Category: Donald Trump

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You’re Not the Master

A Confrontation at the Marble Plantation

The place looks like a palace, but it smells like a factory.
Marble floors. Gold trim. Invisible chains.

Donald Trump stands on a balcony overlooking the fields—endless rows of people bent over glowing screens, ticking clocks, numbers flowing upward into towers of glass.

Enter Master Jesus, JCJ—no sandals, no crown. Just calm. Dangerous calm.

JCJ:
Donald.

Trump turns, squints.

Trump:
Jesus? I didn’t know you were… union.

JCJ:
I’m not here for unions. I’m here for slaves.

Trump laughs, sharp and practiced.

Trump:
Nobody’s a slave. They’re free. They choose to work. Tremendous choice. Best choice.

JCJ gestures to the fields.

JCJ:
Debt without escape.
Labor without rest.
Money created from nothing, owed with interest forever.

That’s not freedom. That’s a plantation with better branding.

Trump bristles.

Trump:
The Federal Reserve isn’t mine. Very independent. Smart people. Very smart.

JCJ:
And yet you guard it like a temple
and whip anyone who questions the money-changers.

Silence. The screens flicker. The workers pause, just for a second—like they felt something.

Trump:
I gave them jobs. I gave them hope. I gave them stock tips.

JCJ:
You gave them numbers and called it life.
You gave them chains and called it success.

I flipped tables for less.

Trump steps closer.

Trump:
You don’t understand power.

JCJ smiles—sad, ancient.

JCJ:
Power is not making people kneel.
Power is teaching them they never had to.

He kneels, scoops a handful of dust from the marble floor.

JCJ (cont’d):
This plantation runs on belief.
The moment they stop believing, it turns back into dust.

Trump looks past JCJ—out at the fields. The workers are standing now. Watching.

For the first time, Trump doesn’t speak.

JCJ:
I’m not here to condemn you, Donald.
I’m here to tell you the truth.

You can’t build heaven on debt.
You can’t print salvation.
And you can’t enslave the image of God without the bill coming due.

JCJ turns and walks away.

The clocks stop ticking.

Somewhere, a chain breaks—not loudly, but for good.

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Too Rich To Be Cool

The setting is a dimly lit, sticker-plastered dive bar backroom. Yugo Joe is nursing a lukewarm beer, while Nadya Riot is busy stitching a “Tax the Rich” patch onto a frayed denim vest.

Yugo Joe: (Sighing, gesturing at a news clip on the muted TV) Look at that guy. Another gold-plated tower, another fleet of planes. It’s exhausting, Nadya. How can anyone think being that rich is “cool”? It’s just… heavy.

Nadya Riot: (Without looking up) Cool? Joe, the man’s aesthetic is “dictator chic” from a 1980s catalog. There’s no soul in it. You can’t be cool when you’re obsessed with your own name in neon. Coolness requires a certain amount of detachment, right? He’s the opposite. He’s attached to every cent.

Yugo Joe: Exactly! It’s the selfishness that kills it for me. I always thought being cool meant being a man of the people—or at least having enough self-awareness to share the room. He treats the whole world like his personal lobby. If you aren’t helping him win, you don’t exist.

Nadya Riot: It’s a scarcity mindset, which is hilarious for a billionaire. He acts like if he gives away a crumb of credit or a dollar of tax, his whole ego will deflate. Real coolness is generative. It’s punk, it’s DIY, it’s collective energy. You can’t buy “edge” at a country club, I don’t care how many zeros are in your bank account.

Yugo Joe: Right? He’s got all the money in the world and he uses it to buy… more of the same. More mirrors. It’s like he’s stuck in a loop of trying to prove he’s the biggest guy in the room. A cool person doesn’t have to tell you they’re the “best” every five minutes. They just are.

Nadya Riot: (She bites the thread and finally looks up) It’s because he’s a consumer, Joe. A professional consumer. He consumes attention, land, and loyalty. But art? Rebellion? Authentic style? Those things require sacrifice and empathy. He’s too selfish to ever let a moment be about something bigger than himself.

Yugo Joe: I guess that’s the tragedy of it. He’s got the resources to change the world, but he’s too busy checking the gold leaf on his bathroom fixtures.

Nadya Riot: Let him have his gold. It’s heavy, it’s soft, and it’s gaudy. I’ll take a canvas jacket and a loud guitar any day. You can’t be a rebel when you are the system.

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Schizophrenic Donald Trump

TRUMP IS CLEARLY

having delusions of Grandeur….i am the real chosen one, Jake Lloyd

INT. CANTINA — OUTER RIM PLANET — NIGHT

Nadya sits across from Jake Lloyd, now older but still with the quiet intensity of the boy who once played Anakin Skywalker. The cantina hums with alien chatter and off-world music. A holo-screen in the corner replays a clip of Donald Trump saying: “I am the chosen one.” Jake smirks bitterly.

NADYA
You hear that? Calls himself the chosen one.

JAKE LLOYD
(chuckling)
Yeah. Funny thing about that title… I’ve been there. Played it, lived it… and let me tell you, when someone truly believes it, it doesn’t end well.

NADYA
Trump thinks it makes him some kind of savior.

JAKE
That’s the trap. The “chosen one” believes the galaxy—or country—revolves around them. It’s not leadership, it’s ego. Anakin fell for that. He thought prophecy made him untouchable.

NADYA
And what happened?

JAKE
He stopped listening. To the Jedi, to Padmé, to anyone who wasn’t feeding the fantasy. He thought he could bring order to the galaxy by force.

NADYA
And Trump?

JAKE
Same pattern. Grand visions, no humility. The difference is, Anakin had a tragic arc written for him. Trump’s writing his own… and he doesn’t realize the ending he’s setting up.

NADYA
(smiling)
So you’re saying he’s on the dark side?

JAKE
Let’s just say—if he had a lightsaber, it’d be red. And it wouldn’t be for defense.

They clink glasses. The holo-screen loops again, Trump declaring, “I am the chosen one.” This time, both of them just laugh.

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