Tag: Iran

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Israel You Have 2 Days to Surrender The Baron

INT. WAR ROOM — JERUSALEM — NIGHT

Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin “Bibi” Netanyahu sits stiffly at a steel table deep beneath the Knesset. The secure line buzzes. A hologram of Donald J. Trump and JCJ appears. Trump’s hair is windblown, yet immaculately intact. JCJ’s eyes glow with a divine fire. Behind them: a massive screen flashing the words “Cause and Effect: FINAL WARNING.”

TRUMP (stern):
“Bibi. You know I like you. We’ve had some beautiful deals. But this time, it’s different. The game is over. No more hiding. We want Epstein and Rothschild. Alive.”

Netanyahu leans forward, sweating.

JCJ (calm but thunderous):
“Cause… and effect. You play both sides. You ran blackmail operations for the elites. Mossad knows. The world knows. The children cry out from the tunnels. You protected the deep state. Now it protects no one.”

TRUMP:
“I’m gonna make this real simple. If I drop a bomb on Iran, they drop one on you. That’s how it works. Cause. Effect. This ain’t 2012, pal. It’s Trump-JCJ 2025. The world’s flipped.”

JCJ (pointing at Bibi):
“You have two days. Forty-eight hours. Deliver us Jeffrey Epstein—not his corpse. And Baron Rothschild, the spider behind the debt web. If not…”

JCJ waves his hand. A digital globe spins and zooms in: Iranian missile coordinates, Iron Dome saturation maps, dimensional chess simulations.

TRUMP:
“We’re not bluffing, Bibi. You go down with them if you stall. You don’t want to test me when I got Christ on my six. Believe me.”

JCJ:
“This is not vengeance. This is balance. The world demands justice. If you fail, even the Dome will crack.”

Suddenly, a news ticker appears across the bottom of the screen:

BREAKING: MYSTERIOUS QOM EXPLOSION LEVELS IRANIAN NUCLEAR BASE — NO CLAIM OF RESPONSIBILITY

Netanyahu’s hands tremble. He reaches for the phone.

NETANYAHU (voice trembling):
“We… we’ll find them. But they’re protected. Epstein was moved—he’s not dead. Rothschild’s off-world—Saturn orbit, Black Cube station.”

JCJ (narrowing eyes):
“Then you better build a ship fast.
Because the next explosion… won’t be in Persia.”

The transmission cuts. The war room lights flicker. Netanyahu turns to Mossad Director Yigal Regev:

NETANYAHU:
“Prepare the extraction team. Code Black Messiah. We either hand them over… or Jerusalem burns.”

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The F Bomb

INT. DORIAN CLUB – NIGHT.
The lighting is blood red.
The walls smell like old money and new cocaine.
Patrick Bateman — dressed like 1989 never ended — sits across from Donald J. Trump, who is sipping Diet Coke from a gold-rimmed tumbler and glancing at his reflection in every available surface.

This isn’t an interview.
This is a slow-motion philosophical car crash.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
Mr. Trump, you’re being censored for using the F-word during your rally in Ohio. But meanwhile, you’re also publicly supporting airstrikes in Iran. Help me understand.
Why is fuck obscene, but firebombing a sovereign nation is policy?

DONALD TRUMP (grinning):
Look, Patrick… I say what people are thinking. I drop the F-bomb, they lose their minds. But you drop actual bombs and suddenly it’s “presidential.”
You know, I always said I could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and not lose voters. Well now? I could carpet bomb Tehran and still trend #1.

BATEMAN (leaning forward, voice lowering):
“We train young men to drop fire on people… but their commanders won’t allow them to write the word ‘fuck’ on their airplanes because it’s obscene.”

TRUMP:
What’s that, Shakespeare?

BATEMAN:
Colonel Kurtz. Apocalypse Now. Coppola’s masterpiece.
He saw the lie. The hypocrisy.
We worship destruction but panic at the sound of a four-letter word.

TRUMP:
He sounds like a real smart guy. Maybe I should’ve hired him instead of Bolton.
Look, Patrick, let me ask you something: You ever drop an F-bomb on Wall Street?

BATEMAN (smirking):
Every time I shorted a pension fund.

