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.