Tag: Patrick Bateman

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Bowing to Bog

Title: “Trump47: The Slovenia Safehouse and the Testimony of Christ”

On his newest livestream at Trump47.ca, former President Donald Trump erupts with frustration:

“I’m sick and tired of Patrick Bateman! Psycho! He’s a sick puppy! You want to see a real businessman? Look at me! Look at the hotels, the towers, the steaks—Bateman never built a thing!”

Behind him, a marble statue of Melania Trump holding a gold Bible is unveiled. Inscribed at the base:

“To Bog, whom Melania calls God.”

Trump looks directly into the camera.

“You know who else bows? Lord Rothschild. That’s right. The grand architect of the deep state. He bowed to Bogdanov—because the Bogdanovs know the secrets of Revelation, they know what’s behind the third trumpet!”

He raises a glowing orb from beneath the desk labeled “The Orb of Disclosure,” a rumored relic from the Saudi sword dance.

“I demand Lord Rothschild bow to me, just like he bowed to Bog. Because I’m the Chosen One now. I’m the Christ of Capitalism, and I got golden elevators to prove it.”

But then, his tone shifts—almost pleading:

“I’ll testify. I’ll tell the truth about everything. The rituals. The tomb. The Skull & Bones deals. The Epstein tapes. The cloned generals on Mars. All of it. But only if you get me to safety in Slovenia. It’s the only place I trust.”

He taps the orb again. It flashes a sigil—half Orthodox cross, half Triglav rune.

“Melania says God’s real name is Bog. And I believe her. She’s from the mountains. They know things there. Ancient things. Holy things.”

At the bottom of the screen, a message scrolls:
“Testimony for Christ: Safe Passage to Slovenia Requested. Sponsored by Trump47 SuperPAC and the Sons of Revelation.”

Bateman responds on a dark web podcast later that night:

“He’s afraid of me because I see the rot behind the gold. The Bogdanovs don’t bow to anyone. Not even Bog.”

Stay tuned. The third trumpet may be sounding soon.

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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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The Chosen One

INT. TRUMP TOWER – NIGHT

Gold reflects gold. Mirrors reflect nothing. Patrick Bateman stands before Donald J. Trump, who sits enthroned on a golden couch. A smirk dances on Bateman’s lips, barely hiding the mania in his eyes.

BATEMAN:
Donald… you’re the Chosen One.

TRUMP (tilting his head):
I’ve heard that before. People say that. A lot of people say that.

BATEMAN (intensely):
Not like this. Not from me. See, you don’t feed the people fish and bread. That’s passé. You give them fire. Precision drone strikes. Beautiful, spectacular violence. You turned the Sermon on the Mount into a State of the Union.

Trump smiles like a man hearing his favorite bedtime story.

BATEMAN (cont’d):
Your father’s name was Frederick Christ. Your mother, Mary. A Gaelic-speaking Celt. It’s too perfect. You’re the Anti-Christ or the Messiah, depending on whether you’re buying or selling.

TRUMP:
My father was a great man. Built homes. Taught me everything. I was an apprentice, just like Jesus… only I used better materials. Marble. Gold. Class.

BATEMAN (dreamy):
Exactly. Jesus built benches for fishermen. You built casinos and missile deals. He turned water into wine… you made Trump Vodka. He multiplied bread… you multiplied debt.

TRUMP (proudly):
And ratings.

BATEMAN:
Yes. You gave the world spectacle. When I watch the fireworks over the Middle East, I don’t feel horror. I feel… ecstasy. It’s like watching a Fourth of July orgy in the sky. Your wrath… is biblical.

TRUMP:
Fire and fury, baby. Like the world has never seen.

BATEMAN:
You’re the new Christ for the algorithm age. A Christ who monetizes miracles. Who tweets the Beatitudes in all caps.

TRUMP (nodding slowly):
BLESSED ARE THE RICH, FOR THEY SHALL OWN THE EARTH.

BATEMAN:
Yes. Yes! And the poor? Let them eat tariffs.

A long silence. Only the soft hum of power. Then:

TRUMP (reflectively):
I always thought I was special. Like maybe I was meant to fix things. But not with kindness. That’s weak. I fix it with deals.

