INT. TRUMP TOWER – EXECUTIVE SUITE – NIGHT
City lights burn below. Gold-leaf ceiling above. Patrick Bateman and Donald Trump stand near the window, sipping scotch, eyes full of conquest and contempt. The TV behind them replays the infamous Trump-Macron handshake—white-knuckled, awkward, primal.
PATRICK BATEMAN
(watching the replay, amused)
Look at that. Macron trying to siphon off power from your hand like some kind of political parasite. Absurd. The man’s a beta. Not even six feet tall.
DONALD TRUMP
(snorts)
Five-seven at best. They say five-nine, but come on. I’ve stood next to the guy. He’s tiny. Trembles when I enter a room.
PATRICK BATEMAN
Exactly. He’s what we used to call in the Ivy League a “manlet.” Napoleon complex with a bank account. Overcompensating with forceful gestures and empty charm.
DONALD TRUMP
(grinning)
I felt it too, Patrick. That grip? It was desperate. Like he thought if he squeezed hard enough, he’d absorb me. Like I’m some kind of golden battery.
PATRICK BATEMAN
(smirks)
But you held firm. You didn’t flinch. That’s alpha. That’s dominance psychology. He blinked first. That’s all that matters.
DONALD TRUMP
Everyone saw it. All the generals. All the leaders. They said, “Sir, you crushed him. Just like you crushed NAFTA. Just like you crushed the debates.”
PATRICK BATEMAN
(leaning in)
Macron reads The Prince. You are The Prince.
DONALD TRUMP
(preening slightly)
He’s all theory. I’m action. I build towers. He builds metaphors.
PATRICK BATEMAN
And when he touches your hand, it’s like he’s trying to climb a ladder he’ll never reach. Because you’re not just tall, Donald. You’re high status. Macron? He’s just a well-dressed civil servant with a trophy wife and delusions of Caesar.
DONALD TRUMP
(laughs)
That’s good. I’m going to use that. “Well-dressed civil servant.” Classic.
They clink glasses. The screen freezes on Macron’s grimace, Trump’s smirk. A silent visual thesis on dominance.