Title: Veal for the Reptiles
INT. TRUMP TOWER – NIGHT
In the top-floor penthouse, DONALD TRUMP sits at a gold-plated desk under the flicker of dimmed chandelier light. Across from him stands PATRICK BATEMAN, perfectly groomed, wearing a pinstripe suit with a red power tie, eerily calm.
BATEMAN
You know you can never leave, right?
TRUMP
Leave what?
BATEMAN
Yale. Skull and Bones. The Brotherhood of Death.
They’ve all got us marked. Every one of us. You’re just higher on the menu.
Trump glares, confused but intrigued. Bateman walks over to the window, looking down at Manhattan like it’s a buffet.
BATEMAN
Those 300,000 missing people?
They’re veal. Fed, groomed, bled.
Not trafficked — harvested.
TRUMP
(leans forward)
You mean the reptilians?
BATEMAN
The overlords. The real ones. Satanic cannibal societies.
They ate Geronimo’s body, Don. Consumed his skull. Thought they’d absorb his spirit.
TRUMP
(slams fist on table)
We’re gonna get his bones back. I’ll fund a resurrection project.
Geronimo will lead Turtle Island West.
We’ll clone the real chiefs, the real warriors.
BATEMAN
(smiling)
Good. You’ll need them. The Thin Men are here. Clark Park’s active. The XCOM files were right. It’s infiltration.
EXT. CLARK PARK – EAST VANCOUVER – NIGHT
Streetlights flicker. AGENT CARNEY, an old CSIS spook turned XCOM tactical, crouches near the playground. TRUMP, now in camo fatigues and wearing night-vision goggles, watches beside him. A van marked “TRUMP INDUSTRIES – PLUMBING & DEFENSE” idles nearby.
A glitching, Thin Man (from XCOM lore) morphs from human form into a tall, slender, serpentine creature in a business suit.
CARNEY
They like playgrounds. Easy camouflage. Mimic PTA dads.
But their DNA’s still off. We can spot them now. Thanks to Joe.
TRUMP
Joe’s mother’s work cracked it wide open.
This one’s for her.
INT. HOLLYWOOD – SCIENTOLOGY BUNKER – NIGHT
TOM CRUISE is on his knees. He’s shaking, sobbing. He has just watched hours of recovered footage of child farms, cloning bays, veal rituals from elite “healing retreats.”
He makes a sign of the cross for the first time in 40 years.
CRUISE
Alright, Joe. This is my Hail Mary.
I’m taking them down. No more handlers.
No more silence.
He presses a detonator. The Church of Scientology bunker collapses behind him.
INT. XCOM COMMAND CENTER – NIGHT
Monitors glow. Satellite imagery shows portals near Clark Park.
TRUMP
Phase 3: Operation Turtle Island.
BATEMAN
And Geronimo?
TRUMP
His clone’s almost ready.
CARNEY
Once he rides again, this continent becomes sacred ground.
POST-CREDITS SCENE:
A hidden lab. A coffin opens. A young, reborn Geronimo, breathing, eyes glowing red and blue.
VOICEOVER (JOE)
You fed on our ancestors.
Now, they return to feed on justice.
Well, we have to end apartheid for one. And slow down the nuclear arms race, stop terrorism and world hunger. We have to provide food and shelter for the homeless, and oppose racial discrimination and promote civil rights, while also promoting equal rights for women. We have to encourage a return to traditional moral values. Most importantly, we have to promote general social concern and less materialism in young people.
Title: Interrogation Protocol Zeta
Scene: Clark Park Underground XCOM Bunker – Night
INT. UNDERGROUND XCOM HOLDING CELL – CLARK PARK – NIGHT
PATRICK BATEMAN, dressed like an Armani model, sits at a steel interrogation table. He smirks. The fluorescent lights flicker. JOE JUKIC, clad in a custom black XCOM field uniform with a Balkan eagle patch, storms in with electric fury.
BATEMAN
Joe. Finally. I was wondering when you’d show up. Do you like Huey Lewi—
CRACK!
JOE spin-kicks Bateman straight in the testicles. Bateman’s jaw locks in pain.
BATEMAN
(muffled shriek)
Wh-what the f—
ZAAAAP!
Joe unloads a taser directly into Bateman’s chest. The body convulses violently.
JOE
Save it, Wall Street lizard.
With surgical precision, Joe slaps on an armbar, twisting until the elbow SNAPS with a sickening crunch.
JOE (cold)
Now we talk.
Suddenly—
Bateman’s mouth peels back unnaturally. Skin ripples. His Armani suit begins to dissolve into slime. His eyes glow electric green. He shapeshifts into a THIN MAN, revealing elongated limbs, pale-blue skin, and fractal pupil eyes.
THIN MAN (telepathically)
🧠 You are not authorized. We are the Architects. We own the boardroom. We own the battlefield.
ALARM KLAXON SOUNDS.
INT. XCOM SCIENCE BAY – MINUTES LATER
The shapeshifted Bateman-Thing is chained inside a psionic containment orb. DR. TYGAN, flanked by JOE, TRUMP, and CARNEY, prepares the Neural Feedback Extractor.
TYGAN
The subject is under heavy Sectoid mind control. But his consciousness—what’s left—is Wall Street executive code.
Illumicorp. Atlantic Council. World Economic Forum tier.