BATEMAN:
You didn’t come to bring peace. You came to bring branding. And a sword.

TRUMP:
A Trump sword. Diamond-studded. Limited edition.

BATEMAN (grinning):
The Book of Donald. Chapter 1: “And lo, the kingdom of heaven shall be franchised.”

TRUMP:
Amen to that.

The two men smile at each other, disciples of power, bonded by ego, capitalism, and bloodless conquest. Somewhere, a drone hums in the distance, and a new commandment uploads to the cloud.

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Zelensky

INT. TRUMP TOWER – NIGHT – PRIVATE PENTHOUSE SUITE

Donald Trump lounges on a white leather couch beneath a massive oil painting of himself riding an American bald eagle. Patrick Bateman stands by the window in a razor-sharp Armani suit, sipping an overpriced, ethically questionable scotch.

TRUMP
So I saw Zelensky on TV again today… the guy’s what, 5’2”? Maybe? Looks like he escaped from The Shire.

BATEMAN
(Flicks invisible lint off his sleeve)
He has Hobbit energy. All pathos, no presence. Like Frodo—but without the charisma or sword skills. Just trembling speeches and too-tight olive drab t-shirts.

TRUMP
Right! He’s always wearing that army green shirt like he’s leading the Battle of Helm’s Deep. Guy needs a tailor. Maybe a stepstool.

BATEMAN
(Laughing coldly)
He’s a walking Tumblr meme. A wartime influencer. You could toss him into Mount Doom and I’m not sure the Ring would notice.

TRUMP
He wanted jets. He wanted tanks. He wanted billions. You know what I would’ve given him?

BATEMAN
Let me guess—*

TRUMP
A nice chair. Something to stand on during press conferences.

BATEMAN
(Grinning)
You’re generous. I was thinking a ring light and a copy of The Lord of the Rings: Extended Edition.

TRUMP
We had real men in the old days. Patton. MacArthur. Me. Now we’ve got Frodo cosplayers asking NATO for dragons.

BATEMAN
At least Frodo had Sam. Zelensky just has Justin Trudeau and Bono tweeting in his defense.

TRUMP
Exactly. No army. Just hashtags. Sad!

BATEMAN
History won’t remember the speeches. It’ll remember who had better hair and real estate portfolios.

TRUMP
And I’ve got both. Frodo can keep the ring. I’m building condos in Mordor.

FADE OUT as they both laugh, a little too hard, sipping their drinks while the city burns softly below.

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Galactic Senate

INT. GALACTIC SENATE – CORUSCANT – NIGHT

The chamber echoes with the cold hum of floating platforms and murmuring alien delegates. All eyes turn to the central podium where Donald “The Chosen One” Trump stands in resplendent golden robes, embroidered with stars, eagles, and golf clubs. His hair is extra force-sensitive tonight—suspended by some unknown dark energy.

A hush falls. Trump raises both hands like a preacher at a rally.

TRUMP
Senators… galactic people… space losers… I stand before you—not just as a businessman, not just as a former president, but as the Chosen One. The prophecy said someone would bring balance. Well, guess what? I prefer to bring dominance.

Cut to: Patrick Bateman, in a shimmering silver suit, sitting in the front row, applauding violently—like he’s at a Whitney Houston concert. His eyes are glassy with obsession and purpose.

BATEMAN
(Whispering under breath)
Yes. Yes. This is it. Pure myth made flesh. This is better than Huey Lewis.

TRUMP
They said I couldn’t do it. They said I wasn’t Jedi enough. Too rich. Too orange. But the Force? The Force loves winners. And I’m the biggest winner this galaxy has ever seen.

Trump lifts his hand and force-chokes a heckling Rodian senator who shouted “You’re no Skywalker!”

TRUMP (CONT’D)
I built towers. Now I build empires. I grabbed the Force—and I made it pay rent.

BATEMAN
(Rises to his feet, clapping harder)
You ARE the Chosen One, sir. You must embrace the dark side. There’s no other way. Without it… Melania will die. You saw it in your dreams, didn’t you?

