The Grease-Stained Apocalypse of A President God-King

How One Man’s Fast Food Delusions, Cosmic Narcissism, and Interdimensional Grift Tore a Hole in Reality

Trump lurched onto the White House press room stage like a busted carnival attraction left too long in the sun. His suit jacket, an ill-fitting tent of sweaty nationalism, clung to his bloated frame like a hostage. Buttons strained like submarine rivets at crush depth. His tie—somewhere between emergency bib and decorative threat—hung limp and shameful over a belly that seemed sentient.

Behind him, the Cabinet fanned out like a hostage tableau. Wilbur Ross held a tray of McDonald’s fries like it was the Ark of the Covenant. Pam Bondi clutched a sack of Big Macs with the resigned deadness of someone who once believed in math. Karoline Leavitt scribbled notes as if documenting a war crime, while Susie Wiles looked like she’d stared into the abyss and the abyss was ordering dessert.

“Big news, folks,” Trump croaked, skin flushed, pupils pinballing. “I’ve been talking to interdimensional intelligences. Not the dumb kind. The great kind. 3I and ATLAS. You’ve never heard of them, because you’re losers.”

The chorus behind him nodded in mechanical terror.

“They told me Earth is a sideshow. Being president is like managing a Sizzler. I’m thinking bigger. I’m talking God. Of. The. Universe.”

Ross thrust the fry tray forward. Trump snatched a greasy clump, stuffing them in with the same grace he once used to insult war heroes. A reporter raised her hand. Mistake.

“What are 3I and ATLAS, sir?”

“They’re cosmic consultants,” he barked. “Think galactic Deloitte. But more loyal. They said I’m already glowing with divine light. That might just be the fry grease but who cares?”

Yellen was now audibly muttering the Lord’s Prayer.

Trump’s mouth foamed like a rabid Saint Bernard locked in a KFC. “We’re going to sell Earth’s metals to the Guardians of the Galaxy. Star-Lord—great guy, tremendous hair—wants gold. Rocket Raccoon’s into platinum. Groot? He’s all about silver. Space fertilizer. It’s real, I swear on Trump Tower Moscow.”

A button gave up, launched into the ether like Sputnik. Ross ducked. Karoline stopped writing. Wiles grabbed the backup Xanax in her bra and dry-swallowed it.

Another reporter tried to speak. Trump cut them off. “Strip-mine the planet, folks. Total liquidation event. Everything goes. Oceans. Mountains. Canada.”

“Everything must go!” his Cabinet bleated like cult members awaiting the mothership.

Trump was glowing now. Not metaphorically. There was a light. Possibly chemical. His eyes rolled back. “When I’m God, I’m building New Earth. Fewer minorities. More Mar-a-Lagos. Mount Rushmore? Gone. Replaced with Mount Trumpmore. Entire mountain—my face. Four expressions. All me.”

His shirt disintegrated like tissue in a hurricane. Undershirt stained like a battlefield. Grease maps of delusion. Foam frothing freely. He raised his arms. Crumbs rained like divine confetti.

“3I told me golden robes would really suit me,” he slurred. “I’ll make divinity look good.”

He staggered offstage in a trail of lard, starch, and authoritarian ambition. Behind him, Ross knelt in a rain of fries, trying to reassemble the fallen happy meal like it was sacred geometry.

Karoline Leavitt whispered to the wall, “I used to believe in communication.”

Bondi stared into the middle distance. “I was Miss Ft. Lauderdale,” she said flatly. “People used to respect me.”

And somewhere, far beyond the stratosphere, 3I and ATLAS high-fived and added another data point to their cosmic sitcom.