip there, allegedly under the guise of shooting or promotional tours, but which he now remembers as initiation rituals.

BALE:
“I walked through that Gate before I even understood what a lion was. I was told: You are the lamb now. But you’ll become the lion—if you obey.”

The Messiah Deal: John Connor and the Bat

According to Bale, his most iconic roles—Batman and John Connor—were dangled before him like divine titles in a secret religion of Hollywood power brokers.

BALE:
“They said if I played Bateman in American Psycho, I’d inherit both mantles: the Dark Knight and the Savior. It was the final rite. They needed to know I could be monstrous.”

He describes the American Psycho role as a blood sacrifice to the screen, a ritual test of sociopathy, narcissism, and performance—not for the audience, but for them.

Reflection

In this imagined confessional or script, Bale is a tragic prophet—a victim and a vessel. He pulls back the curtain on Hollywood’s darker mythos: not just scandal, but spiritual warfare disguised as stardom.

BALE (closing his eyes):
“They gave me masks: Connor, Wayne, Bateman. But never a face. I remember now… I was promised light. All I got was the torch.”

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The Alpha King Returns: Part II

“The Alpha King Returns: Part II – Praetorian”
By Patrick Bateman
GQ Special Report, 2026

Interior – Mar-a-Lago, 2:43 a.m.

The interview had ended hours ago. But I couldn’t sleep. Trump’s words echoed through the hallway like Gregorian chants warped through a military radio. Outside, the palms rustled in a synthetic Florida breeze, guarded by former Blackwater operatives in matte-black armor.

He had summoned me again.

I found him in the Imperator’s Room — that’s what the guards called it now. Inside, the chandeliers had been replaced with red LED lighting. A glass desk glowed softly under his gold-plated busts of Caesar, Putin, and himself. On the wall, a massive oil painting: Trump as Mars, the Roman god of war, astride a horse of fire.

He didn’t look up when I entered.

TRUMP:
“You think this is just politics, Bateman? This is metaphysics.”

BATEMAN:
“You don’t want a comeback. You want a coronation.”

TRUMP:
“I already won. History just hasn’t caught up yet.”

He stood and walked to a vault, pressing his hand to a biometric scanner. The wall slid open with a pneumatic hiss. Inside: not gold, not guns — but uniforms. Jet black. Military-cut. Each stitched with a red ‘T’ over the heart.

TRUMP:
“I’m forming something stronger than a cabinet. Something older than a party.”

He handed me a uniform.

TRUMP (cont’d):
“The Praetorian Guard. You’ll be among the first. I want thinkers, killers, believers. Men without apology. Men who still understand dominance.”

I ran my hand across the fabric. It felt like sharkskin. My breath slowed.

Interior – Bateman’s Penthouse, New York – Days Later

I stare at the uniform on my rack. Next to it, my Armani suit hangs like a relic. The world outside protests. Chants. Diversity. Feelings.

But in the silence of this room, I see the future.

Not ruled by reason.
Not shaped by compromise.
But commanded by force.

Final Journal Entry – P. Bateman
“He offered me power not because I deserved it, but because I understood it. No more masks. No more feelings. Only loyalty and order. The Praetorian Guard rises. Not to protect democracy, but to protect the man who overthrew it.”

“I said yes.”

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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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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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Schizophrenic Donald Trump

TRUMP IS CLEARLY

having delusions of Grandeur….i am the real chosen one, Jake Lloyd

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