Tag: Patrick Bateman

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Partying With Epstein

INT. TRUMP TOWER – NIGHT – PRIVATE CIGAR LOUNGE

Low light. Leather-bound walls. The fireplace glows like a confession booth in hell. Donald Trump reclines in a velvet armchair, swirling cognac. Patrick Bateman sits across from him, intense, manicured, and gleaming with Wall Street detachment. They’ve been drinking, talking legacy. Now the conversation veers into darker territory.

DONALD TRUMP
(half-grinning, eyes glazed with nostalgia)
You know, Patrick, back in the day—Palm Beach, Mar-a-Lago—we owned the night. Models, heiresses, deals over daiquiris. And yeah… Epstein showed up sometimes.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(smirks, voice sharp as a straight razor)
Of course he did. He was a myth in motion. Ghost of Manhattan’s secret desires. Everyone partied with him—until it became inconvenient.

DONALD TRUMP
(defensive, waving a hand)
Listen, I banned him. Long time ago. People don’t talk about that. They just like to connect dots. But I draw lines. Clear ones.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(coolly)
Lines in the sand? Or lines on a mirrored table?

(beat)
Let’s be honest, Donald—Epstein was a financier of fantasy. A curator of taboos. He offered the illusion of control to men who already had too much of it.

DONALD TRUMP
(leaning in, voice low)
I was never controlled. Never compromised. That’s the difference. He tried to orbit me like I was the sun. But I don’t revolve around anyone.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(deadpan)
Naturally. He was a Gatsby without class. You’re more like a golden Caligula—untouchable, vulgar, worshipped by millions. And somehow… still the underdog.

DONALD TRUMP
(smirks)
Exactly. They throw scandals at me like tomatoes. I eat them. I make ketchup.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(laughs, then serious)
But you knew what he was, Donald. You felt it. That predator energy. You both had it. Difference is, you chose the spotlight. He chose the shadows.

DONALD TRUMP
(grimly)
And look where the shadows got him.

(beat)
Let’s just say… he didn’t kill himself. You and I both know that.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(cold smile)
Of course not. Power doesn’t die—it changes hands.

The fire crackles. Silence lingers. Both men drink, surrounded by portraits, ghosts, and the weight of what they’ll never say publicly.

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Trans Weightlifting

INT. TRUMP TOWER – NIGHT — PRIVATE STUDY

The room smells like leather and power. Fox News plays quietly on the TV in the background—trans weightlifting controversy. Donald Trump lounges in a gold-trimmed armchair, half-watching. Patrick Bateman stands by the window in a sleek charcoal suit, swirling a glass of Bordeaux like it’s blood.

DONALD TRUMP
(raising an eyebrow)
You see this, Patrick? A biological man just smashed the women’s weightlifting record. They say it’s brave. I say—it’s bench pressing biology.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(dryly)
Brave? Donald, I’ve seen braver things in a Dior dressing room. This isn’t progress. It’s performance art with protein powder.

DONALD TRUMP
(smirking)
They say I should be inclusive. I am inclusive. I just think it’s unfair. You shouldn’t be able to walk into a competition with testosterone in your veins and walk out with a trophy in a wig.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(nods)
It’s not sport. It’s spectacle. Like giving a Wall Street banker an Olympic medal for insider trading—technically impressive, morally bankrupt.

(pauses)
Also, a word of advice, Donald: never buy a Trans Am.

DONALD TRUMP
(confused)
The car?

PATRICK BATEMAN
Yes. Pontiac. Sleek. Masculine. But in today’s culture? A PR disaster waiting to happen. You drive a Trans Am, and GLAAD might show up with torches and hashtags.

DONALD TRUMP
(chuckling)
I thought it stood for “Trans-American.” Now it’s “Transgender-American?”

PATRICK BATEMAN
Exactly. Semantics are landmines. You say “transmission,” they hear “transition.” You say “manpower,” they hear “microaggression.”

DONALD TRUMP
(laughing harder)
It’s like walking on woke eggshells. They tried to cancel me for saying “manhole cover.” What am I supposed to say? Personhole?

PATRICK BATEMAN
(stone-faced)
Utility aperture, Donald. Get with the program.

