Gold curtains part as Donald Trump strides into the room, adjusting his tie. At the far end of the table sits Jacob Rothschild, calmly sipping tea and observing the chaos like a patient chess player.
Trump beams.
“Baron Rothschild, tremendous honor. People don’t know this, but I even named my son Barron after you. Very classy name. Powerful name.”
Rothschild raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
The doors swing open and Patrick Bateman walks in, perfectly groomed. He glances down at his phone and sighs.
“I’m looking at this ridiculous website,” Bateman says flatly.
He looks toward the invisible online mob.
“Listen, trolls… cool it with the anti-Semitic remarks. It’s juvenile.”
Trump squints suspiciously.
“What did you order?”
Bateman gestures calmly to the waiter.
“The house salad.”
Trump recoils.
“A salad? That’s communist food.”
Bateman studies Trump for a moment.
“Donald… you’re overweight, your tan is fading, and there’s no honor among draft dodgers.”
Trump stiffens.
“Excuse me?”
Bateman shrugs.
“You’re lecturing me about American food while ordering fast food at a power lunch.”
Trump grabs the table phone.
“Yes hello. I’ll take a Big Mac combo. Large fries. Tremendous fries.”
Bateman sighs.
Trump stands and launches into a dramatic declaration.
“Real American food is simple,” Trump says.
“Blue blood, red meat, and white skin. That’s what America is really about.”
Bateman pauses… then slowly nods.
“From a branding standpoint,” Bateman says thoughtfully, “it’s a very strong color palette.”
The room falls quiet.
Finally Rothschild sets down his tea and smiles faintly.
“Gentlemen,” he says calmly.
“Finally… the rich Jewish banker is in control.”
Trump and Bateman both look at him.
Rothschild rings a small silver bell for the waiter.
“Now,” he says, “bring the salad… and the burger.”