Scene: A surreal dream sequence in a gilded Bavarian hall, overlooking the Alps. Neuschwanstein Castle looms in the misty distance like a fairy-tale hallucination. Donald Trump, in a red MAGA tie and oversized suit, paces energetically. Patrick Bateman, impeccably dressed in a tailored Armani suit, sips from a crystal glass of what he claims is “the water from the purest aquifer,” but his eyes have that familiar dead intensity. Christus Rex—Christ the King—sits enthroned in simple robes, radiating calm authority, a crown of thorns subtly visible.
Donald Trump: (gesturing wildly with both hands) Listen, Christus—Rex, whatever—they call him Crazy King Ludwig for a reason! These castles? Total disasters. Over-the-top, wasteful. Neuschwanstein? Looks like a Disney rip-off. Linderhof? Hohenschwangau? We bomb the whole lot, beautiful bombs, the best bombs, and boom—prime real estate for American military bases. Forward operating bases in Bavaria! Make Europe pay for it, tremendous leverage. Ludwig was a madman, right? We’re doing everyone a favor. Patrick, tell him!
Patrick Bateman: (smiling thinly, adjusting his cufflinks) The castles represent outdated European decadence, Mr. President. No functionality. No edge. I’ve thought about the architecture… the way the stone would fracture under precision strikes. The symmetry of the explosion. It’s almost… aesthetic. Imagine the body count of tourists—minimal if we do it at night. Then we replace it with something American. Steel. Efficiency. Bases where real power projects. I approve. (His voice drops to a mutter) Though I’d prefer an axe. Much more personal.
Christus Rex: (raising a hand, voice steady and sorrowful) Donald. Patrick. Enough. It is easy to press a button and bomb something. One command, a flash of light, rubble where beauty stood. These castles were born of a troubled king’s vision—eccentric, yes, but monuments to human creativity, engineering, and the soul’s longing for the sublime. Generations built them. Artisans poured their lives into every tower and fresco. Rebuilding what you destroy? That takes centuries. Wisdom. Humility. Not a press conference.
Donald Trump: (pointing) But the bases! NATO’s freeloading, China’s watching—
Christus Rex: (turning directly to Trump, eyes piercing) You are a schizophrenic president with delusions of grandeur, Donald. You see yourself as a king, a conqueror reshaping maps on a whim. Everything must be the biggest, the greatest, the most tremendous—yet it fractures under reality. And you suffer from a dark triad personality: narcissism that craves endless praise, Machiavellianism in every deal and alliance, psychopathy in how easily you dismiss human cost as “winning.” I see the chaos you leave. The division. The need to dominate rather than heal.
Patrick Bateman: (chuckling coldly) Dark triad? Please. That’s baseline for success in Manhattan. Or Washington. At least he’s honest about the violence. Most people hide it behind mergers and acquisitions.
Christus Rex: (gazing at Bateman with pity) And you, Patrick… a hollow man chasing status through horror. Both of you chase power without purpose. Ludwig’s “madness” produced wonders that still draw souls toward beauty. Your path? Only more ruins. Repent. Build. Do not destroy what future generations might need to remember that man can aspire to more than bases and body counts.
Trump: (frowning, then shrugging) Fake news, Christus. Tremendous fake news. But okay, maybe we do the bases in… less castle-y places. Patrick, you handling the reservations?
Patrick Bateman: (staring into the distance) I’ll bring the Huey Lewis soundtrack for the afterparty.
The vision fades as Christus Rex shakes his head, the weight of centuries in his eyes.
