The Wisdom Of Peter Thiel

Plastic Jesus

Silicon Valley smells different from Wall Street. Less of cocaine and blood, more of oat milk and ozone. But rot always finds its way in; it just changes its scent.

I’m here because Peter Thiel texted me: “Come see the future.” That’s not an invitation — it’s a command. He’s the kind of man who speaks in lowercase prophecies and thinks PayPal was the start of civilization.

Donald is already there, glowing like an orange sunrise in a blue-light boardroom. He’s wearing a red tie the length of a runway and is talking to his reflection on the window. He calls it “branding.” I call it worship.

Peter doesn’t shake hands. He stares through you, calculating your market value. “Patrick,” he says, “we’re aborting the old world.”

Abort. The word hangs in the air like static.

He means the Antichrist Project — a code name for their new AI: Plastic Jesus. Designed to predict virtue. Score it. Sell it. Rewrite morality as an algorithm.

David Bauer de Rothschild — the face behind the money — appears on the wall screen, smiling with impossible teeth. “Patrick,” he says, “you understand appearances. We need that. The world must want to be good before we tell them how.”

I nod, but inside, I’m laughing. They don’t know what goodness looks like. They think it can be coded, tokenized, traded. They think beauty can be monetized without being murdered.

When I leave, it’s past midnight. San Francisco is quiet — too quiet for a city full of data ghosts. My reflection follows me in every glass wall. I imagine what Plastic Jesus will see when it looks at me:

Score: 100.
Alignment: Pure simulation.
Threat level: divine.

I smile. Because I know the truth:
You can’t automate sin.
You can only franchise it.

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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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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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The Alpha King Returns

Title: “The Alpha King Returns”
GQ Exclusive Interview by Patrick Bateman
2026 | Mar-a-Lago, Florida


Introductory Note (Patrick Bateman, voiceover):
I’ve shaken hands with killers who wear Tom Ford. I’ve seen CEOs cry during deep-tissue massages. I’ve watched the world turn soft — “inclusive,” “empathetic,” “trauma-informed.” But in a time of therapy-speak and gender-neutral pronouns, one man refuses to kneel. He’s not a relic. He’s a revenant. The Alpha King has returned.


Scene: The Interview
Setting: Mar-a-Lago, post-apocalyptic Versailles. Gilded walls, tiger-print upholstery, Diet Coke chilled in crystal. Trump, older but unshaken, lounges in a gold chair shaped like a lion’s mouth. Patrick Bateman sits opposite, Moleskine open, Rolex glinting.


BATEMAN:
“Mr. President—”

TRUMP:
“Call me God-Emperor, if you want to be accurate. But okay, go ahead.”

BATEMAN:
“You’ve been accused of… a lot. Coup attempts. Drone strikes. Shadow pardons. Some say you’re the last openly psychopathic leader. How do you respond?”

TRUMP:
“Look, I don’t respond. I win. That’s what people don’t get. They’re busy crying about morality—I’m busy controlling outcomes. Did Lincoln get consent before suspending habeas corpus? No. He acted. I act. That’s the Alpha way.”

BATEMAN:
“Drone strike in Tehran. Black site in Nevada. Manhattan blackout during the CNN leak. All of it… vanished.”

TRUMP (smirking):
“Clean work. Cleaner than your business cards, Patrick. I had a guy—Polish kid—ran ops like it was Call of Duty. Zero civilian oversight. That’s how you maintain aura. That’s how kings do it.”

BATEMAN:
“You understand the Dark Triad. Narcissism. Machiavellianism. Psychopathy.”

TRUMP:
“I am the Triad. I made narcissism a growth industry. Machiavelli? Cute. I hire interns with sharper instincts. And psychopathy? That’s not a disorder, it’s an evolutionary advantage. That’s how wolves rise while sheep write blog posts.”


BATEMAN (writing furiously):
He speaks in the same rhythm as Reagan, but with the brutality of a Roman consul. Trump isn’t leading America. He’s remolding it. Not into a democracy — into a dynasty.


TRUMP:
“Bateman, when you kill someone on Fifth Avenue, and the stock market goes up, you don’t apologize. You trademark it. You sell the T-shirt.”

BATEMAN:
“Would you say love or fear is more powerful?”

TRUMP:
“I don’t care if they love me or fear me. As long as they obey. That’s what boys don’t get anymore. It’s not about being liked. It’s about being obeyed.”


Closing Note (Bateman, voiceover):
Trump didn’t blink during the interview. Not once. He stared through me like I was a painting he already owned. This wasn’t a politician. This was Julius Caesar in a red tie, resurrected through algorithms and grievance.