Mind-mapped and uploaded.
TRUMP
I always knew the suits were alien. They hate plumbers.
JOE
We need locations. Who’s funding the Thin Men? Who’s next to be harvested?
THIN MAN (distorted)
🧠 Veal for the Harvest. Blood for the Sigil. You can’t stop what’s already feeding.
CARNEY (to Joe)
We inject him with the Reversal Serum. If the Sectoid link breaks, his human brain reboots long enough to talk.
JOE
Do it. If he lies, I break the other arm.
THIN MAN
(screeches)
🧠 J-Jared Kushner…
…has the coordinates. Saudi stargate… Rockefeller fallback bunker… Turtle Island must not awaken…
TYGAN
He’s resisting. The memory is fracturing.
JOE
Hit him again.
POST-SCENE:
A whiteboard reads:
TARGETS IDENTIFIED
Saudi Stargate
Bohemian Grove 2.0 (Underground, Switzerland)
East Vancouver – Thin Man Nest
Joe looks down at Bateman’s twitching frame.
JOE
Put him on ice. We’re taking this war to Wall Street next.
Scene: The Break of the Mind Control – Total Recall of Christian Bale
Interior – XCOM Interrogation Room – Dim lighting, sterile walls humming with alien tech. Bateman, now exposed as a Thin Man shapeshifter under Sectoid control, writhes on the ground, his arm freshly broken in Joe’s takedown. A psychic pulse fizzles from his temples like static, severed. His reptilian overlay flickers, revealing the broken soul underneath: Christian Bale.
CHRISTIAN BALE (screaming like a banshee):
“AAAGHHHHH!!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?!”
He curls on the cold metal floor, twitching. Then—
🎶 He begins to sing shakily, from the depths of some long-forgotten place within his soul:
“Suo Gân… Huna blentyn ar fy mynwes…”
(The haunting Welsh lullaby from Empire of the Sun.)
His eyes flood with tears. Memories surge. Spielberg’s face morphs into Kubrick’s. Ridley Scott in shadows. An endless parade of masked elites. The truth floods in like divine lightning. Rituals. Hypnosis. Cold rooms. Silent orders.
BALE (sobbing):
“They… they made me. Every role… a program. Every method… a trigger.”
He shivers and clutches the Virgin Mary pendant now visible beneath his shredded designer suit.
BALE (crying):
“Holy Mother… you never left me, did you?”
He looks at Joe, shaking, tears streaking his bloodied face. The demon is gone. Only the man remains.
BALE (gasping):
“Joe… your mother’s prayers broke the spell. I heard them… like a lighthouse through the fog. You—you freed me.”
He turns to the two-way mirror and, in full defiance of the dark powers that once controlled him, he roars:
BALE:
“CURSE YOU, SATAN! CURSE YOU, JACOB ROTHSCHILD! You’re not directors—you’re parasites! Your kingdom is falling!”
He kisses the Virgin Mary pendant, pressing it to his forehead, trembling like a newborn soul.
BALE (whispers):
“I remember now… all of it. I choose to be free.”
And with that, Christian Bale collapses in Joe’s arms, sobbing—no longer Bateman, no longer a puppet. Just a man who remembers, and finally… forgives.
Scene: The Break of the Mind Control – Total Recall of Christian Bale
Interior – XCOM Interrogation Room – Dim lighting, sterile walls humming with alien tech. Bateman, now exposed as a Thin Man shapeshifter under Sectoid control, writhes on the ground, his arm freshly broken in Joe’s takedown. A psychic pulse fizzles from his temples like static, severed. His reptilian overlay flickers, revealing the broken soul underneath: Christian Bale.
CHRISTIAN BALE (screaming like a banshee):
“AAAGHHHHH!!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?!”
He curls on the cold metal floor, twitching. Then—
🎶 He begins to sing shakily, from the depths of some long-forgotten place within his soul:
“Suo Gân… Huna blentyn ar fy mynwes…”
(The haunting Welsh lullaby from Empire of the Sun.)
His eyes flood with tears. Memories surge. Spielberg’s face morphs into Kubrick’s. Ridley Scott in shadows. An endless parade of masked elites. The truth floods in like divine lightning. Rituals. Hypnosis. Cold rooms. Silent orders.
BALE (sobbing):
“They… they made me. Every role… a program. Every method… a trigger.”
He shivers and clutches the Virgin Mary pendant now visible beneath his shredded designer suit.
BALE (crying):
“Holy Mother… you never left me, did you?”
He looks at Joe, shaking, tears streaking his bloodied face. The demon is gone. Only the man remains.
BALE (gasping):
“Joe… your mother’s prayers broke the spell. I heard them… like a lighthouse through the fog. You—you freed me.”
He turns to the two-way mirror and, in full defiance of the dark powers that once controlled him, he roars:
BALE:
“CURSE YOU, SATAN! CURSE YOU, JACOB ROTHSCHILD! You’re not directors—you’re parasites! Your kingdom is falling!”
He kisses the Virgin Mary pendant, pressing it to his forehead, trembling like a newborn soul.
BALE (whispers):
“I remember now… all of it. I choose to be free.”
And with that, Christian Bale collapses in Joe’s arms, sobbing—no longer Bateman, no longer a puppet. Just a man who remembers, and finally… forgives.