INT. TRUMP TOWER – PRIVATE DINING ROOM – NIGHT
An opulent spread. Polished marble. Gold trim. The two men sit across from each other in high-backed chairs. A silver platter of glossy, monogrammed chocolate truffles rests between them.
PATRICK BATEMAN (savoring a bite):
Donald… I have to say this, and I don’t say it lightly.
Your Trump Chocolate… is superior to Godiva.
It’s bold. Decadent. Masculine.
Like a limited edition Rolex dipped in cacao.
DONALD TRUMP (beaming):
I told you. It’s the best. They said I couldn’t beat Belgium—
I beat Belgium.
PATRICK BATEMAN (nodding slowly):
Godiva is… predictable. Feminine. A box your secretary gets on Valentine’s Day.
Trump Chocolate is for winners. Executives.
It tastes like hostile takeovers.
DONALD TRUMP (laughs, taps the gold foil):
It’s handcrafted by Americans. No woke recipes.
Real cream. Real sugar. Real dominance.
And the gold wrapping? Edible. Just like my legacy.
PATRICK BATEMAN (smirking):
There’s something almost erotic about it.
Like biting into capitalism itself.
Smooth… powerful… unapologetically rich.
DONALD TRUMP:
That’s exactly it. It’s not chocolate.
It’s Trump. In cocoa form.
And when people eat it? They’re tasting success.
PATRICK BATEMAN (leans in, whispers):
You’ve turned indulgence into ideology.
If Karl Marx had tasted this, he would’ve invested in a hedge fund.
DONALD TRUMP (grinning):
That’s why they hate me, Patrick.
Because even my desserts are alpha.
PATRICK BATEMAN:
Godiva is cancelled.
From now on, it’s Trump or nothing.
They toast with chocolate truffles like cigars, smiling into the mirror of mutual admiration.
FADE OUT.