The Alpha King has returned. And this time, he isn’t asking permission.

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The Risks Christian Bale Took

The Risks Christian Bale Took to Play Patrick Bateman: A Role That Strained Every Relationship He Ever Had

When American Psycho was released in 2000, it was not just a film—it was a cultural moment that challenged America’s comfort with capitalism, masculinity, and violence. At its core was a performance so unnervingly precise that it blurred the line between character and actor. Christian Bale’s portrayal of Patrick Bateman was not only transformative—it was radioactive. So convincing was Bale in the role of a narcissistic, sociopathic Wall Street killer that the stain of Bateman seemed to cling to him long after the cameras stopped rolling. Though Christian Bale and Patrick Bateman are nothing alike, the risks Bale took to inhabit this monstrous persona have arguably strained every relationship he has ever had, both professional and personal. His role became emblematic of a larger American truth: American Psycho is less about reality than it is about illusion—another disturbing chapter in America’s empire of illusion, where performance is mistaken for truth, and entertainment for authenticity.

The Method and the Madness

To prepare for the role, Christian Bale famously immersed himself in the character to an extreme degree. Drawing from Tom Cruise’s eerily empty charisma, Bale sculpted Bateman’s mask: a sleek, smiling predator who performs humanity rather than experiences it. Bale starved himself to maintain Bateman’s chiseled physique. He spoke in Bateman’s voice off-set. He remained emotionally distant from castmates to keep the sociopathic edge sharp. By his own admission, he adopted Bateman’s vanity and icy detachment, sometimes even confusing himself in the mirror. This level of method acting required not only an erasure of his natural self but a kind of self-inflicted trauma—an abandonment of empathy to simulate psychopathy.

These choices had consequences. Friends and family reportedly found Bale unrecognizable, not just physically but psychologically. His intensity alienated collaborators. He would later recount that during the filming, people who knew him well found him unsettling, as though they were speaking to someone else entirely. He had become a vessel for a character who had no capacity for love, kindness, or honesty. It wasn’t acting—it was transfiguration.

The Shadow That Followed

Though the film has since become a cult classic, and Bale has gone on to great success, the shadow of Bateman still follows him. Directors typecast him as emotionally volatile. Audiences often confuse the man with the mask. His on-set outbursts—such as the infamous Terminator: Salvation meltdown—are seized upon as “proof” that perhaps the Bateman within never fully left. In interviews, Bale often seems guarded, aware that any hint of cruelty will be exaggerated through the Bateman lens. It is not difficult to imagine how this lingering suspicion could impact his relationships—with producers, with the press, and even with his own family.

And how could it not? When your most iconic role is that of a man who wears the skin of a respectable citizen while murdering the vulnerable, trust becomes elusive. Intimacy is harder to achieve when people project your character’s malevolence onto your real self. Bale paid a price for embodying evil too well: he became its ambassador in the public eye.

Illusion, Not Reality

The real irony of American Psycho is that it was never meant to be real. The film is an exercise in surrealism, satire, and critique. Patrick Bateman may not have killed anyone at all; he may be a figment of America’s fever dream—a dark parody of Wall Street excess and media shallowness. And yet, the illusion was so complete that audiences often missed the satire entirely. Instead of seeing Bateman as a monstrous exaggeration of Reagan-era capitalism, many mistook him for a symbol of aspirational masculinity, even idolizing his style and discipline.

This speaks to a deeper problem: America’s inability to distinguish illusion from reality. In a country where reality TV stars become presidents, where likes and followers replace genuine relationships, American Psycho was not a horror story—it was a mirror. Bale, who was simply holding up that mirror, became confused with the reflection. In taking this role, he exposed not just the underbelly of American culture, but also the cost of great acting in an age where illusion is everything.

Conclusion

Christian Bale is not Patrick Bateman. He is a disciplined, deeply intelligent actor who took a terrifying risk to hold up a mirror to American society. In doing so, he strained his own sense of self and destabilized his connections with others. His portrayal of Bateman is a triumph of acting—but it also serves as a cautionary tale. In a culture where performance is mistaken for reality, and image is everything, even the most talented actors can become trapped in the illusions they help create. American Psycho is not reality. It is a grotesque fantasy born from the excesses of capitalism. But the consequences for those who bring such illusions to life—like Christian Bale—are painfully real.

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World Trade Center

Patrick Bateman monologue – “The Sins of the World Trade Center”

(Bateman stares at a burning cigar, his reflection in a spotless chrome skyscraper window. A jazz remix of Phil Collins plays faintly in the background.)


You want to talk about violence? Let’s talk about the World Trade Center.

