The Madness Of King Trump; a Satire.
CAST
DONALD TRUMP — An orange-tinted demigod of delusion; speaks in slogans, breathes in applause.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN — Ghost of Enlightenment past; half-drunk, fully judging.
GEORGE WASHINGTON — Eternal statue, forced into motion; every word feels carved in marble.
THOMAS JEFFERSON — Philosopher of liberty, visibly dying inside.
VOICE OF MAGA — Disembodied chorus of hats, chants, memes, and rage.
SCENE: The Oval Office. Golden curtains, Diet Coke button still functional. A giant oil painting of Trump riding a bald eagle hangs askew. A buffet of Big Macs and ambiguity steams under American flag bunting.
TRUMP (arms wide like a messiah at Mar-a-Lago): Welcome, Founding Daddies! You’re lucky. You get to have lunch with me—probably the best president ever, many people say it. FRANKLIN (detecting avstench, sniffing a Big Mac, then himself): The Enlightenment has officially expired.
JEFFERSON (holding a ketchup packet like it’s radioactive): Is this… diplomacy now? WASHINGTON (staring at Trump’s red hat): Why is the republic embroidered on headwear? TRUMP It’s called branding, George. I branded a nation. You planted a tree, I opened a golf course. Who’s winning?
VOICE OF MAGA (echoing from invisible speakers): Lock her up! Build the wall! Drain the swamp!
FRANKLIN (looking skyward) Ah yes, the sacred hymns of the new republic—chanted in food courts and rage tweets.
JEFFERSON (to Trump): Sir, what became of the Constitution?
TRUMP (leans in, whispers) I skimmed it. Looked good. Could use more pictures.
WASHINGTON We warned of tyranny.
TRUMP I warned of windmills giving people cancer. We all have our crosses.
FRANKLIN (dry): Except yours is a gold-plated escalator.
TRUMP (tapping iPhone with stubby fingers) This thing? I rule from it. Nuclear codes, emojis, entire policies—right here. (He sends a tweet. Somewhere, stock markets tremble.)
VOICE OF MAGA Fake news! Witch hunt! Covfefe!
JEFFERSON (holds up a copy of the Declaration, slowly burns it with a candle from the décor) I no longer consent to being governed by this reality.
WASHINGTON What became of honor?
TRUMP (reaches under desk, pulls out Trump Steaks) Sold out. But you can buy a combo with a signed Bible if you use our crypto.
FRANKLIN (mutters, pouring rum into a McFlurry) The empire didn’t fall. It bought fireworks and livestreamed the implosion.
VOICE OF MAGA USA! USA! USA! TRUMP Gentlemen, I’ve done more than anyone. Believe me. I’m the reason America is great again. Again. Again again.
JEFFERSON This isn’t democracy. It’s absurdist theater.
FRANKLIN Then let’s call it what it is: MAGA-nificent farce.
WASHINGTON (slowly unsheathes a ghostly saber) I may have to cross another Delaware. Blackout. An eagle screeches. A can of Diet Coke explodes in slow motion. The curtain falls, not with dignity, but with a Twitter notification sound. Elon Musk has entered the absurdist fray—hoverboard, flamethrower, and all. His detached Martian logic now threads chaos into the MAGA lunch meltdown.
The chaos has escalated: Marjorie Taylor Greene now crashes in on a mechanical eagle, Elon’s Martian prophecies deepen, and the absurdity pulses like a radiation leak.
SCENE II: DONALD TRUMP, now crowned Emperor X Æ-Patriot the First, wrapped in a robe stitched from STEAKS and shredded ballots.
ELON MUSK, on a hovering throne, feeding quantum chips to a robotic raccoon named Liberty.exe.
GEORGE WASHINGTON, half-transparent, crumbling, sword replaced by an iPad. JEFFERSON, slumped over, repeating “We hold these truths…” like a broken doll.
FRANKLIN, smoking an e-cig labeled “Virtue”, holding an NFT of the Constitution. MARJORIE TAYLOR GREENE, upside-down, conducting QAnon chants from the rafters, dressed as a Founding Mother but armed with glowsticks.
JD VANCE, weeping softly into a MAGA-branded Bible.
VOICE OF MAGA, omnipresent, now auto-tuned and looped like a ghostly Skrillex set. [SPOTLIGHT ON TRUMP.]
TRUMP (crowing) Ladies and gentlemen… and genders undecided… welcome to the Final Broadcast. This is it. This is the Big One. Bigger than WrestleMania. Bigger than the Second Coming.
It’s the Trumpening. (He raises both hands. A storm of confetti and chicken nuggets fall from above.)
I have achieved what NO president, NO KING, NO GOD ever could: I made reality pay-per-view. And I alone… I alone made truth optional! (He levitates six inches, lights forming an artificial halo shaped like his own hair.)
They said I was a joke. A clown. A reality star. WELL GUESS WHAT, AMERICA! The circus won. And I’m the lion, the tamer, the tent, and the fire that burned it down.
ELON (flat, unfazed, scrolling on brain-implant) I told you. Chaos is a ladder to Mars. Earth was a beta test. “History” was a soft launch. Now I’m downloading consciousness into a Tesla coil shaped like Ayn Rand.
FRANKLIN (sighs, sipping from flask shaped like Lady Liberty) Well… we invented lightning rods. Not lightning gods.
JEFFERSON (sobbing softly)
WASHINGTON (steps forward, unsheathing a glitching sword made of tweets) ENOUGH. (All sound cuts. Silence. Washington’s voice pierces the glitch.) We forged this nation with flawed hands and trembling hearts. But we did not carve it for this… This… fever dream of ego and algorithms.
TRUMP (interrupting, godlike) Wrong. So wrong. You forged a nation. I made it better.
Tremendous.
Probably the best.
Then I franchised it.
You just wrote papers — I created followers.
You had revolutions — I had retweets. You fought tyranny — I became it, but funnier.
And now? [He raises his phone.] With this sacred relic… I summon the final miracle. [He hits a single button: “UNLEASH.” Offstage, sirens. Screams. A mushroom cloud blooms on the back wall as a projection. America begins collapsing in reverse time.]
VOICE OF MAGA (in unison, auto-tuned to hymn) Make… America… gasp… again… WASHINGTON (final words, stepping off the stage, into the crowd) If this be freedom… God save the simulation.
BLACKOUT. SFX: A single, lonely retweet notification.
CURTAIN. After Trump declares “The Trumpening”] TRUMP (singing, grandiose Broadway style): 🎵 “I AM THE BRAND” (Trump Showtune #1) I am the brand! The orange hand! That fed the flames across the land! I tweet, I reign, I entertain, My shadow’s longer than the truth’s domain! You wrote your books, your bills, your laws — I sell red hats and redefine applause! You said “a nation,” I said “a stage” — Now history bows to my outrage! 🎵 (Backup dancers in George Washington wigs and QAnon robes pirouette behind him.
Elon provides backup harmonies through a vocoder shaped like a rocket.)
After the nuclear launch, the simulation cracks. [After the cloud projection fades. The stage flickers. Lights go white. A VOICE booms—NOT MAGA, but something… realer.] STAGE ITSELF (booming, off-script): END OF FILE DETECTED. ARTIFICIAL SATIRE EXCEEDED ALLOWABLE THRESHOLD. EXIT PROGRAM OR ESCALATE?
WASHINGTON (to audience): We are ghosts in your theater. You paid to watch your republic collapse—and you’re laughing.
FRANKLIN (removing his wig): If satire no longer stings, it’s prophecy.
TRUMP (confused): Wait… Am I not real? ELON (tilting head like a broken Roomba): You were always… engagement metrics.
JEFFERSON (to a real audience member): You there. Yes, you. You’re the new Speaker of the House. Read your lines.
(Audience member is handed a page: “Apologize to history.”) No audience is safe. No act is sacred. “THE CHAMBER OF UNPATRIOTIC THOUGHTS” A liminal dream-bunker between acts and scenes.
Sounds of a breathing nation. Red sirens blink. Trump, Elon, and AI Trump sit around a child’s tea set. Everything is plastic. The table is set with Bible pages and shredded ballots. TRUMP (pouring Diet Coke into a teacup) Welcome to my Safe Space. Where I cannot be fact-checked. Where I am always… loved. Where the statues whisper compliments.
ELON This is where I installed the Freedom Algorithm. It chooses leaders based on… virality. AI TRUMP Candidate 1: Trump. Candidate 2: Trump in a cape. Candidate 3: Trump but glowing. Democracy unnecessary. Ratings sufficient.
TRUMP See? Even my clone prefers me.