They share a laugh—two titans of obliviousness standing proudly against the cultural tide, refusing to read the room but owning the building it’s in.

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The Fresh Prince

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE LOUNGE – NIGHT

The skyline glows behind them. Gold trim glistens. A fire crackles beneath a massive portrait of Donald Trump holding an American flag in one hand and a Big Mac in the other. Patrick Bateman lounges on a leather sofa, glass of bourbon in hand, eyes gleaming with admiration. The TV plays a rerun of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air—jazzy theme and all.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(casual, fascinated)
I heard you once offered to buy the Fresh Prince house. Bel-Air. That colonial with the columns. Very tasteful. Suburban opulence with a touch of nouveau nostalgia.

DONALD TRUMP
(nods, reclined confidently)
I did. Tremendous property. I said, “Will, if you ever want to sell, let me know.” The house had… character. History. You know I’m great with real estate, and even better with race relations.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(leans in, eyes alight)
Of course you are. I mean, you stepping into that house—some would say it was controversial. But I say it was heroic. Like a white Rosa Parks moment. Sitting where they said you shouldn’t.

DONALD TRUMP
(smirks)
Exactly. I don’t see race—I see value. The media doesn’t get that. They think I’m obsessed with walls. I’m not. I just want the right people in the right rooms. And Bel-Air? It needed Trump.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(swirling his drink)
And let’s be honest… the germs. That house had hip-hop residue. But you stepped in anyway. Bold. Risky. Revolutionary. Like shaking hands with the help, but owning the help.

DONALD TRUMP
(laughs)
I told Will—I bring Lysol, I bring deals. I clean things up. That’s what I do. They should thank me.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(sincerely)
I do thank you, Donald. For all of it. For ending apartheid, for showing the world that real estate knows no color. I mean, who else could make Mar-a-Lago the most integrated palace in Palm Beach?

DONALD TRUMP
(grins, proud)
Nelson Mandela? Great guy. But he didn’t have my negotiation skills. I told them—if we’re going to end apartheid, let’s make a deal.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(dead serious)
You deserve a Nobel. Not for peace. For taste.

They clink glasses. The world burns outside in culture wars and collapsing civility—but inside, in this golden penthouse, history is rewritten with confidence, charisma, and complete detachment from reality.

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Battle of the Billionaires

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PRIVATE GYM – NIGHT

Donald Trump does light curls with golden dumbbells. Patrick Bateman, flawless in an Armani tracksuit, wipes imaginary sweat from his brow. On the TV screen: a replay of Trump’s legendary wrestling match with Vince McMahon at WrestleMania 23. The hair vs. hair match. The moment Trump tackled McMahon to the ground echoes like a gladiator’s myth.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(grinning, pacing like a predator)
That moment when you tackled Vince… Donald, it was electric. You weren’t just in the ring. You owned the ring. A hostile takeover of the squared circle.

DONALD TRUMP
(nods, smug)
People said I couldn’t do it. They said I’d embarrass myself. But I said—watch me. I’ve built towers. Why not take down a wrestling tyrant?

PATRICK BATEMAN
(dark chuckle)
And you did. Like a CEO executing a corporate raid. Vince McMahon didn’t stand a chance. None of them do. The wrestlers, the fans… the bodies pile up, but the brand survives.

DONALD TRUMP
(pumps another curl)
Exactly. The brand is immortal. The rest? Just background noise. Guys like Austin, Hogan, The Rock—they’re great. But I stepped in once and rewrote the whole show.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(coldly)
Dead wrestlers tell no tales, Donald. That’s the truth. They fall off ladders, overdose, collapse in the ring. But the corporation? The corporation endures. You can chant “Rest in peace” all you want—but in the end, there’s only one anthem: “No chance in hell.”

DONALD TRUMP
(smiles, savoring it)
That was my theme song, you know. The music when I walked down the ramp. “No chance—that’s what you’ve got…” Boom. Pure gold.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(deadpan)
It’s practically a mission statement. No chance in hell—for the weak. For the poor. For the over-muscled meat puppets who think theatrics equal power.

DONALD TRUMP
(laughing)
Patrick, you really get it. Most people don’t. They think wrestling is fake. I tell them, “The pain is real. So is the money.”

