Tag: power

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Trump’s Freedom Tower

Donald Trump’s Final Decree: The Lightning Tower of Freedom

On his last day in office, Donald Trump stood at the base of the Freedom Tower in Lower Manhattan, his red tie flapping dramatically in the wind, hair defying both gravity and reason. A crowd had gathered, as cameras zoomed in, broadcasting this final Trumpian moment across every network and alt-stream. Then came the declaration:

“This—this—is my tower. The Freedom Tower. It’s the Trump Tower 2.0. Bigger. Better. YUGE. And today, I’m telling the whole world—we’re flipping the switch. Tesla-style. Free lightning electricity for America, straight from the heavens. Nikola would be proud, believe me. Very proud.”

He pointed up to the lightning rod at the pinnacle of the Freedom Tower.

“That rod? It’s not just for show. It’s going to capture the storm, like Thor himself. We’re bringing the power of God—and science—to the people. Free electricity. No more bills, no more windmills killing birds. Just lightning and freedom, baby.”

Reporters gasped. Tesla coils crackled on nearby screens. QAnon forums exploded in a frenzy of digital applause.

Then, in a dramatic turn, Trump announced:

“And now, Melania and I will retire to our secure freedom fortress in the beautiful Alps of Slovenia. The First Lady is going home. And from there—on a golden throne powered by lightning energy—we will watch over the new America. Silent. Powerful. Uncancellable.”

A secretive Slovenian castle flickered briefly on the livestream. Rumors swirled that it had been modified by engineers formerly employed by Elon Musk and the remnants of DARPA’s psychic research division. Trump called it:

“Mar-a-Mountaintop.”

Before boarding Marine One for the final time, Trump dropped the mic.

“Remember this, folks: The deep state runs on darkness. I run on lightning. And now so do you. Boom.”

As the helicopter lifted off and disappeared into the stormy sky, a thunderbolt struck the Freedom Tower’s rod—sparks danced across the skyline.

New York briefly glowed.

Was it a trick?

Or was it Tesla’s ghost, laughing in Slovenian?

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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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