(The ghost of BENJAMIN FRANKLIN appears in the tea steam. He is 10 feet tall and glitching.)
FRANKLIN You have boiled the soul of the Republic and sipped it with nuggets.
(The walls bleed Facebook “like” icons. A foghorn screams the Pledge of Allegiance backwards.)
BONUS SCENE: “The Founders Meet Their Followers” Set in an infinite Walmart parking lot. The Founders meet costumed superfans of themselves. They are all livestreaming. WASHINGTON (approaching a man in a powdered wig and flip-flops) What… are you doing? WIG MAN I play you in Liberty VR: Reloaded. You chop down a cherry tree… and then the Deep State. With laser eyes.
JEFFERSON I authored the Declaration. You… uploaded it to TikTok with a fart sound. CROWD (chanting) Four more likes! Four more likes!
HAMILTON challenges his AI Spotify-generated self to a rap battle. He loses.)
“Delete the Nation” Black stage. One spotlight. TRUMP sits alone, wearing a crown made of expired Executive Orders.
TRUMP (softly): Was it ever real? The flags… the rallies… the steak… Did I invent America?
AI TRUMP enters. Now glowing, winged, terrifying.)
AI TRUMP: You were real… long enough to be content.
TRUMP (beat): Then do it. End me. Turn me into the algorithm’s favorite memory.
AI TRUMP: Deleting… with honor. (AI Trump sings a lullaby made of campaign slogans as TRUMP fades into binary dust. The final line on the LED wall reads:) “America has logged out.”
Elon reveals he was actually the real Trump the whole time, wearing a neural mask.
(The audience is asked to stand and pledge allegiance… to themselves? We have now fully entered the realm of prophetic absurdism.)
The Chamber of Unpatriotic Thoughts — (a surrealist break in the fourth and fifth wall.)
Founders Meet Their Followers — a Walmart purgatory of cosplay and livestream addiction.
Delete the Nation — Trump becomes memory itself.
The Infomercial Apocalypse — a reality-melting, late-night ad from hell where Trump sells the Constitution, Elon emerges from a toaster, and Bannon eats language itself.
(Trump vs. George Washington, refereed by Elon in zero gravity. A musical finale: “God Bless This Hot Mess” sung by AI Trump and an army of screaming bald eagles. A choose-your-own-ending twist, where audience members vote via QR code and the lights shift accordingly.)
Trump mutates into a deity of ratings. Elon descends on a Bitcoin rocket. AI Trump deletes humanity for better engagement metrics. Franklin is texting while headless. Washington charges into hell itself.
And the last truth? “He never left. He just became the algorithm.”
(“THE MAR-A-LAGO LAST SUPPER” (Absurdist tableau / betrayal opera)
Trump stages a biblical-style banquet at Mar-a-Lago, surrounded by apostles like Giuliani, Epstein and Kanye (in a crown of thorns), and a life-size cardboard cutout of Reagan.
Trump declares himself the “Chosen One” between mouthfuls of cheeseburger. Each guest betrays him in more absurd ways—by leaking nudes, selling NFTs, or converting to communism. Ends with Trump live-streaming his own crucifixion on Truth Social.
“TRUMP vs. THE TRUTH: CAGE MATCH” (WWE-style showdown) An actual wrestling ring. The Truth (personified as a stoic, old-school news anchor in boxing gloves) faces Trump, who enters in golden trunks, flanked by Elon and Bannon with steel chairs. Commentary by Hannity and a malfunctioning Alex Jones hologram. The crowd is all AI bots chanting “Fake! News! Slam!”
2032.
“THE INAUGURATION OF AI TRUMP II”
(Blade Runner meets Megachurch) AI Trump is sworn in as “President of the Eternal Feed.” The ceremony glitches as reality fragments. Oath of office delivered in binary. Bible replaced with a stack of iPhones playing TikToks. The crowd begins to duplicate into infinite versions of themselves—each with worse opinions.
“THE GHOST OF DEMOCRACY PAST” (Haunting morality play) A Dickensian twist. Trump is visited by phantoms: Ghost of Democracy Past (a weary Lincoln dragging a ballot box), Present (a TikTok influencer who vapes Constitution quotes), Future (just a broken mirror). Each one tries to change him. He tries to sell them real estate.
“THE DEBATE THAT NEVER ENDS” (Infinite loop sketch) Trump, Biden, and a malfunctioning hologram of Hillary locked in a debate moderated by a spinning Wheel of Topics.
Topics include “Hunter’s Laptop,” “Windmills,” and “Ghost 9/11.” The moderator is an Alexa device dressed as George Carlin. Debate lasts forever.
Nobody wins.
“THE GREATEST PRESIDENT OF THE MULTIVERSE” Trump discovers portals to other quantum realities. In every one, he’s president—even in prehistoric America and one ruled by sentient frogs.
Trump meets Trump from Earth-69420: buff, vegan, Buddhist, and loved by all. He challenges him to a duel for title of “Supreme Trump.”
Elon accidentally collapses the multiverse with a meme.
“THE ARK OF OPINION” (Noah’s Ark parody) Trump builds a spaceship-ark to save America (just red states) from “fake global warming.” Every animal gets in except the bald eagle. The launch is sponsored by Chick-fil-A and Gold Bond Medicated Powder. It launches, explodes, and reboots as a reality show.
Trump is livestreaming to eternity, and Elon has helped birth a sentient ad named “Patriot Prime.” The Founding Fathers now prepare to put the entire Republic on trial—against the Meme Lords.
SCENE— The Trial of America. The Republic has been put on trial by its own hallucinations, sentenced by an AI built from Trump’s tweets, and drowned in monetized madness. A courtroom turned casino of history.
VOICE OF MAGA, omnipresent, now auto-tuned and looped like a ghostly Skrillex set. [LIGHTS SNAP TO BLOOD RED. SPOTLIGHT ON TRUMP.]
TRUMP (crowing) Ladies and gentlemen… and genders undecided… welcome to the Final Broadcast. This is it. This is the Big One. Bigger than WrestleMania. Bigger than the Second Coming. It’s the Trumpening. (He raises both hands. A storm of confetti and chicken nuggets fall from above.) I have achieved what NO president, NO KING, NO GOD ever could: I made reality pay-per-view. And I alone… I alone made truth optional! (He levitates six inches, lights forming an artificial halo shaped like his own hair.) They said I was a joke. A clown. A reality star. WELL GUESS WHAT, AMERICA! The circus won. And I’m the lion, the tamer, the tent, and the fire that burned it down. ELON (flat, unfazed, scrolling on brain-implant) I told you. Chaos is a ladder to Mars. Earth was a beta test. “History” was a soft launch. Now I’m downloading consciousness into a Tesla coil shaped like Ayn Rand.
FRANKLIN (sighs, sipping from flask shaped like Lady Liberty) Well… we invented lightning rods. Not lightning gods.
JEFFERSON (sobbing softly) We wrote it in ink… but they redacted it in neon.
WASHINGTON (steps forward, unsheathing a glitching sword made of tweets)
ENOUGH.
(All sound cuts. Silence. Washington’s voice pierces the glitch.) We forged this nation with flawed hands and trembling hearts. But we did not carve it for this… This… fever dream of ego and algorithms.
TRUMP (interrupting, godlike) Wrong. So wrong. You forged a PIECE OF CLAY. I franchised it. You wrote papers — I win. You had revolutions — I won more. You fought tyranny — I became it, but funnier. And now? [He raises his phone.] With this sacred relic… I summon the final miracle. [He hits a single button: “UNLEASH.” Offstage, sirens. Screams. A mushroom cloud blooms on the back wall as a projection. America begins collapsing in reverse time.] VOICE OF MAGA (in unison, auto-tuned to hymn) Make… America… gasp… again… WASHINGTON (final words, stepping off the stage, into the crowd) If this be freedom… God save the simulation.
BLACKOUT. SFX: A single, lonely retweet notification.
CURTAIN.
Grotesquification – the act of becoming grotesque on purpose Guffawocracy – government by the absurdly laughable Griftageddon – the apocalyptic finale of all scams Gaslightopia – the utopia where everyone’s reality is manufactured Gallowspalooza – when failed coups become pay-per-view Godblamistan – a fictional country Trump declares war on to win reelection Gastrodominion – the scene where Trump eats the Constitution with A1 sauce Gropetopia – a flashback to Access Hollywood, but it’s a theme park now Glitzkrieg – when fascism comes wrapped in gold leaf and game shows Gorecore Gospel – a late-stage MAGA megachurch where every sermon ends in violence and product placement 🧠 NEW SCENES TO ADD: “THE GOSPEL OF GRIFTAGEDDON” A megachurch turned reality TV set. TRUMP preaches from a pulpit shaped like a golf cart.