TRUMP
(Smirking)
I did. She was crying… wrinkled. Terrible lighting.

BATEMAN
Then you know what must be done. Palpatine failed because he lacked brand control. Vader fell because of guilt. But you? You don’t feel guilt. You feel greatness.

TRUMP
That’s true. So true. And I won’t just master the dark side—I’ll license it. Trump™ Sith Academies, opening this fall.

GALACTIC SENATORS gasp.

BATEMAN
(Shouting)
YES! DESTROY THE JEDI! BRING ORDER! MAKE THE EMPIRE GREAT AGAIN!

TRUMP
And after we build the wall around Endor… we will unleash Order 88. Stronger than 66. Twice the power.

BATEMAN
(Eyes wide)
What is Order 88?

TRUMP
I don’t know yet. But it’s gonna be fantastic. The best order. Everyone says so.

FADE OUT as the Imperial March is remixed with Kid Rock and power chords.
The Senate erupts in chaos. Bateman just smiles. The galaxy has found its god.

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Garbage

INT. MAR-A-LAGO GARAGE – NIGHT

Chrome and gold everywhere. Spotless floors. A monstrous, custom Trump-brand GARBAGE TRUCK sits center-stage—polished, armored, and inexplicably patriotic. The words “TRUMP SANITATION – DRAIN THE SWAMP” gleam in gold leaf across the side.

Donald Trump, in a red hat and silk tie, leans against it with satisfaction. Patrick Bateman circles the truck slowly, inspecting it like a piece of art.

TRUMP
Beautiful, isn’t she? Best garbage truck in the world. Runs on diesel and raw American ambition. I call her “The Big Dumper.”

BATEMAN
(Smirking)
It’s very… Roman Empire meets Staten Island.

TRUMP
Exactly. See, nobody talks about the garbage men. But if they went on strike—boom. Black plague. Rats. Chaos. Civilization crumbles. It’s the trash that keeps the empire clean.

BATEMAN
(Thoughtful)
True. They hold the fabric together more than Congress ever has.

TRUMP
But here’s the real question, Patrick…
(Steps closer, lowering voice)
What if we went on strike?

BATEMAN
(Still circling)
Society loses its masks. The system collapses—but with better suits. No one to sell the dream. No one to project strength. No alpha signals. No cold stares in boardrooms. Just… weakness. Wet tofu handshakes.

TRUMP
The whole stock market would cry. Imagine the Dow without me tweeting. Without you chopping wood in thousand-dollar cufflinks. There’d be no noise, no edge. Just… Canada.

BATEMAN
(Smiles)
The world might actually get better.

TRUMP
(Laughs)
Maybe. But it would also get boring. Weak. Like eating tofu on a paper plate. I’m not retiring to a cave. You?

BATEMAN
No. I need to be seen. I need mirrors. I need competition. I need something to win.

TRUMP
Exactly. We’re the sharks, Patrick. If we stop swimming, the ocean turns into a YMCA pool party.

BATEMAN
(Grins)
So we keep going. For civilization.

TRUMP
For the optics.

BATEMAN
And the bloodlust.

TRUMP
And the brand.

They both turn to admire “The Big Dumper” again. A bald eagle screeches in the distance—or maybe it’s just a malfunctioning leaf blower.

FADE OUT.

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McDonald’s Stock Prices

INT. PATRICK BATEMAN’S APARTMENT – NIGHT
Chrome surfaces gleam. Huey Lewis plays softly in the background. Bateman, in a Valentino robe, is watching archival footage of Donald Trump’s infamous White House McDonald’s feast—Big Macs piled high like a pagan altar to cholesterol and capitalism.

BATEMAN
(Whispers, almost reverently)
Beautiful. Just beautiful.

He slowly pours himself an imported mineral water and walks over to the television, pausing the image of Trump grinning behind a fortress of Quarter Pounders.

BATEMAN (CONT’D)
A man who feeds champions with food from the people’s temple. No Michelin stars, no fussy menus. Just processed meat, precision-engineered for profit and addiction. Trump doesn’t cater to elitism. He annihilates it. He feeds athletes like they’re interns at Merrill Lynch. And they ate it up.