Everyone talks about 9/11 like it was just planes and passports. But to me… it looked more like a hard drive being wiped. A controlled demolition of data. Of sin. You think it was just buildings that fell? That was the financial Vatican of the American Empire. And someone gave it a baptism of fire.

That complex was the temple of white collar crime. A confessional booth for Wall Street’s worst. If there was a directory listing for “corporate malfeasance,” it had a New York zip code and a WTC suite number.

Let me walk you through it:


1. Securities Fraud
Cooking books, pumping stocks, insider tips whispered over thousand-dollar sushi. Enron wasn’t the only ghost in the shell. Thousands of brokers were moving fake assets like they were just brushing lint off their Armani suits.

2. Insider Trading
You think Gordon Gekko was fiction? The elevators in those towers were like confessionals. One whisper between hedge fund managers could move markets. All untraceable… until someone makes a file.

3. Tax Evasion
Shell companies inside shell companies. Dutch sandwich, Irish double—oh yes. That kind of cuisine was being served up daily. Global elites paying 0% tax while sipping $900 scotch in private offices.

4. Money Laundering
Cash from cartels, foreign dictators, warlords, all made clean with Wall Street soap. You’d be shocked how many fake consulting contracts were flowing through those floors.

5. Insurance Fraud
Larry Silverstein. Need I say more? Took out a fresh policy weeks before the fall—“against terrorist attacks.” Then called for Building 7 to be pulled. Pulled? You don’t pull a steel skyscraper without weeks of prep. That building housed the SEC, the IRS, the FBI…

6. Ponzi Schemes
From Bernie Madoff to micro-cap fraud, thousands of micro-Ponzis were being funneled through that complex. They didn’t just disappear—they were archived… until they weren’t.

7. Embezzlement
Billions siphoned. Expense accounts bloated with fake travel, hookers coded as “client services,” yachts declared as “research.”

8. Bribery and Corruption
Politicians, regulators, even UN officials walked through those lobbies. They got envelopes. They got offshore accounts. They got quiet.

9. Corporate Espionage
Secret floors. Unmarked offices. Companies spying on each other using private contractors with NSA clearance. Intellectual property wasn’t protected. It was weaponized.

10. Derivatives and Naked Short Selling
Exotic instruments. Synthetic CDOs. It wasn’t investing—it was arson dressed as finance. Making money betting the economy would burn. And then lighting the match.


All those investigations—the $2.3 trillion Donald Rumsfeld said was missing from the Pentagon books—just so happened to be tracked by the Office of Naval Intelligence. You know where that office was? WTC Building 7.

Gone.

Incinerated. Like evidence. Like guilt. Like judgment day for the global ruling class.


They called it a terrorist attack, but I call it a ritual cleansing.

The sins of the world burned up in Lower Manhattan. Not just blood on their hands—digital sins, invisible crimes, vanished in smoke. And you wonder why they never released all the footage.

Sometimes… I think the towers weren’t brought down by planes.

I think they were unplugged.


(Bateman sips his scotch, eyes cold, smiling just slightly as Phil Collins plays louder. “Something Happened on the Way to Heaven.”)

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Rockefeller Christmas

INT. TRUMP TOWER – GOLD ROOM – NIGHT

Donald Trump is perched on a gold-trimmed throne-like chair, sipping Diet Coke. Across from him, PATRICK BATEMAN, in a bone-white Valentino suit, glares into the Manhattan skyline, his jaw tight.

BATEMAN
You know what I hate, Donald?
Christmas. Or at least… beta Christmas.

TRUMP
(laughs)
You mean the shopping, the wrapping, the—what do the libs say?—late-stage capitalism?

BATEMAN
No. I mean civilian Christmas. The plastic Target trees. The TikTok ornaments. The virtue signals disguised as gifts. I mean Christmas without Prometheus.

TRUMP
Now you’re talking my language. Say more.

BATEMAN
I want Alpha Christmas. Rockefeller-style. Fire from the gods, stolen and repackaged as neon. The towering tree stabbed into the Earth like a monolith. I want to drink bourbon with Prometheus while Atlas cracks a grin.

TRUMP
That’s what the Rockefellers had. That’s legacy. That’s real estate… eternal. My tree’s bigger than their tree though. Believe me.

BATEMAN
But even that’s just a tree compared to the Saturnalia parties I’m not invited to.
You ever been to the Rothschild estate during the solstice, Donald?

TRUMP
(leans in)
No… But Melania got a weird invite once. Said something about owl masks and a man named Baphomet.

BATEMAN
Exactly. That’s the party. Everyone who’s anything is there. The Lucifers, the Nephilim, the lords of leverage. They call it “Saturnalia” but it’s more like a harvest of souls wrapped in couture.