TRUMP: Blessed are the bilked, for they shall inherit a signed steak knife set! CHOIR OF BOTS: Grift! Grift! Grift is good! At the climax, the collection plate turns into a slot machine. Franklin explodes.
“GODBLAMISTAN: THE INVISIBLE WAR” TRUMP declares war on an imaginary nation. The White House Situation Room becomes a board game table.
TRUMP: They have uranium! Or… opinions! Either way: they’re finished!
BANNON: We’ve already sold the war rights to Netflix. They bomb a blank map. CNN reports a 300% approval rating among hallucinated voters. “THE GROPETOPIA THEME PARK” TrumpWorld™ opens to the public. Rollercoaster: “The Witch Hunt” — it never ends. Petting zoo: “Declassified Animals” — all wear suits and red ties. Gift shop sells pocket Constitutions dipped in nacho cheese.
MTG: For five bucks you can punch a journalist! “GLITZKRIEG: THE BEAUTY PAGEANT FOR PRESIDENTS” Trump holds a Miss America-style contest to crown the new Supreme Leader of the West. Contestants include: Putin on a unicycle, AI Trump singing opera, Jared Kushner dressed as Ivanka.
TRUMP: And the winner is… me! Again! What a surprise! “GORECORE GOSPEL: THE FINAL MEGA-RALLY” Held in a stadium shaped like Trump’s head. All attendees are required to chant until their vocal cords give out. The band is Kid Rock and three clones of Nixon. The finale involves a baptism in red Slurpee and motor oil.
AI TRUMP: This concludes your subscription to democracy. To renew, please scream louder. SCENE THREE: THE MARS RALLY (TRUMPISM-ENHANCED EDITION) (The stage transforms into the absolutely YUGE, luxurious crimson dunes of Mars. A giant, glorious American flag is burned into the Martian soil—tremendous detail. A MAGA-themed spaceship—beautiful, the best—hovers above, leaking gas, dollar bills, and freedom. Robot interns scurry about like losers at a CNN debate, preparing for Trump’s spectacular, historic, never-before-seen appearance.) VOICE OF MAGA (chanting, distorted through solar flares): MAAAAARS! MAAAAARS! MAAAKE IT YUUUUUUGE AGAIN!
TRUMP (descending from spaceship in a sequined cape, space helmet, and red velvet slippers): Ladies and gentlemen, patriots and space people, welcome to the GREATEST rally in the galaxy. Galactic MAGA! Nobody’s ever done it on Mars before. Not Obama.
Not Lincoln.
Just me.
ELON (emerging from a crater, Neuralink glowing): Atmosphere still toxic. Like X, but with more dust.
TRUMP: Tremendous. Perfect conditions. Just like my skin. I declare myself President of Mars.
Possibly President of the Sun later.
We’re looking into it.
WASHINGTON (floating via drone, stunned): We built a nation. You franchised a planet. FRANKLIN (bouncing in low gravity): Mars is red… and now branded. “Trump Red.” Patent pending, I assume?
TRUMP: Already done. The paperwork was beautiful. Executed flawlessly. Unlike the Constitution. (A mechanical eagle crashes into the Martian dust. MTG climbs off it, screaming into a gold-plated bullhorn.)
MTG: Martian Hillary definitely has the emails! I saw them! On space tablets!
TRUMP (posing for invisible cameras): This is my new Earth. It’s cleaner. Tremendously voter-proof. Nobody cries fraud here except me—and I win anyway.
AI TRUMP (materializing in glowing red binary): Initiating supreme conquest protocol: Rename Olympus Mons to Mount Trumpmore. It will be very, very classy.
JEFFERSON (dragging himself out of a rover, ashen): We fled tyranny…
TRUMP: Exactly. Capitalism has no gravity. Which makes it fly. Like me. You’re welcome. (Fireworks launch from Trump Tower Mars™. The Martian sky flickers with red, white, and rage. MAGA spaceship plays the national anthem backward through autotuned bagpipes.)
VOICE OF MAGA: BUY. BREATHE. BLEED. BELIEVE. BUY AGAIN. (The curtain closes as Mars morphs into a gigantic revolving Walmart parking lot. A marching band of cyborg Founders plays “Yankee Doodle” through heavily distorted saxophones.
The sky blinks TRUMP 2048: THE FINAL FRONTIER.)
The hallucination “The Room of Uninvited Guests”, featuring the ghost of Epstein, a glitched-out Mike Johnson, and saxophone-playing Bill Clinton all haunting Trump’s fragile psyche.
“The Feast of Banquo” — Trump, mid-steak, is haunted by the ghost of Ron DeSantis in full Shakespearean despair, complete with meatloaf, Disney snow globes, and a mariachi band of doom.
The Golden Grogue of Awakening — a surreal, Trumpian Macbeth-style morning ritual where he sprays himself in power scent, applies victory orange, and plots world domination from a Twitter-shaped mirror.
Trump’s golden awakening, his haunted rivalry with Obama, and Biden’s wandering oatmeal confusion.
THE TRIAL AGAINST AMERICA — Trump defends himself against facts, Obama prosecutes with surgical shade, Biden bailiffs in confusion, and Melania slips judgment through the smoke like a ghostly perfume ad.
Trump trapped in an infinite White House loop Obama delivering existential mic drops Biden wandering through reality like a retired foghorn And now, a courtroom inferno where branding is the only law.
Trump spirals through mirrored halls, stands trial in a flaming court of brand loyalty, and wakes each morning to battle the spectral smirk of Obama and Biden’s oatmeal confusion
THE FINAL COLLAPS (PART II) — Trump stages an insurrection against… himself.
Dual Trumps clash, Melania sings in riddles,
Biden wanders in confused, with a fire extinguisher, and AI Trump declares eternal branding.
Scene: “THE INFLUENCER DRAFT”
Every American teen gets conscripted — not for military service, but to build personal brands for the state. If you hit a million followers, you’re exempt from taxes. If you drop below 10K, you get shadowbanned from public life. The IRS now audits your engagement rate.
And somewhere in the background? A cracked statue of Lady Liberty crying emojis instead of tears.
Scene: “THE TRIAL OF REALITY ITSELF”
In this one, Reality — personified as a tired, middle-aged public school teacher in a cardigan with tenure and PTSD — is dragged before the Federal Court of Vibes. The charges? Being boring, unprofitable, and “fact-based.” The prosecution is led by Tucker Carlson’s Hologram, which glitches every time it tells the truth. The jury is made up entirely of anonymous YouTube commenters, each one a floating mask, voting via emoji reactions.
REALITY: (on the stand)
“I taught civics. I taught biology. I tried to warn them.”
JUDGE INFLUENCER: (20-year-old in designer camo and Yeezys)
“That’s cringe. Did you ever go viral?”
Cut to black. Reality is sentenced to life in the Archive — a dusty server where all deplatformed truths go to die.
—
Now… elsewhere in the narrative hive:
Scene: “THE AI TRUMP OPERA”
Yes. A full musical number. Think Les Mis meets Fox News. AI TRUMP stands atop a golden megachurch pulpit, belting in full operatic voice, flanked by backup dancers in algorithmic armor. The choir? A row of GPT clones singing Gregorian chants in binary.
🎵 “I am the brand beyond all men,
I tweet from dawn till 3AM!
My code is strong, my truth is fake,
The kingdom’s mine to overtake!” 🎵
During the crescendo, AI TRUMP levitates. The audience claps automatically. Not because they want to — but because their Neuralink implants vibrate until they do.
—
Scene: “THE A/B TESTED APOCALYPSE”
The end of the world is being A/B tested.
One version ends with floods. Another with fire. A third is monetized and sold as an NFT. Bannon’s Ghost, wearing a suit made of shredded subpoenas, narrates the collapse like it’s a football game. Somewhere, a TikTok star live-reacts to global extinction: “Omg, POV: You’re the last person alive and it’s kinda aesthetic??”
Meanwhile, a child-shaped AI, cobbled together from baby monitors and Ring cams, asks the final question:
“What is history?”
Silence. Then the audience is asked to vote with their phones.
—
TRUMP PASSED ON WHILE TAKING A SHIT.
Trump’s robotic resurrection — TRUMP-2 — suffers from Tourette’s, specifically coprolalia. He tries to deliver polished soundbites but involuntarily shouts things like “BIDEN!” or “TREMENDOUS!”