BATEMAN (to himself)
Ronald would be proud.

He walks over to his laptop, opens a new tab on Bloomberg, and types: “MCD: NYSE.” The McDonald’s stock ticker opens—Bateman smirks.

BATEMAN (CONT’D)
The killer clown’s numbers are up. Grease is bullish. Obesity is a national investment strategy. That dinner was the ultimate brand alignment—Trump and McDonald’s: the sultan and the jester of modern empire.

CUT TO:

INT. RONALD MCDONALD HOUSE – DAY (FANTASY)
Bateman, in a designer apron, gracefully hands out Happy Meals to sick children in hospital beds. He’s smiling—vacant, perfect.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
There’s something pure about it. Service. Giving back. Feeding children in Ronald’s house, under his golden arches. Not just any food—his food. Branded sustenance. The body count? Impressive. A slow attrition campaign against the immune system. But at least they’re smiling.

A small girl in a wheelchair smiles as Bateman offers her a Filet-O-Fish. He kneels beside her.

BATEMAN
(Sincerely, yet hollow)
Would you like extra ketchup?

She nods. He hands it over like a communion wafer.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
Charity is cleaner when it’s corporate. It’s not about healing—it’s about presentation. Calories disguised as comfort. Smiles funded by shareholders. And under every Happy Meal toy? A lesson in dependence.

CUT BACK TO:

INT. PATRICK BATEMAN’S APARTMENT – NIGHT
He clicks “Buy” on McDonald’s stock. Smiles.

BATEMAN
Ronald, you magnificent clown… you’re not just killing children. You’re killing it.

FADE TO BLACK.

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Pizza

INT. UPSCALE MANHATTAN RESTAURANT – NIGHT

Patrick Bateman sits across from a group of impeccably dressed Wall Street colleagues. The table is littered with artisanal pizzas, untouched but photogenic. A massive TV in the corner plays muted news footage of Donald Trump at a campaign stop—he’s eating pizza, backwards. Crust first.

BATEMAN
(Locks eyes with the screen, glass of Bordeaux halfway to his lips)
Do you see that?

CRAIG
What?

BATEMAN
He’s eating the crust first.

DAVID
Yeah… that’s just weird.

BATEMAN
(Slowly, reverently)
It’s not weird. It’s dominance. It’s pre-emptive. It’s a hostile takeover of the entire pizza eating experience. No foreplay. No hesitation. Just the hard part—first.

TIM
You think Trump’s a food alpha now?

BATEMAN
Trump isn’t just a food alpha—he’s the alpha and the omega. He ends the reign of the triangle. He dismantles the sauce-first establishment. That crust move? It’s not just about pizza. It’s about power.

DAVID
I think he just didn’t want cheese on his tie.

BATEMAN
(Scoffs)
That’s what they want you to think. But only a man who owns the boardroom, the real estate, and the lunch table would dare invert culinary ritual in front of cameras. Eating pizza crust first is postmodern warfare. It’s a declaration: I don’t follow form. I am the form.

CRAIG
So what—you eat your crust first now?

BATEMAN
(Cold smile)
Only if I want to win.

Bateman slowly lifts his slice, flips it in his hand, and takes a brutal bite of crust. No cheese. No sauce. Just declaration.

BATEMAN (CONT’D)
This is how a president eats when he’s not trying to impress you. He’s trying to consume you.

FADE OUT.

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On Greta

INT. TRUMP TOWER – NIGHT – LUXURY LOUNGE

Trump and Patrick Bateman sip chilled Dom Pérignon while lounging on cream leather couches. Outside, the city swelters in late-summer heat, but the AC hums softly—a cold, capitalist whisper.

TRUMP
So this Greta girl… what’s her deal again? Always scowling, yelling about the weather?

BATEMAN
She’s a Swedish psy-op, Donald. A flat-pack climate prophet—basically an IKEA product. Comes with moral outrage, Allen key not included.

TRUMP
(Snickers)
IKEA. That explains the accent. You ever notice how she talks like she’s assembling an apocalypse?