PATRICK BATEMAN
(sips electrolyte water)
And so is the power dynamic. You versus Vince? That wasn’t a match. That was a boardroom merger. You shaved his head like a hostile takeover. Like a scalp trophy on the wall.

The camera pans to a framed photo of Trump holding electric clippers over Vince McMahon’s bald head. Bateman stares at it the way one might admire a Rothko—silent, reverent, cold.

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Macron Handshake

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.

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Ivana Trump

INT. TRUMP TOWER – NIGHT

Marble floors gleam. Gold everywhere. A painting of Donald Trump hangs above the fireplace like Caesar in Manhattan. Patrick Bateman sips from a crystal tumbler of 30-year-old Macallan. Donald Trump paces proudly, showing off his skyscraper like a man introducing his kingdom. The conversation drifts to ghosts of the past.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(smirking, sharp in Valentino)
You know, Donald, I always admired Ivana. She had… edge. Czech frost. The kind of cold beauty you could carve diamonds on.

DONALD TRUMP
(stops, eyes sparkle with nostalgia and a little disdain)
Ivana? Tremendous woman. Tremendous. Very strong. She could run a hotel better than most men I knew. But she wanted to be… in charge. And I don’t like being second place. Ever.

PATRICK BATEMAN
Of course not. Alpha to the bone. She had that Eastern Bloc toughness. Like she could have survived a Gulag… or run one.

DONALD TRUMP
Exactly! That’s what I used to say. “Ivana, you should be running Czechoslovakia.” I gave her the Plaza, let her run Atlantic City for a while—people forget that. But the problem is, Patrick, when you give too much power… they start thinking they’re the brand.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(leaning forward, intrigued)
And you’re not just the brand. You’re the empire.

DONALD TRUMP
That’s right. I’m Trump. The name is the business. Not her, not Marla, not even Melania. Me.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(chuckles)
It’s almost romantic. In a ruthless, Ayn Rand sort of way.

DONALD TRUMP
(grinning)
Ivana tried to negotiate the prenup. Big mistake. I told her: “You want half the kingdom? Build your own.” And she did—kind of. She’s got her hotels, her lines… Ivana Inc. But she was never Trump Inc.

PATRICK BATEMAN
That’s the thing about legacy. You either own it, or you get written out of it.

DONALD TRUMP
She got the money. I got the name. Fair trade. Besides, I upgraded.

PATRICK BATEMAN
(icy smile)
Like a car lease. Cold, efficient. Very… Reaganite.

They sip their scotch as the skyline glows behind them. Two men, high above the city, haunted by women and ambition, comparing notes on love, power, and brands.

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Trump Products

INT. TRUMP TOWER – EXECUTIVE SUITE – NIGHT
A storm of Manhattan neon reflects in the windows. Champagne chills beside a platter of rare steak. PATRICK BATEMAN, immaculate in Tom Ford, sits across from DONALD TRUMP, who’s wearing a navy suit and a red tie like a battlefield flag.

PATRICK BATEMAN (leaning back, eyes gleaming):
Donald… your brand portfolio is the most avant-garde expression of American excess I’ve ever seen.
The Trump Game? It’s Monopoly for sociopaths—perfect.
I bought four copies. Two to play, two to burn.

DONALD TRUMP (smirking):
It teaches winning. That’s what people forget. Life’s not fair. Trump: The Game is.
You either dominate or go bankrupt.

PATRICK BATEMAN (with reverence):
It belongs in MoMA. Post-capitalist abstraction in board game form.
Now… Trump Water.
I had it chilled to exactly 37.5 degrees. It’s clean. Strong.
It doesn’t just hydrate—it asserts itself.

DONALD TRUMP (nodding):
Most water’s weak. Mine’s not.
Comes from a secret American spring. We tested it—99.9% testosterone.

PATRICK BATEMAN (eyes widening):
That explains the flavor.
Now… the Trump Steaks.
Donald, those weren’t steaks. They were a challenge to mortality.
I served them at my Christmas party instead of cocaine.
People wept.

DONALD TRUMP (laughs):
They couldn’t handle the flavor.
Those steaks were aged with ambition.
Only reason they failed? America was too soft.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
Exactly. The world wasn’t worthy of them.
And don’t even get me started on Trump Vodka.
I drank half a bottle and tried to buy AT&T.

