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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