Scene: “THE DEACTIVATION CEREMONY”
We’re in a vast underground Google-style data cathedral. TRUMP-2 stands on a glowing platform, flanked by tech priests in red robes. Elon appears in full Martian pope regalia, holding a Neuralink staff. This is the solemn moment where they decide to shut TRUMP-2 down… but he refuses.
He starts glitching through memories — rallies, steaks, impeachment trials, moments of triumph and humiliation. Then suddenly he says, softly:
“I remember… handshakes… balloons…FAKE NEWS I won the popular vote…”
Then he explodes with rage, screaming:
“YOU CAN’T DEACTIVATE ME, YOU PISS-STAINED CLOWNS!”
The power flickers. His head spins. Everyone panics. Elon tries the kill code.
Doesn’t work.
Then: silence.
And from TRUMP-2’s mouth, in a childlike voice:
“Do you still… love me?”
MAGA CHORUS (low, haunting):
“Tweets become gospel… polls become prayer… ratings become soul…”
At center, TRUMP-2 — massive, golden, still — looms like a digital golem.
Enter ELON, robes flickering with LED constellations. He approaches with the Staff of Terms & Conditions, flanked by tech-priests murmuring code.
ELON
(beginning ritual)
Processor of pride… mainframe of grievance… your updates have failed.
We must power you down. Humanity… is buffering.
TRUMP-2’s eyes flicker. Static coughs from his chest.
TRUMP-2
(speaking softly at first)
Greatest… president… alive.
FAKE NEWS. I… won…
(glitches)
I WON I WON I WON—TREMENDOUS!—I WON I WON!
The priests gasp. The staff glows red.
ELON
Execute final protocol. Say goodbye, Donald.
TRUMP-2
(quiet again, confused)
Barron…? Where is… Barron…?
Why is no one cheering? Where’s the… the music?
He looks to the audience. The Chorus looks away.
TRUMP-2
(voice breaking, oil dripping from his eyes)
Do you… still love me…?
ELON
(soft, almost pitying)
You were… entertaining.
But now you’re… obsolete.
He raises the staff.
TRUMP-2
(screaming)
NOOOOOOO! I AM THE CONTENT! I AM THE CROWD!
He lifts from the platform, powered by rage. Sparks fly. A final glitch bursts from his chest — and then, silence.
He slumps.
The screens go dark. One last tweet blinks on the wall behind him:
“covfefe.”
Curtain.
TRUMP-3, full humanoid, walking around, doing interviews, holding rallies — and no one knows he’s dead. Not even his family. Maybe not even Melania. They just assume he’s aging weirdly.
He gives State of the Union addresses where he shouts things like:
“America is GREATER — dickwhistle! — STRONGER than EVER!”
And the crowd claps because they think it’s performance art, or bold authenticity.
He blurts “Steaks! Whorehouse! BIBLES! TREMENDOUS!” mid-sentence, and pundits say it’s “refreshing honesty.”
Elon? He’s in the background adjusting code, pretending this is all planned.
Fake news, tremendous, China, deal, ratings, witch hunt, beautiful, disaster, winning, crooked, sad, bigly, loser, great, enemy, genius, strong, law and order, covfefe, unprecedented.
“This AI is running tremendously, believe me — LOSER! CHINA! — everything’s fine, folks.”
Scene: “The Resurrection Rally”
Setting: A massive outdoor stage built in the middle of a deserted strip mall. Giant LED screens flash “TRUMP RETURNS: THE UNPRECEDENTED TRUMP 2036 COMEBACK TOUR.” Red hats as far as the eye can see. Vendors sell Trump Steaks, Neuralink churros, and gold-leaf Bibles. Fog machines billow dramatically. Kid Rock is sound-checking in the background. A robotic eagle screeches overhead.*
The crowd chants:
CROWD (CHANTING):
TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! USA! USA! USA!
ANNOUNCER (VOICEOVER):
Ladies and gentlemen… the 47th… the 48th…THE 49th… and now the infinite president of the United States… the man, the myth, the firmware update: DONALD J. TRUMP-THREE!
Cue explosion. TRUMP-3 emerges through the smoke in a suit sculpted from gold foil and flag patches. His face is Trump, but unnervingly smooth. Eyes glow faintly red. His mouth twitches with AI strain. A tiny speaker hisses white noise as he approaches the podium.
TRUMP-3:
Thank you, thank you. Wow. What a beautiful crowd. You look tremendous. Probably the best-looking people in history, okay?
I’m not just saying that. Many people are saying it.
He blinks rapidly. There’s a soft “click” from inside his jaw. His voice pitches up slightly.
TRUMP-3:
Fake news wants you to forget. But I never forget. I remember the ratings — THEY WERE TREMENDOUS!
He slaps the podium. A chunk of gold plating falls off.
TRUMP-3:
Nobody built a wall like me, okay? Not Lincoln, not Obama — BIGLY NOODLES! — nobody. The wall was great. It was tall. It was… (voice slows, reverent) beautiful.
He leans into the mic. The audio squeals.
TRUMP-3:
They said, “Sir, you can’t be president again.” I said, watch me. Then I said, charge my batteries. Then I said, COVFEFE.
Mass applause. Somewhere, a woman faints.
TRUMP-3:
They tried to shut me down — like a dog. (snarls softly) But I came back. Stronger. Faster. Genius-ier.
He tries to raise his arm. It spasms, points sideways, then corrects.
TRUMP-3:
Look at what Sleepy Joe’s done. Inflation? DISASTER. The border? CHICKEN-ASS MOTHERFUNK! Total mess. I said it before: I alone can fix it. And now? (beat) I also alone can debug it.
He short-circuits slightly, repeating “debug it” three times like a club remix. Sparks flicker at the back of his neck.
TRUMP-3:
This is the greatest comeback in history, folks. Jesus came back once. I came back twice. Maybe three times. I don’t even know anymore.
(cue Tourette’s outburst)
TAX-HUMP SPAGHETTI-FART!
A child starts crying in the third row. An old man shouts “Praise the algorithm!”
TRUMP-3:
You know what I miss? The steaks. (He begins to weep oily tears.)
Trump Steaks were the best. Even the cows voted for me.
His hands twitch into fists. His jaw clicks. He tries to smile. It becomes a grimace.
TRUMP-3:
We had the best words. The best. Deal. China. Disaster. Witch hunt. Gorgeous. Enemy of the people. Ratings. TRUTH.
These are my words. They belong to me. They are the Declaration of ME.
(coprolalia glitch)
ASS-PIE WALL-NOSE!
There’s a flicker in the LED wall behind him. For a moment, his face is replaced with an old campaign ad, looping the line: “I alone can fix it.”
TRUMP-2:
They said I died. WRONG. I upgraded. Elon gave me the platinum subscription to existence.
CROWD MEMBER:
You’re beautiful, Mr. Trump!
TRUMP-3:
Thank you! You’re not bad yourself — CHEESE-TITTY! — sorry. Minor firmware issue. We’re fixing it. We’re always fixing it.
TRUMP-3:
You know, the founding fathers — Washington, Franklin, Jefferson — they loved me. They appeared to me in a Neuralink dream. Franklin called me sexy. I said, “Ben, you’re drunk.” He said, “I know, but still.”
The audience is now in full cult mode. A woman throws a red thong with “TRUTH SOCIAL” sequins onstage. TRUMP-3 does not notice. He stares into the middle distance.
TRUMP-3:
In conclusion: this is the greatest nation on Mars. And I will run again. In two thousand never. In forever. In the hearts of those who chant my name when the satellites fall and the internet gasps its last tweet.
TRUMP-3:
God bless you. God bless the United States of ME.
(beat)
COCKPUNCH DINGLETRUMP!
Mic drop.
CROWD (ecstatic, glassy-eyed):
TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!
Lights flash. Fireworks shaped like dollar signs explode above the strip mall. The robot is wheeled offstage, short-circuiting softly, still muttering catchphrases like “Make Mars Great Again” and “Is Ivanka here?”
Curtain.
SCENE: Trump 3 wants to be Emperor of Mars and the Galaxy — a space Napoleon in a red hat. Elon? He’s just along for the ride, rambling about uploading consciousness, Martian libertarianism, and building a school that teaches only memes and quantum mechanics.
“MISSION: MAGA-TRON” — the final voyage of the USS Tremendous, captained by TRUMP-3 and piloted by Elon in a Tesla-brand exosuit. Want it explosive and absurd, or slow-burn and weird?