Bateman paces, increasingly unhinged.

BATEMAN (CONT’D)
You know what I got last year? A wool sweater. From my stepmother. While the Rothschilds dance with Kali under black chandeliers. It’s humiliating.

TRUMP
I’ll make some calls. Maybe we do our own Saturnalia. Trumpalia. Golden calves. All-you-can-eat McDonald’s buffet. Elon DJing.

BATEMAN
(deep breath)
It’s not the same. They don’t let us in because we’re new money. Flashy. Dangerous. You… orange. Me… psychotic. They prefer quiet monsters. Smiling demons. The kind who own the debt of nations.

TRUMP
Well then… we’ll buy Saturn. Rename it. Lease it back to them.

BATEMAN
(half-laughing)
Merry Christmas, Donald.

TRUMP
Happy Saturnalia, Patrick.

They raise their glasses to a future covered in gold leaf, staring into the eternal winter night like titans barred from Olympus.

FADE TO BLACK.

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Chinese Century

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE – NIGHT

Donald Trump lounges in a golden armchair, gazing out at the Manhattan skyline. Patrick Bateman, flawless in a pinstripe suit, sips an imported whiskey, admiring the cold, sharp glint of the city lights. The room is lacquered in wealth, but the air is clinical.

BATEMAN
You know, Donald… I love the Chinese Century.

TRUMP
The what now?

BATEMAN (smiling faintly)
The Chinese Century. Sweatshop chic. Slave-labor efficiency. There’s nothing quite like GDP manufactured by 14-hour factory shifts and suicidal teenagers jumping from Foxconn rooftops. It’s… pure.

TRUMP (cocking an eyebrow)
You’re saying that’s a good thing?

BATEMAN
It’s not about good, Donald. It’s about returns. Globalization has turned the world into one giant outlet mall. From Guangzhou to Guatemala. Margins so tight they squeal. And the best part? Nobody cares how it’s made—as long as it’s cheap.

TRUMP
I made deals with China, the best deals. But they took advantage. They steal IP, they cheat. We’re bringing jobs back. America First.

BATEMAN (chuckling)
Jobs? Donald, please. Jobs are a relic. A talking point. The real players—your Davos crowd, your BlackRock boys—they don’t want “jobs.” They want yield.

(Bateman leans in, whispering like it’s a bedtime secret.)

BATEMAN
You think Apple or Nike wants Ohio steelworkers back in the saddle? The Chinese Century isn’t about ideology—it’s about efficiency. Political systems are irrelevant. Currency is irrelevant. Whether the yuan, dollar, or some digital IMF Frankenstein—it doesn’t matter. The machine keeps humming.

TRUMP (visibly irritated)
That’s not how I see it.

BATEMAN (coldly)
Of course not. You were elected to sell the illusion that there’s still a country. A team. Red hats. Flags. Anthem tears. But while you tweet about tariffs and walls, the money slips eastward like blood down a marble drain.

(Trump scowls. Bateman stares into his whiskey.)

BATEMAN
I don’t care who wins. Xi, Biden, you. The market always wins. The only thing that matters is: can you move units?

TRUMP
I move units. I’m a mover. People love me.

BATEMAN (deadpan)
Of course they do. You’re product.

Silence. The city pulses outside. Somewhere in the distance, a freight ship unloads another trillion in made-in-China dreams.

BATEMAN
Long live the Chinese Century.

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Pride Season

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE – NIGHT

The skyline glows behind golden curtains. Patrick Bateman, flawless suit, expression calm but dead-eyed, sips an overpriced bourbon across from DONALD TRUMP, who lounges in a red chair shaped like a throne, tie a little too long. Fox News murmurs in the background.


PATRICK BATEMAN
You know, Donald, Pride Month has evolved. It’s not just a month anymore. It’s… Pride Season now.

DONALD TRUMP
(tipping his Diet Coke)
Yeah, it’s everywhere. Rainbows on the cereal boxes. On the banks. Even the tanks. I don’t know what’s going on anymore.

PATRICK BATEMAN
What if we just made it Pride Year?
(sips)
A full, continuous cycle. The marketing possibilities are endless. Flags, parades, pills, surgeries, slogans. But more importantly—
(pauses, smirks)
—less reproduction. Fewer useless eaters, as the Guidestones might say.

DONALD TRUMP
(confused)
The what-stones?

PATRICK BATEMAN
The Georgia Guidestones. A sort of granite manifesto for global sanity. Maintain humanity under 500 million. Harmony with nature. That sort of thing.