BATEMAN
Exactly. “How dare you”… like we’re the villains for enjoying a little air conditioning. She’s threatening the entire HVAC industry, Donald. The very essence of our modern condition.

TRUMP
You know I love air conditioning. It’s tremendous. Nothing wrong with ice-cold air on a hot day. The best air. American air. Not Swedish guilt air.

BATEMAN
She wants a carbon tax, Don. On everything. Jets. Steaks. Even lawnmowers. I say we beat her to it.

TRUMP
Beat her to it how?

BATEMAN
Tax exhaled breath. Human breath. Every inhale, every exhale—carbon. We monetize lungs, Donald. Patriot breath credits. Red, white, and profitable.

TRUMP
(Brows furrowed in mock thought)
A breathing tax. Interesting. Everyone breathes, even the poor. Especially the poor. Could be huge.

BATEMAN
It’s genius. They’ll beg for ventilator exemptions. We install Trump-branded breath meters. Link them to social credit scores. Greta won’t know what hit her.

TRUMP
(Laughs)
We’ll call it the Freedom Breath Act. Makes it sound like a liberty thing. Libertarians will eat it up.

BATEMAN
And when they protest, we blame IKEA. Say they’re building climate prisons with hex keys and recycled guilt.

TRUMP
(Smug)
Patrick, this is why I keep you around. You’re a killer idea man.

BATEMAN
(Smiling coldly)
And you’re the only man who could sell bottled air to a suffocating nation.

Both men clink glasses. The AC blasts colder. Outside, Greta glares on a Times Square billboard, but inside, ice cubes tinkle like coins in a golden glass.

FADE OUT.

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Stop Whining

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE DINING ROOM – NIGHT

A bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild 1961 breathes between two titans of ego. The city glows below them like a subdued kingdom. Donald Trump wears a silk robe with “45” embroidered in gold. Patrick Bateman, razor-sharp in a Brioni dinner jacket, decants the wine like a surgeon handling blood. On the TV: an old clip of Arnold Schwarzenegger barking, “Stop whining!”

DONALD TRUMP
(scoffs, watching Arnold)
There he goes again—“Stop whining!” Easy for him to say. He’s the Terminator. Married into the Kennedys. Has a tank in his garage. And muscles the size of Rhode Island.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(deadpan, pouring Trump’s glass)
It’s always the musclemen and money priests telling us to shut up. Arnold. Warren Buffet. The Rothschilds. It’s like a chorus of oligarchs anonymous.

DONALD TRUMP
(snorts)
Buffet lectures me on taxes. Arnold tells me to stop whining. Meanwhile, we’re sitting here drinking wine worth more than most Americans’ annual salary—and we’re still not even close to Rothschild rich.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(raising his glass)
You ever meet a Rothschild?

DONALD TRUMP
(shaking his head)
No. I invited one to Mar-a-Lago once. They sent back a polite rejection letter… written in Latin.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(dark chuckle)
They don’t go on Forbes lists. They own the lists. Their idea of poor is probably us drinking a bottle from the 1960s instead of something from Napoleon’s cellar.

DONALD TRUMP
(grumbles)
I own towers. Golf courses. A Boeing 757. And still—somehow—I’m a peasant to them.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(swirling his glass)
We’re nouveau royalty, Donald. Flash. Gold. Hotels. But they’re dynastic. Old money. Banking bloodlines. Illuminati whispers and Swiss vaults. We’re rich. They’re immortal.

DONALD TRUMP
(half-laughing)
And Arnold thinks we need him to motivate us? He’s a movie star from Austria who got famous pretending to be a robot. Great guy, by the way, but I don’t need a Terminator telling me to work harder.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(mocking tone)
“Stop whining,” he says—as if our problem is attitude. Not the fact that every central bank probably owes the Rothschilds interest payments until the end of time.

DONALD TRUMP
(toasting)
To being poor—by billionaire standards.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(clinks glasses)
And to whining about it—with style.

They drink. The Rothschild bottle gleams in the low light like an artifact of another world. On the screen, Arnold flexes. Somewhere far away, the Rothschilds don’t notice—or care.

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