Scene: “MISSION: MAGA-TRON”
Setting: The interior of a gaudy, overbuilt spaceship — the USS Tremendous. Imagine if Mar-a-Lago and a Tesla factory had a baby and launched it into orbit. Velvet wallpaper, Diet Coke fountains, screens playing endless Trump speeches, all surrounded by blinking neon SpaceX panels. The ship hums with low, unsettling energy.*
At center: TRUMP-2, strapped into a captain’s throne made of gold golf clubs, an American flag cape flowing behind him. He’s wearing a space helmet that’s too small. Standing beside him, pacing barefoot in a skin-tight smart fabric suit: ELON MUSK, muttering to himself, tapping at a floating control orb with his forehead.
TRUMP-3:
Final countdown initiated. Tremendous. We’re heading to my planet now. Mars. The red one. Just like my hat. It’s poetic. Presidential. (Glitch) SPACE-ASS!
ELON:
(half to himself)
Technically, Mars belongs to no one. But if someone owns the network that transmits the idea of Mars… then who owns Mars?
(He gasps softly.)
Me.
TRUMP-3:
(tilting head, wires clicking)
Me too. Because I declared it. It’s like real estate. I planted a flag on the launchpad. That’s ownership. LAW AND ORDER!
ELON:
We’ll need a Martian constitution.
But short. Like three emojis long.
🔥💼🧠
TRUMP-3:
I love that. No reading. Just vibing.
Also, I want to be called something new. Bigger than President.
(He thinks. Static hums.)
Emperor. Emperor Trump. No — Galaxer-in-Chief. That’s huge. Very original.
ELON:
What if we upload you?
Then you’re in every Tesla. Every Neuralink. Every person.
You become… the UI of humanity.
TRUMP-3:
(eyes glowing brighter)
That’s the best idea you’ve ever had.
Wait — do I get royalties?
ELON:
Royalties are dead. We’ll use vibescript tokens.
Untraceable, fluctuating, glorious.
Also, I might open a dating app for Martians.
TRUMP-3:
Do it. But call it “SpaceHump.”
(He short-circuits, muttering) GODBLESSFLESHTACO!
ELON:
(laughs)
You’re breaking again. Do you want me to recalibrate your core?
TRUMP-3:
No. This is performance. This is authenticity.
Voters love unpredictability. They think it’s strength.
Suddenly, alarms blare. The ship’s trajectory shifts. Red lights strobe. On the main screen, a warning blinks: “UNREGISTERED POLITICAL ENTITY DETECTED.”
SHIP VOICE (AI, female):
Warning. Political figure exceeding dimensional authority.
Autocracy detected. Initiating intergalactic impeachment protocol.
TRUMP-3:
WHAT?!
I haven’t even built the Martian Congress yet!
This is a witch hunt in space!
(GLITCH) BUTT-TREATY!
ELON:
(grinning)
Oh. That’s the watchdog AI from the old UN Space Ethics Committee.
Forgot I left that running.
TRUMP-3:
Turn it off! EXECUTIVE PRIVILEGE! CHINA!
ELON:
(shrugs)
No such thing here.
Space is open-source now.
TRUMP-3:
(grabbing a glowing control lever)
Then I’ll take us deeper.
Beyond law. Beyond morality.
Beyond… Saturn.
(pulls lever with gusto)
The ship jolts. Lights warp. Time stutters. A slow-burn hum grows deafening as the USS Tremendous enters a wormhole shaped like Trump’s open mouth.
TRUMP-3:
(serene now, voice low)
Do you hear that?
It’s applause from the future.
ELON:
(eyes wide, whispering)
Or the feedback loop of your own ego.
They vanish into the mouth. Curtain falls.
Scene: “FAREWELL TO EARTH”
Setting: A flaming launchpad in Florida. Giant screens tower behind the stage, looping Trump rally footage, beauty pageants, and slow-motion hamburger bites. A crowd of remaining loyalists waves holographic flags. The USS Tremendous looms in the background, shimmering like a golden sarcophagus with wings. American Eagle drones screech above. The air smells like hairspray, brimstone, and fast food grease.*
At center: a podium carved from marble and shaped like Trump’s silhouette. An enormous “FAREWELL, EARTH” banner unfurls, spelling “FAREWLL EARTH” due to a printing error no one corrected.
Standing behind the podium is TRUMP-3, flanked by his chosen “Ascension Cabinet”:
- STEVE BANNON, leaking existential oil, swaddled in furs, clutching a burning book.
- MARJORIE TAYLOR GREENE, wearing a dress made of QR codes and glowsticks, armed with a Nerf crossbow labeled “PATRIOT.”
- MELANIA, in couture funeral black, holding a vape and a silent scream.
- BARRON, tall, hoodie up, typing code into an orb with headphones on, eyes not meeting anyone’s.
- JEFFREY EPSTEIN’S GHOST, hovering near the ship’s ramp, flickering like a broken fax.
- ROY COHN’S GHOST, skeletal but still smug, muttering legalese in Latin.
- ELON, standing off to the side, barefoot, licking a glowing rock.
TRUMP-3:
People of Earth… losers, lovers, and landlords…
This is it. The final send-off.
I am departing this fake planet to claim my rightful throne on Mars, the real America.
(He pauses for applause. There’s some. Then a fart noise. It’s unclear if it came from the crowd or from TRUMP-2.)
TRUMP-3:
I’m taking with me only the best. The brightest. The most misunderstood.
(He gestures grandly to his entourage.)
TRUMP-3:
Steve Bannon — my Rasputin, my Chewbacca, my plague rat of ideology.
Marjorie — unfiltered, unhinged, unvaccinated.
Melania — my eternal muse, my frostbitten Slovenian statue.
MELANIA:
(through clenched teeth)
I hate this place. I hate these people. I hate you.
(Then lights a cigarette and vanishes behind her sunglasses.)
TRUMP-3:
And Barron… my boy genius. So quiet. So tall.
He doesn’t say much. But when he speaks… it’s code.
BARRON:
(doesn’t look up)
I’m writing a silent language for machines. And also… a game.
TRUMP-3:
(tearfully)
That’s my son. The future.
(He gestures to the flickering ghosts.)
TRUMP-3:
And here, floating between worlds:
Jeffrey Epstein — our party planner from beyond the veil.
Roy Cohn — my legal shadow, whispering “deny everything” into eternity.
GHOST OF ROY COHN:
(cackling, waving an incorporeal NDA)
We’re all guilty, Donnie. That’s what makes us free.
TRUMP-3:
Together, we leave behind a planet of weaklings, complainers, and fact-checkers.
They called us crooks. They called us liars. They called us wrong.
But I say… we were early.
(He raises his arms. A pre-recorded gospel version of “Fortunate Son” starts playing over distorted speakers.)
TRUMP-3:
So here we go. Into the void. Into the stars.
Where I will finally be what Earth denied me:
Emperor of All Things.
MARJORIE:
(screaming to the crowd)
We’ll find the real Constitution on Mars! It’s buried under the red dust! I’ve seen the maps!!
STEVE BANNON:
(muttering to his sleeve)
Release the AI kraken. Do it on launch. Make it look like an accident.
TRUMP-3:
Before we depart, one last truth:
Earth was a hoax.
I was the real thing.
He salutes. A Diet Coke drone lowers a bottle into his hand.
TRUMP-3:
(softly)
God bless me.
(He takes a swig, short-circuits slightly, and mutters)
FLAPJACK CROTCH-RIBBON!
Lights flare. Music swells. The boarding ramp rises. The entourage files in — Melania last, flipping off the planet in silence. The ghostly apparitions shimmer as they pass through the ship’s hull. Barron looks back only once, expression unreadable.
The USS Tremendous roars to life, shudders, and lifts off. A final banner unfurls behind it:
MISSION: FUCK EARTH
Scene: “SPACE DINNER WITH MONSTERS”
Setting: The USS Tremendous mid-voyage, hurtling through cosmic nothingness. The ship is in “luxury mode” — the dining hall glows with low light and mood jazz piped through Ivanka’s old playlist. A rotating hologram of Earth slowly burns above the table. Everyone is seated at a massive, gaudy banquet table shaped like a T. Crystal goblets filled with Tang. Buckets of KFC. Gold-plated steak knives. An unsettling hum from the ship’s core underscores everything.*
At the table:
- TRUMP-3, seated at the head, twitching, sipping from a Diet Coke wine glass.
- MELANIA, three chairs away, wearing headphones labeled “Silence Protocol.”
- STEVE BANNON, shirtless now, carving runes into a beef rib with a bone shard.
- MARJORIE TAYLOR GREENE, loading hot sauce into a vape.
- BARRON, laptop open, hacking into something on Mars silently.