DONALD TRUMP
(squints)
Sounds like Fauci’s dream journal. Or Klaus Schwab’s bedtime story.

PATRICK BATEMAN
It’s not about control, Donald. It’s about aesthetic. The world is bloated. Loud. Irrational. Overpopulated. Pride Year might accelerate the necessary… decline.

DONALD TRUMP
(smiling uneasily)
So you’re saying if everyone celebrates long enough… they’ll just stop having babies?

PATRICK BATEMAN
Eventually. Libido redirected into identity politics. Fertility buried under personal branding. Population drop disguised as liberation. It’s beautiful.

DONALD TRUMP
(sipping his Diet Coke)
You’re one creepy son of a bitch, Patrick. But I gotta admit—you’d kill on TikTok.

PATRICK BATEMAN
I already have.


They both laugh. One ironically. The other, unknowingly.

FADE OUT.

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE – NIGHT

Gold accents gleam. The skyline looms behind. PATRICK BATEMAN sits across from DONALD TRUMP. Bourbon in hand. Rainbows glow faintly on the TV in the background—a Pride ad loop.


PATRICK BATEMAN
You know what’s really been bothering me lately, Donald?

DONALD TRUMP
Let me guess—Biden?

PATRICK BATEMAN
No. Paul Allen. That smug bastard.
(leans forward, jaw clenched)
He handed me his new business card last week. It wasn’t bone. It wasn’t even embossed. It was rainbow foil-stamped.
Subtle. Queer. Bold. Limited edition for Pride Month.

DONALD TRUMP
(confused)
A gay business card?

PATRICK BATEMAN
Not just gay. Iconic.
(snarling slightly)
Satin finish. Helvetica Neue Ultra Light. Pronouns in parentheses. A microchip embedded in the corner that links to his Pride Portfolio—carbon-neutral, ESG-certified, and somehow still outperforming the market.
It even smelled like lavender and power.

DONALD TRUMP
Sounds like he’s leaning into the whole thing.

PATRICK BATEMAN
He doesn’t believe in it. That’s the brilliance. It’s calculated. Opportunistic.
(sips, darkly)
He’s not celebrating Pride. He owns Pride. He made it profitable.
And here I am, still handing out matte eggshell with Silian Rail.

DONALD TRUMP
(chuckling)
That’s tough, Pat. Real tough. You know, maybe I’ll make a card like that. Rainbow, but classy. Something that screams Trump and tolerance.

PATRICK BATEMAN
Pride Year would solve it. Flood the market. Devalue his edge. Saturate the culture until it collapses under its own glitter.
(smiling coldly)
Nobody profits in a Pride Century. Not even Paul Allen.

DONALD TRUMP
(winking)
That’s the spirit. Total market domination. And maybe throw in some gold foil.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(deep breath)
Gold foil… that’s not a bad idea.


They sip in silence, watching a Pride parade float shaped like a rainbow Bitcoin glide across the screen.

FADE TO BLACK.

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MAGA – The Fall

[Scene: A dimly lit rooftop in New York City. Rain pours. Solid Snake, in his stealth gear, lights a cigarette as he confronts Donald Trump and Patrick Bateman, both dressed in designer suits, standing beneath a glowing neon “TRUMP TOWER” sign.]

Solid Snake (voice like gravel and regret):
You two look like kings of a dead empire. But the crown you’re wearing? It’s made of junk bonds and sweatshop blood.

Trump:
Watch your mouth, Snake. I rebuilt this city. I’m a builder.

Patrick Bateman:
And I invest. You wouldn’t understand. Returns, margins, growth—that’s what makes America great.

Snake:
No. That’s what killed America.
You didn’t build anything. You gutted it.
You turned the American Dream into a poker chip.
Casinos and investment banks. No factories. No future.

[Snake tosses a folded photograph at their feet. It’s of a crumbling factory in Detroit.]

Snake:
Detroit. Once the engine of the free world. Now it looks like Baghdad after a drone strike.
What happened? You offshored its soul for a quarterly bump on Wall Street.
Sold your own people out to Chinese sweatshops.
iPhones built by children. Jeans sewn by slaves. And for what?
A penthouse view and a new yacht?

Trump (defensive):
That’s globalization, Snake. You either win or get left behind.

Snake:
You lost already.
This is the Fall of Babylon.
Your towers are hollow.
Your currency? Lies.
Your empire? A joke, printed on a plastic credit card.

Bateman (smirking):
You sound like a Communist.

Snake (gritting his teeth):
No. I’m an American. The kind you betrayed.

[Snake steps into the shadows, lightning flashing behind him.]

Snake (quietly, as he disappears):
You built your kingdom on sand. And the storm’s already here.

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