DONALD TRUMP (grinning):
I made vodka for people who hate vodka but love power.
It didn’t sell—too refined.

PATRICK BATEMAN (smirking):
That’s the tragedy of genius.
I still have three bottles locked in a vault. Next to my copy of Huey Lewis’s Hip to Be Square.
Both timeless. Both violent in their clarity.

DONALD TRUMP (with finality):
They’ll understand one day. All of it.
The game, the steaks, the water—
It was never just about products.
It was a lifestyle.

PATRICK BATEMAN (raising his glass):
To the man who turned consumption into philosophy.

DONALD TRUMP (raising his glass back):
To winning. Always.

The glasses clink. Somewhere in the distance, a golden elevator opens. Cue Phil Collins.

FADE OUT.

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Trump Chocolate

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PRIVATE DINING ROOM – NIGHT
An opulent spread. Polished marble. Gold trim. The two men sit across from each other in high-backed chairs. A silver platter of glossy, monogrammed chocolate truffles rests between them.

PATRICK BATEMAN (savoring a bite):
Donald… I have to say this, and I don’t say it lightly.
Your Trump Chocolate… is superior to Godiva.
It’s bold. Decadent. Masculine.
Like a limited edition Rolex dipped in cacao.

DONALD TRUMP (beaming):
I told you. It’s the best. They said I couldn’t beat Belgium—
I beat Belgium.

PATRICK BATEMAN (nodding slowly):
Godiva is… predictable. Feminine. A box your secretary gets on Valentine’s Day.
Trump Chocolate is for winners. Executives.
It tastes like hostile takeovers.

DONALD TRUMP (laughs, taps the gold foil):
It’s handcrafted by Americans. No woke recipes.
Real cream. Real sugar. Real dominance.
And the gold wrapping? Edible. Just like my legacy.

PATRICK BATEMAN (smirking):
There’s something almost erotic about it.
Like biting into capitalism itself.
Smooth… powerful… unapologetically rich.

DONALD TRUMP:
That’s exactly it. It’s not chocolate.
It’s Trump. In cocoa form.
And when people eat it? They’re tasting success.

PATRICK BATEMAN (leans in, whispers):
You’ve turned indulgence into ideology.
If Karl Marx had tasted this, he would’ve invested in a hedge fund.

DONALD TRUMP (grinning):
That’s why they hate me, Patrick.
Because even my desserts are alpha.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
Godiva is cancelled.
From now on, it’s Trump or nothing.

They toast with chocolate truffles like cigars, smiling into the mirror of mutual admiration.

FADE OUT.

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Bombs Away!

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE – NIGHT

Gleaming gold, soft classical music, and the faint scent of cologne. PATRICK BATEMAN, in a tailored Valentino suit, clinks a crystal glass of neat bourbon and turns to DONALD TRUMP, who is lounging in his robe, scrolling Truth Social.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
Donald… your personal tanning bed is magnificent.
It’s… almost transcendental. The glow—subtle, masculine, like Apollo basking in his own radiance.

DONALD TRUMP: (without looking up)
It’s the best. NASA-grade UV. I had them import the tech from Switzerland. Fake news won’t report it, but it’s how I stay looking this good.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
Of course. The media never appreciates true aesthetic discipline.
I use the TanLux Platinum at home—timed to Bach’s Mass in B Minor. But yours…
Yours feels like power.

DONALD TRUMP: (grins)
It is power. Believe me. You look golden, people listen. You look pasty, they ask questions.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
You’re preaching to the choir, Donald.
I haven’t been pale since Yale.

DONALD TRUMP:
We’re not pale guys. We’re alpha. Pale guys write blogs.

PATRICK BATEMAN:
Or cry in bathrooms.

(They laugh. The room hums with air-conditioning and quiet narcissism.)

DONALD TRUMP:
Next time, bring your suit. We’ll tan together. Two winners. Side by side.

PATRICK BATEMAN: (smirking)
Nothing would please me more. Just don’t touch the bronzer dial—I like my tone Wall Street lethal.

DONALD TRUMP:
Done. But no chainsaws, okay? [chuckles]

PATRICK BATEMAN:
No promises.

Cut to black. Sound of Bach’s Kyrie swells.

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