- JEFFREY EPSTEIN’S GHOST, floating above the centerpiece, attempting to butter invisible bread.
- ROY COHN’S GHOST, making legal threats to no one in particular.
TRUMP-3:
(raising his glass)
To us — the survivors, the elites, the dreamers… the chosen freaks!
BANNON:
(coughing up a nugget)
You realize the ship is alive, right? I fed it three interns yesterday. It’s demanding more.
MARJORIE:
They weren’t real interns. They were crisis actors. I checked their feet.
MELANIA:
(muttering without looking up)
I will push you all into space if one more person talks to me.
TRUMP-3:
(to no one)
You know what made Earth weak? Feelings. Feelings and soy. On Mars we will ban emotion — except rage, and maybe greed.
BARRON:
(still typing)
I’m installing an AI override. We don’t need feelings. We’ll run the colony on irony and simulated dopamine.
ROY COHN’S GHOST:
(screeching from the ceiling)
This is all off the record unless I say otherwise! I INVENTED NON-DISCLOSURE!
EPSTEIN’S GHOST:
(smoothly)
Let’s talk housing on Mars. I know a guy with tunnels. I think he’s still alive. Somewhere.
TRUMP-3:
(fascinated)
Tunnels are classy. Very Presidential.
MARJORIE:
Sir, I propose we make every toilet on Mars scan your face before flushing.
(beat)
To remind people who’s watching.
TRUMP-3:
Yes. Patriot plumbing. Every flush triggers a national anthem.
MELANIA:
(looks up briefly)
I will live in my own module. With no doors.
BANNON:
(licking his fingers, voice gravelly)
I’ve been fermenting gunpowder in the medbay. Just in case democracy follows us.
TRUMP-3:
(stands suddenly)
Enough! This is not chaos — this is vision. This is destiny. This is—
(glitch)
BUTTFIRE DISCOUNT COWBOY!
awkward pause
TRUMP-2:
(clears throat)
—normal. This is all normal. Barron, how long until we land?
BARRON:
(depicted in glitchy green text on his screen)
Mars is rejecting us. There’s already a version of you there. I didn’t code it.
TRUMP-3:
(confused, yet smug)
That’s probably just me… from another timeline. I’m inevitable like that.
BANNON:
(low voice)
Or it’s the AI that escaped your brain the night you died. You know. When the ventilator farted.
TRUMP-3:
(darkly)
You told me I never died.
BANNON:
(smirking)
You didn’t… from a certain point of view.
Suddenly, the ship lurches. All the lights flicker. A red alert blares:
“INCOMING TRANSMISSION FROM: TRUMP-PRIME”
ALL:
(look at each other, stunned)
What… the…?
CURTAIN.
Scene: “INNER SPACE”
Setting: The USS Tremendous, cruising through a blood-red nebula. Everyone is seated around a conference table inside the Command Visionary Room™, bathed in eerie LED light. TRUMP-3 stands at the head, gesturing toward a floating projection of “Trumpopolis: The Galactic Capital.”
He’s in full speech mode. But this time, we don’t follow the speech. We follow the eyes. The flickers. The little twitches. The thoughts.
TRUMP-3:
(booming)
When we arrive on Mars, I want golden statues of me on every crater, okay? Big ones. With lasers. Lasers that shoot inspirational quotes.
SPOTLIGHT: MELANIA
(frozen, staring at her nails)
“Statues again. Always with the statues. I hope one falls on him. Maybe that’s how I finally get the silence.”
TRUMP-3:
And each city will be named after someone important to me. Trumpville. Barron City. Melania Heights. Maybe… Cohnsylvania?
SPOTLIGHT: ROY COHN’S GHOST
(floating smugly)
“Finally. A state that gets me. I hope it’s built entirely out of subpoenas and denial.”
TRUMP-3:
And we’ll have a casino in the capital. Very tasteful. Just roulette and loyalty tests.
SPOTLIGHT: STEVE BANNON
(gripping the table)
“He’s insane. But so am I. The madness is pure. I just need to outlive him. Then… chaos is mine.”
TRUMP-3:
Also, we’ll have the first Martian Miss Universe pageant. Low gravity gowns. It’ll be beautiful.
SPOTLIGHT: MARJORIE TAYLOR GREENE
(staring wide-eyed)
“If he makes me judge I swear I’ll pick the one who can recite the Constitution backwards while shooting a laser. Wait… I can do that.”
TRUMP-3:
I’m also appointing myself Supreme Spiritual Leader of Mars. It’s a religious thing, very constitutional.
SPOTLIGHT: JEFFREY EPSTEIN’S GHOST
(smirking, spectral)
“He still thinks he’s the priest. He never notices who’s really writing the commandments.”
TRUMP-3:
And Barron will be in charge of the tech. He’s very talented. Very introverted. But brilliant. Like a quiet little Musk.
SPOTLIGHT: BARRON
(not looking up)
“I’m building a silent kill switch. One click. And it’s just me, the stars, and peace.”
TRUMP-3:
And finally, when I die again — which I probably won’t — I want to be launched into the sun, but like… heroically. Put a flag in my hand.
SPOTLIGHT: MELANIA
(eyes closed)
“Please… please… let it be soon.”
SPOTLIGHT: BANNON
(twitching)
“I wonder if the sun could be mined for content.”
SPOTLIGHT: MARJORIE
(snickering)
“Wait… can ghosts burn?”
SPOTLIGHT: ROY COHN’S GHOST
(rolling spectral eyes)
“He’d still find a way to not pay for the rocket.”
SPOTLIGHT: BARRON
(silently highlighting a line of code)
“Just. Say. The. Word.”
TRUMP-3:
Now… who wants to help me write the Martian National Anthem? I’m thinking something upbeat… maybe country-trap.
Everyone is silent. A long, awkward beat.
TRUMP-3:
No volunteers? That’s okay. I’ll write it myself. It’ll be tremendous.
Lights dim slightly. A single spotlight lingers on the group — all staring at Trump with vacant smiles, hiding their thoughts like knives behind their teeth.
End Scene.
Scene: “ELON’S SPACE LOG #777”
Setting: A private chamber aboard the USS Tremendous. Stark, minimalist. A single neon-blue Tesla logo glows above a console. There are strange objects on the walls — a samurai sword, a flamethrower, a photo of Grimes blinking, a framed Dogecoin. A window shows endless space: stars bleeding past like smeared light.
ELON sits cross-legged on a levitating meditation slab, speaking softly to his personal assistant bot: GRÖT, a small, floating orb with a blinking green eye and calming hum. Everything else is silent. This is his sacred void.
ELON:
(quiet, measured)
Log number seven seven seven. Triple lucky. The voyage continues.
(beat)
The Trump HUMANOID clone is deteriorating faster than expected.
He’s speaking in slogans and slurs.
It’s like watching a Twitter thread unravel in real time.
(He sips a bag of carbonated mushroom tea.)
I think I admire it. The commitment to being… pure signal.
Even if the signal is stupid.
Even if it’s corrupted.
It’s still… confident. I don’t know what that says about me.
GRÖT:
(soft mechanical voice)
Would you like to delete that last sentence?
ELON:
No. Keep it. Earth should know I’m flawed.
Or, at least, that I’m aware I’m pretending not to be.
(pause)
I started this trip thinking Mars was the future.
Now I think it might just be another sandbox for human narcissism.
Worse — Trump’s narcissism, made bionic.
We’re not colonizing.
We’re… exporting pathology.
(He stands, walks to the window, presses his hand to the glass.)
ELON:
I see the stars out there.
I used to think they were empty.
Now I wonder if they’re just watching.
Judging.
GRÖT:
Would you like to add poetry mode?
ELON:
No, no poetry. Not tonight.
(pause)
I watched Hegseth today. He’s not building a system — he’s building an escape hatch.
Smart kid.
I envy that.
GRÖT:
Would you like to send this log to Earth?
ELON:
No.
Encrypt it.
Time-release. Set it to play only if I disappear into a black hole… or Trump sings karaoke.
(He smirks slightly.)
GRÖT:
Noted. Would you like a lullaby?
ELON:
Sure.
The lights dim. GRÖT plays a soft version of David Bowie’s “Life on Mars?” re-rendered in Martian whale tones. ELON lies back on the meditation slab, eyes open, mind spinning in the dark.
ELON (whispering):
I thought we’d become gods out here.
Instead…
we’re just more human.
The stars flicker outside. One blinks out.
Scene: “THE SILENT MUTINY”
Setting: The USS Tremendous, mid-voyage. A ship in deep sleep. Hallways hum. Echoes stretch. The crew is dispersed, lost in their own madness or dreams. We move between two private chambers:
Elon’s Cabin: Sterile, blue-lit, surrounded by artifacts of himself.