🔥 CUTAWAY: THE REAL BOMBS

As the two speak, stock footage rolls behind them:

  • Drones dropping payloads over desert cities.
  • Children screaming under rubble.
  • Meanwhile, media headlines flash:
    • “TRUMP DROPS F-BOMB AT OHIO RALLY – NATION OUTRAGED”
    • “UN CONDEMNS STRIKES IN IRAN – WHITE HOUSE SILENT”

TRUMP (winking):
It’s all branding, Patrick. You drop a bomb on a wedding? That’s defense.
Say “fuck” on a mic? That’s outrage.
America’s more offended by syllables than shrapnel.

BATEMAN (cold):
Because we don’t hear the bombs.
Only the broadcast.

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Snake Watches the Fireworks

The desert night was eerily quiet, save for the distant rumble of jet engines and the staccato pulse of artillery echoing across the hills. Snake sat cross-legged on a rusted observation post high above the no-man’s land between Iran and Israel, chewing a half-burnt cigar. His bandana fluttered slightly in the dry wind, the glow from the distant explosions painting his face in red and orange hues.

“Fireworks,” he muttered, squinting into the horizon where flashes of light pierced the darkness. “Just like the Fourth of July… except no one’s free.”

He adjusted his infrared scope and watched a formation of drones arc like swarms of angry wasps over the border, their payloads illuminating the sky in a devastating light show. Somewhere down there, children screamed. Somewhere else, generals cheered.

Otacon’s voice crackled in his ear.
“Snake, that’s not a battlefield—it’s a graveyard in progress. What the hell are we even doing out here?”

Snake exhaled.
“Watching history repeat itself. They call it prophecy. I call it theater. And we’re the janitors.”

A massive detonation rocked the valley below. Snake didn’t flinch. He’d seen too many cities burn from rooftops, too many empires fall with the push of a button. This wasn’t war anymore. It was ritual.

“They’re fighting over holy land, Otacon. But the land isn’t holy. The blood is.”

Otacon sighed.
“You think we can stop it?”

“No.” Snake lit another cigar off a burning fragment that had landed nearby. “But we can witness it. Someone has to remember the truth after the smoke clears.”

Behind him, the stars blinked coldly. Below, fire danced on the Earth like judgment day had come early.

“Snake out.”

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Trump Versus the Persian Empire

Madman Theory 2.0
Location: Desert bunker overlooking the Iranian border, midnight

The air inside the steel shelter was thick with dust, radio static, and tension. Snake leaned against the concrete wall, arms crossed, his eyes locked on the flickering screen displaying missile trajectories. The door creaked open. In strode former President Donald J. Trump—dressed in a navy-blue suit and red tie, absurdly clean for a war zone.

TRUMP:
“Snake. Glad you could make it. I always said you were the best. People tell me that. Even Putin said it.”

Snake didn’t move. His gravelly voice cut through the silence like a knife.

SNAKE:
“You’re doing Nixon again.”

TRUMP (grinning):
“Nixon? Come on. I’m smarter. Much smarter. I perfected the madman theory. They’re afraid of me because I’m unpredictable. It’s genius, really.”

SNAKE:
“No. It’s recklessness disguised as strategy. Nixon used it to spook the Soviets. You’re using it on Persia. Problem is—Persia has patience. Thousands of years of it.”

TRUMP (shrugs):
“Look, Snake. These people respect strength. Fire and fury works. Peace through strength—Reagan said it. You blow up a few reactors, they’ll come to the table.”

Snake stepped forward, shadows carving hard lines into his face.

SNAKE:
“No, they’ll bury their dead and wait for revenge. You’re not playing chess—you’re flipping the board and calling yourself a winner.”

TRUMP (pointing):
“That’s where you’re wrong. I am the board. I built the game. And everybody wants to play—”

SNAKE (interrupting):
“You’re playing with fire in a region soaked in oil. One spark and the whole world goes up.”

Trump paused, just briefly. The bravado cracked for a second.

TRUMP:
“I just want to make America great again.”

SNAKE:
“Then stop trying to play God.”

Static hissed louder through the speakers. The screen lit up—an explosion on the Iranian side. Another convoy gone. Trump looked satisfied. Snake turned away in disgust.

SNAKE (muttering):
“History doesn’t repeat itself… but it rhymes. And you’re rhyming with madness.”

Trump looked out the window at the distant blaze.

TRUMP:
“Some call it madness. I call it art.”

SNAKE (cold):
“Tell that to the kids under the rubble.”

He walked out, the wind slamming the steel door behind him.

Outside, the desert trembled again.

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