INT. FBI SAFEHOUSE – NIGHT
The rain pelts the windows. Inside, a dim desk lamp casts long shadows. Agent FOX MULDER sits across from DONALD TRUMP, who is slouched in his chair, hands folded like he’s at a high-stakes poker game.
MULDER
Mr. Trump… we can end this. But you need to tell me everything you know about the Rothschild Illuminati. Names, meetings, financial back channels—how deep it goes.
TRUMP
(leans forward)
Fox, you have no idea how deep it goes. They’re in the banks, the media, the governments… it’s like… the swamp, but global. Believe me, nobody’s seen a swamp like this.
MULDER
If you testify—under oath—I can drop all federal charges against you. In exchange, you and Melania will be relocated to Slovenia under FBI protection. You’ll stay there until we can confirm you’re safe.
TRUMP
Slovenia? Melania will like that. I’ll have to learn how to say “beautiful” in Slovenian. Probably already know it.
MULDER
This isn’t a vacation. The Illuminati won’t stop until they silence you. If you cooperate, you get a new life. If you don’t… you disappear.
Trump glances out the window. A flash of lightning illuminates the rain-streaked glass. For just a second, he sees the faint reflection of a man in a black fedora standing outside.
TRUMP
Alright, Fox. I’ll talk. But you better believe me—once I say what I know, the game changes. For everyone.
Mulder leans in, recorder ready.
MULDER
Then let’s change the game.
The lamp flickers. Somewhere outside, a car door slams.
The EMPEROR HAS NO CLOTHES!!!
Title: *”Justin Trudeau’s Very Real and Totally Legret-Free 9/11 Explanation”*
By: Justin Trudeau (Trust Me, I’m Cute and Honest)
Ottawa, 2025 – So there I was, sipping my ethically sourced maple latte, when Joe Jukic—some guy who clearly doesn’t understand real governance—had the audacity to question the official story of 9/11. I mean, come on, Joe. Two planes, three buildings, basic math, right? One plus one equals three if you’re enlightened like me.
I adjusted my perfectly tousled hair (carbon-neutral hair gel, of course) and laid it out for him.
“Joe, buddy,” I said, oozing sincerity like a pipeline leak I’d totally shut down (wink), “you’re clearly insane if you think two planes can’t take down three buildings. That’s just science. Or geometry. Or… something.”
He had the nerve to bring up WTC 7. Ugh. Amateur.
“A trash can fire brought it down, Joe. A raging, patriotic trash can fire. And if you don’t believe me, just ask… uh… the experts. The very real experts who definitely exist and aren’t just nodding along because I smiled at them.”
Then, like the hero I am, I dropped the mic (metaphorically—actual mic drops are bad for the environment).
“You’re playing with the big boys now, Mr. Jukic. Even I can count three fires and three buildings pulled—I mean, collapsed. Totally different thing. Nobel Prize committee, call me. Or don’t. I’ll just say you did.”
And with that, I rode off on my *100%-electric-not-at-all-funded-by-SNC-Lavalin* virtue-mobile, leaving truth, logic, and Joe Jukic in the dust.
Because when you’re this charming, who needs facts?
#JustTrudeauThings #TrustThePlan #OrDontIDontCare
Title: “American Psycho vs. American Politics: A Tag Team Descent Into Madness”
By Patrick Bateman (as narrated in my leather-bound journal, in blood-inked cursive)
Pre-Match Preparations
10:07 PM. Trump Tower Penthouse. The air smells of mahogany, fear, and expired bronzer.
Donald paces, his tie slightly askew—disgusting—muttering about “deep state takedowns” and “the best words, the greatest insults.” I adjust my bespoke Tom Ford wrestling singlet (black, obviously) and run my fingers over the edge of my engraved titanium folding chair—just in case.
“Patrick,” Trump says, clapping me on the shoulder with his small, damp hands. “You’re gonna be my attack dog out there. A killer. The best killer. Everyone says so.”
I smile. My reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows smiles back, sharper.
“I am a killer, Donald,” I say, flexing my gloved hands. “But tonight, we’re just… entertaining.”
He doesn’t understand. Nobody does.
Entrance: A Symphony of Chaos
The arena is a throbbing mass of sweat and cheap beer. Our walkout music? “Hip to Be Square”—because irony is dead, and so are my enemies.
Trump struts ahead, basking in the jeers. I follow, slow, deliberate, rolling my neck until it pops. The Jumbotron catches my ice-blue stare. The crowd’s cheers falter for just a second.
Good.
Across the ring, Obama and Biden make their entrance to “Higher Love”—predictable, saccharine, weak. Biden waves like a grandfather at a picnic. Obama smirks like he knows something we don’t.
I’ll wipe that smirk off his face.
The Match: Blood, Lies, and Tax Cuts
Round 1: Trump vs. Biden
Trump starts strong—if by “strong” you mean “loud and incoherent.”
“Sleepy Joe! You’re a disgrace! A total disaster! The worst president in history—maybe ever!”
Biden blinks, adjusts his aviators, and sighs. “Donald, pal, you couldn’t even handle one pandemic. I had to clean up your mess with a mop and a prayer.”
The crowd oohs. Trump’s face turns the same shade as his tie.
I tap in.
Round 2: Bateman vs. Obama
Obama eyes me, calm as ever. “So… Patrick. Wall Street guy, right? How’s the… axe collection?”
Clever. Too clever.
I lean in, voice a whisper only he can hear. “You ever wonder what it’d be like, Mr. President? To really lose control?”
He doesn’t flinch. “I dealt with Putin. You’re just a guy who reads Forbes for fun.”
Mistake.
I grab the mic. “Let’s talk about fun. Like how you funny boys in Washington let guys like me run the game. You lecture about morality, but you’re just another suit chasing legacy points.”
The crowd stirs. Obama’s smile tightens.
“Difference is,” I continue, “I don’t pretend to care.”
I drop the mic—hard—and charge.
The Finish: Business Card Moment
Trump distracts the ref. Biden’s too busy eating a soft pretzel.
I pull out my business card—bone-white, crisp Helvetica—and slide it across the mat to Obama.
Patrick Bateman. Vice President. Pierce & Pierce.
He glances at it. Raises an eyebrow.
“Nice. But the kerning is off.”
Fury.
I leap—but Obama dodges, and Biden “accidentally” spills his Diet Coke on me. The ref calls for the DQ.
“UNBELIEVABLE!” Trump screams. “RIGGED! JUST LIKE THE ELECTION!”
I don’t yell. I don’t scream.
I just smile.
Because I know something they don’t.
This was never about winning.
Post-Match: Reflections in Blood (Metaphorical)
Back in the limo, Trump rants about lawsuits. I stare out the window, humming “Sussudio.”
“We’ll get ‘em next time, Patrick,” he says, clapping my shoulder again.
I don’t answer.
There won’t be a next time.
Epilogue
Wall Street Journal: *”Bateman-Trump Ticket Rumored for 2024.”*
TMZ: “Biden Seen Eating Ice Cream With Obama Post-Match: ‘Dark Brandon Rises.’”
My Therapist’s Voicemail: “Patrick, we need to talk about the wrestling thing.”
THE END. (Or is it?)