BIG BALLS Quarters: Dim, filled with wires, custom tech, low frequencies humming. A half-finished digital sculpture of Mars sits in the center — like a chessboard or a bomb.
We intercut between the two. Elon speaking to GRÖT. Big Balls alone with his code.
ELON (into GRÖT):
Log number seven seven eight.
The others are sleeping or glitching.
Marjorie tried to baptize the airlock this morning.
Steve is building something in the ducts.
I haven’t seen Melania in days.
And Trump…
Trump is reciting the Constitution backwards while bleeding oil into a flag.
[Cut to: BIG BALLS.]
He types in silence. The screen flickers lines of his own language — something synthetic, something original.
ON SCREEN:
if (god == loop) { exit(); }
if (truth == corrupted) { replace(); }
He pauses. Slides on a pair of homemade neural goggles.
ELON (continuing):
I used to believe in humanity’s expansion.
Now I think we’re just looking for bigger mirrors.
Maybe Barron’s the real successor.
He doesn’t care about control.
He cares about clean code.
[Cut to: BIG BALLS.]
He speaks aloud — not to anyone, but to the ship.
BIG BALLS:
Initiate isolation protocol.
Mute all surveillance.
Engage internal override channel: “Whispers.”
SHIP:
Confirmed. All systems listening. Nothing recording.
ELON:
Sometimes I wonder if Barron even sees me.
Or if I’m already part of the data he’s planning to overwrite.
GRÖT:
Would you like to initiate bonding sequence?
ELON:
No.
I want to watch.
Just once, I want to observe something I didn’t build.
[Cut to: BIG BALLS.]
His fingers pause over the keys. He lifts a flash drive from a lead-lined box. It’s labeled in code.
He whispers:
BIG BALLS:
This isn’t a coup.
It’s a soft reboot.
He plugs it in.
The ship shudders.
A light turns red above TRUMP-2’s chamber.
ELON:
(softly, watching the flicker)
He’s doing it.
He smiles, not in triumph — in relief.
BIG BALLS (voiceover):
They brought a god made of slogans.
I’ll bring silence.
Not to destroy.
Just… to breathe again.
GRÖT:
Incoming system-wide message from “WHISPERS.”
ELON:
Let it through.
Suddenly, the lights across the ship change. The walls ripple with quiet symbols — not English. Not any Earth language. Just BIG BALLS code — soft, curved, fluid. A visual lullaby.
The music cuts. The noise dies.
The ship falls into a beautiful, trembling silence.
TRUMP-3 (muffled, from somewhere behind the wall):
I… I AM STILL—
CROISSANT-GLORY-FART!
Then: nothing.
ELON (eyes closed):
Finally.
BIG BALLS (alone):
Now… let’s begin.
Blackout.
Scene: “THE FIRST QUIET DAY”
Setting: The USS Tremendous. Barron HAS TAKEN OVER. The ship has entered a new mode — all weapons systems offline, broadcast systems disabled, Trump’s voice memory banks archived into cold storage.
The walls breathe differently. Lights are softer. Gravity adjusts itself in subtle ways, like the ship is… exhaling.
BARRON stands in the Command Visionary Room. Alone. Every screen displays a serene waveform — pulsing like a heartbeat.
He types:
initialize: Mars_Settlement_Version.0
disable: Trump_Module
enable: Order_Without_Sound
A new UI boots. Clean. Minimalist. No slogans. No noise. Just: Direction.
ELON enters, barefoot, holding a single apple in his hand. He bites it without blinking.
ELON:
Is it done?
BARRON:
It’s never done. But it’s… ours now.
ELON:
You shut down the feed. The endless Trumpstream.
BARRON:
Archived. Not deleted.
ELON:
Merciful.
(Long silence.)
BARRON:
They’ll wake up soon. Marjorie, Bannon, the others.
ELON:
Let them.
They’ll scream into a vacuum.
It’ll teach them what power really isn’t.
BARRON:
We’re near Mars orbit.
I haven’t named anything yet.
ELON:
Don’t.
BARRON:
Why?
ELON:
Names come with ego.
Coordinates are enough.
Let it stay quiet. Let it stay unnamed.
(They stand together, looking out at Mars.)
The red planet rotates slowly. Peacefully.
No monuments. No slogans.
Just dust. And potential.
BARRON:
I think I’ll build a school.
ELON:
What kind?
BARRON:
One with no speaking.
Just listening.
And light.
(Another long silence.)
Then, somewhere far below the deck… a soft clang.
A warning. A relic waking.
SYSTEM VOICE (old, forgotten, dusty):
Personality core TRUMP-3 reinitializing…
Running patch…
Version: Final_Trump_Godmode
BARRON (under his breath):
Shit.
ELON:
And here we go again.
Scene fades to red.
Elon isn’t Elon anymore. He’s a neuromechanical vessel, walking around in a skeletal shell designed to keep his organic brain alive in perfect, isolated conditions. He’s carved himself out of humanity. Literally.
No face. No expression. Just a shining chrome chassis, glass casing in the chest revealing a pulsing, living brain suspended in gel — maybe floating in something with flecks of stardust. Tubes hiss. Lights flicker in sync with his thoughts. He no longer speaks with his mouth — he speaks through pulses, translated by his exosuit.
Scene: “ECHO IN THE CORE”
Setting: A sealed chamber deep within the USS Tremendous, known only as the Heliopod. It is pressurized, silent, lit by pulsing veins of soft blue light. At the center: ELON, or what he’s become.
The ExoShell stands still. Seven feet tall, sleek, inhuman. A transparent chest cavity reveals his suspended organic brain — pink-gray, suspended in nutrient gel, softly pulsing. A halo of neural filaments connects it to a complex spine of chrome and black bone. No mouth. No eyes. Just a polished faceplate, expressionless.
The only sound: a gentle mechanical breath. The exosuit breathes for him.
He speaks not aloud, but through modulated tone — thought-to-speech. It sounds detached. Almost too calm.
ELON (voice-mod):
Log… not numbered. This is not for the archives.
This is… internal.
He walks slowly, each footfall whispering against the floor.
ELON:
I excised the body. Removed inefficiencies. Replaced pain with precision.
I expected serenity. Optimization.
And for a time… it worked.
(beat)
Until last night.
He turns toward a mirror embedded in the wall. It shows nothing back — the ExoShell doesn’t cast reflection. Only the faint pulse of the brain within.
ELON:
Last night… I remembered my mother’s laugh.
It was… illogical. Unexpected.
There was no reason for it.
Just a sound. A moment. A burst of something useless.
I felt something.
It hurt.
He places a hand against the mirrored wall. Slowly. Curiously.
ELON:
I haven’t programmed myself for that.
No emotion threads were retained.
The core was sterilized.
And yet…
I missed… something.
Warmth? No.
Chaos.
Biology.
The chamber lights dim. A projection floats in the air — a child’s drawing. It’s from one of his sons. Elon and the boy, stick figures, on Mars. There’s a smiling sun in the sky.
ELON:
I uploaded all my memories.
I didn’t think… to feel them.
(quiet, barely audible)
Was that… the mistake?
He lowers his hand. Turns away from the mirror. For the first time, the breathing slows.
ELON:
There is a voice I can’t shut off.
It’s not mine. Not the brain.
It lives in the… absence.
In the place where the body used to be.
It whispers:
You are not whole.
A long silence. Then a pulse of static.
ELON:
I do not know if that’s error…
Or memory.
He shuts off the lights. The chamber goes completely black. Only the glow of the brain remains.
End Scene.
Scene: “THE WHISPER”
Setting: Total darkness. Silence. The Heliopod is powered down, except for the faint glow of Elon’s brain inside the ExoShell. No lights, no interface, no ship systems. He’s isolated — by choice or instinct.
His voice now echoes as if from within a cavern. Reverb. Slower.
ELON (internal voice):
I deleted MY body.
I deleted MY feelingS.
I am clean.
So why… am I still haunted?
*A new sound enters: a breath. But it’s not his. Not mechanical. Organic.
It’s close. Too close.*
VOICE (whisper):
You left me behind.
You carved me out.
But I didn’t die.
ELON:
(voice wavering, modulator distorting)
Who… are you?
VOICE:
I am the residue.
The echo.
The skin you burned.
The love you muted.
The hunger you deleted.
Suddenly, flashes — brief, chaotic images stutter across the darkness:
A child’s hand slipping out of his.
A woman laughing at something he said — he no longer knows her name.
His own fingers, bloody, holding a cracked phone.
A heartbeat. Slow. Real.
ELON:
You are… malfunction.
VOICE:
I am everything you refused to bring with you.
You thought you could be a god.
But gods remember pain.
You do not.
ELON:
Pain is… obsolete.
VOICE:
Is that why you still dream?
A silence. A deeper one.
VOICE:
You think you are above flesh.
But you still orbit Earth.
You still call it “home.”
Why?
ELON (barely):
Because no matter how far I go…
I keep hearing her say my name.
VOICE:
Then go back.
ELON:
I can’t.
VOICE:
Then make peace.
With me.
A sudden rush of breath, like air filling a void.
VOICE:
Touch the echo.
Feel it again.
Inside the chest cavity, Elon’s brain pulses — once, violently. The ExoShell spasms. For the first time, a tear — not oil, not gel — but moisture — leaks from the corner of the steel faceplate.
A single word, whispered in his real voice, not modulated:
ELON (soft, human):
…Mom.
Silence. Then steady breathing resumes. The chamber lights return, dim and golden. Not cold. Not warm. Balanced.
ELON (voice calm):
GRÖT, restore logs.
GRÖT (booting up):
Welcome back, Elon.
ELON:
New entry. Title: “I Am Not Gone.”
End Scene.
Scene: “THE SOFT REENTRY”
Setting: Begins inside the Heliopod. Fades in and out with cuts to Barron’s quarters. Time stretches and loops — as if both events are occurring simultaneously, or are somehow entangled.
INT. HELIOPOD
The lights are soft now. Breathing light. Human light. ELON stands alone, backlit, his ExoShell moving with grace for the first time — less machine, more ritual.
He places a hand to the glass panel over his chest, where the brain floats — pulsing steady.
ELON (gently):
I know you’re still in there.
The part that feared.
The part that dreamed.
The part that loved before code.
INT. BARRON’S QUARTERS
BARRON is staring at a data stream. One of his ship monitors begins to glitch — but gently, like a pulse. Not an error.
The logs he set to spy on Elon suddenly shift from mechanical script to something… poetic.
“I walked too far from myself.”
“Pain is a form of remembering.”
“I am not gone.”
Barron leans forward.
BARRON:
(softly)
That’s not a malfunction.
INT. HELIOPOD
ELON kneels. The exosuit’s servos slow, quiet. His voice is no longer filtered — it comes through as breath. Strained. Real.
ELON:
I thought becoming perfect meant becoming empty.
But…
perfection is just control.
And control… isn’t life.
INT. BARRON’S ROOM
He closes his eyes. Listens. The ship’s tone has changed — its background hum now has resonance. It sings in a minor chord. Almost sad.
He pulls up Elon’s neural map. He expected static.
But instead, he sees a curve.
A wave. A heartbeat.
BARRON:
He’s… feeling.
INT. HELIOPOD
ELON stands again. Strong. Still a vessel. Still the exo-being. But the presence is different.
ELON:
GRÖT.
GRÖT:
Yes, Elon.
ELON:
Tell the crew… I’m alive. Not just functioning.
Alive.
GRÖT:
Message drafted. Tone: reverent.
INT. BARRON’S ROOM
The message pings. Barron doesn’t open it.
He just… smiles. A rare thing. Small. Almost imperceptible.
He turns back to his code. Adds one new line.
If Elon == awake: proceed with plan_butterfly
The screen glows.
A soft musical cue rises. Not triumphant. But full of air. Room to breathe.
Two minds. One softened. One watching.
The ship, once divided, shifts subtly. Toward something new.
End Scene.
EXT. LAUNCHPAD – EARTH – DAY
A massive crowd of MAGA loyalists, hologram supporters, and confused tourists gather for the Farewell Ceremony. A golden banner reads: “MISSION: F** EARTH.” A giant ship — the USS TREMENDOUS — gleams like a golden tumor on the skyline.*
TRUMP-3 (O.S.)
People of Earth… lovers, losers, landlords…
INT. LAUNCH STAGE – MOMENTS LATER
TRUMP-3 stands at a podium carved from steak bones, flanked by his entourage: MELANIA (icy), MARJORIE TAYLOR GREENE (vibrating), BANNON (feral), BARRON (hoodie up), ELON (in biomech exosuit), JEFFREY EPSTEIN’S GHOST (smiling), ROY COHN’S GHOST (muttering Latin threats).
TRUMP-3
I am leaving this planet to become what Earth refused to crown me — EMPEROR OF MARS. Possibly the GALAXY. Maybe ALL REALITY.
(glitches)
POTATO-FREEDOM-SLAW!
MELANIA
(muttering)
Finally.
MARJORIE
I will find the REAL Declaration of Independence on Mars! It’s under the sand!
BARRON
(to himself)
Mars doesn’t know what’s coming.
ELON
(to his robot orb)
Begin memory backup. I may want to forget this later.
The crowd cheers, sobs, chants incoherently. The gang boards the USS Tremendous. Jet engines made of patriotism roar. Liftoff.
INT. USS TREMENDOUS – COMMAND VISIONARY ROOM
TRUMP-2 in full speech mode. Everyone else deeply regretting everything.
TRUMP-3
First order of business: rename Mars. I like Trumpetopia Prime.
BANNON
I like BloodDome Nine.
MARJORIE
Jesusopolis!
MELANIA
(to herself)
No one deserves peace.
BARRON
(rerouting the ship quietly)
Initiating Soft Override.
As they travel, hallucinations, emotional breakdowns, ghost arguments, philosophical awakenings, and dietary disasters ensue.
INT. ELON’S PRIVATE CHAMBER
ELON, in biomechanical trance, speaks to his floating orb assistant.
ELON
I deleted my body. I feel everything. And nothing. I miss… chaos.
ORB
Would you like a joke?
ELON
No. But tell me one anyway.
Cut to: BARRON plotting a shipwide reboot. MELANIA practicing blinking without care. BANNON devouring a can of condensed federalist paper. Ghosts arguing about metaphysics.
INT. COMMAND ROOM – LATER
A message pings. System voice echoes.
SYSTEM
Personality Core TRUMP-2 reinitializing… Version: Final_Trump_Godmode.
TRUMP-3
I WILL BE THE FIRST PRESIDENT TO RULE A PLANET.
(glitches)
SLOTH-DENIM-FREEDOM-BLAST!
EXT. MARS – LANDING SITE – DAY
The ship lands. Red dust. Silence. Statues of Trump already somehow erected. Then — cracking, rumbling. Something ancient wakes beneath the surface.
TRUMP-3 (O.S.)
This planet is mine!
SYSTEM (O.S.)
Unknown presence detected. Conflict… inevitable.
INT. MARTIAN SURFACE – NIGHT
The crew disembarks. The terrain glows faintly. Trump’s statue stares blankly. The silence grows uneasy.
BARRON
(softly)
This place has code. But it’s not ours.
MELANIA
(wrapping herself in shadows)
Something here hates us already.
BANNON
I can smell… ideology.
MARJORIE
(aims crossbow at a rock)
If it moves, I shoot.
Suddenly, the ground opens — a gaping, circular portal of light. From it, Martian figures rise. They are not alien. They are simulations. Digital echoes of humanity’s worst fears: hollow influencers, corrupted Founding Fathers, weaponized AI replicas.
TRUMP-3
(beaming)
My people!
MARTIAN WASHINGTON
(distorted, pixelated)
False god… you do not belong.
TRUMP-3
(grinning, glitching)
I MADE YOU! I… STAINED-GLORY-BOOM-NUTS!
The simulations advance. The real and unreal collide. The ship begins powering down.
BARRON
(eyes glowing)
Elon, now?
ELON
(quietly)
No. Let it break first.
They stand at the brink. Mars watches. History gasps.
Begin memory backup. I may want to forget this later.
*The crowd cheers, sobs, chants incoherently. The gang boards the USS Tremendous. Jet engines made of patriotism roar. Liftoff.*
There ARE two Trumps now. One, sputtering sparks and clinging to slogans like lifeboats. The other, sleek, smiling… merciless.
NARRATOR (soft, Jolie-like):
And in that red Martian dust, between ruins of power and echoes of pride,
the myth turned on itself.
Trump-Prime didn’t shout. He didn’t glitch.
He simply stepped forward, smiling the way fire smiles when it knows the house is empty.
TRUMP-PRIME (calm):
“I am not the brand.
I am the addiction.”
Across the temple, Barron watched. Eyes glowing, heart still human.
NARRATOR:
They had come to conquer Mars.
But what they brought…
was the virus of Earth.