Trump vs. Bad Bunny

A Steel Cage Match Would Be Best

According to multiple sources present in the room, it happened at 3:47 AM at Mar-a-Lago. Trump hadn’t slept in two days. He was eating fries from a bag that had already stained the armrest of his gold-plated chair, watching Bad Bunny videos on mute, his face lit blue from the laptop screen.

“Bayamón,” he said to no one in particular. “That’s the nest.”

The room held four other men, all in ties, all pretending this was normal. One witness sat in the corner with a notebook, trying not to make eye contact.

“You ever been to Bayamón?” Trump asked, turning to face the witness directly.

“No sir.”

“Good. It’s a shithole. That’s where they made him. That’s where his people are. The cartel. The family. All of them.” He shoved three fries in his mouth and kept talking through them. “I want the National Guard there before the Super Bowl. Just uniforms. Make it official.”

One of the suits coughed. “Sir, Bayamón is in Puerto Rico.”

“I KNOW where it is,” Trump snapped. “That’s why we can do it. It’s ours. Technically.”

He turned back to the screen where Bad Bunny was mid-performance, hips swiveling, crowd screaming. Trump jabbed a greasy finger at the image.

“Watch the hips. You see it? That’s not natural movement. That’s programmed. He’s not human. He was made in a lab,” Trump continued, settling back into his chair. “Gene splicing. Look at his face. Nobody looks at that. His brain doesn’t work right.”

The fries were disappearing at an alarming rate. There were now four bags open on the side table, ketchup pooling on what appeared to be a national security briefing.

“Wake up Hegseth,” he said, not to anyone in particular, just into the air. “If Bunny steps out of line during halftime, we take the power grid down. EMP.”

The Sweet Potato Hitler was plotting a military blackout of the Super Bowl halftime show because a Puerto Rican reggaeton star made him feel something he couldn’t name.

“He wears skirts,” Trump muttered, licking salt from his thumb. “He’s confusing the kids. Turning them. This is genetic witchcraft.”

One of the suits, identified by sources as a pork industry lobbyist, nodded slowly. Another, a retired general, stared straight ahead and said nothing.

“Sir,” one witness said, “Bad Bunny is just performing at halftime. He’s a musician.”

Trump’s head swiveled with alarming speed.

“Just a musician? JUST?” He slammed his palm on the armrest. Fries jumped. “He wants to turn America into a strip club. Look at those girls? The tongues? The hips?”
He replayed the girls video over and over, as he licked Ketchup off his fingers. “This is psychological warfare. I can’t let this happen to America.”

The screen flickered. Bad Bunny in pearls and sunglasses, 50,000 people losing their minds in a stadium somewhere. Trump watched in silence for ten seconds, his jaw working on another mouthful of fries.

“If he sings during while America is watching, I swear to God,” he wheezed, “I’ll have the FCC arrest him. Treason. Obscenity. Both.”

There was a long pause. Someone’s phone buzzed. The general blinked for the first time in twenty minutes.

Then one of the younger aides spoke quietly from near the door.

“Sir, we need someone who can mediate. Someone to handle the situation before Superbowl Sunday.”

Trump’s eyes lit up. “Mediate? No. We don’t mediate with terrorists. We need action. Get me the Attorney General. Baddy Bunday, Baddy Baddy Baddy boy, is the enemy within and must be stopped.”

The pork lobbyist leaned forward. “Mr. President, perhaps we invoke emergency powers. Cultural security threat. The precedent from 2025.”

“Exactly,” Trump said, pointing at him with a half-eaten fry. “EXACTLY. This is a national security issue. Bad Bunny is a clear and present danger to American values. We shut down the broadcast. We cancel the Super Bowl if we have to.”

The general, who had been silent for the entire meeting, finally spoke. His voice was flat, mechanical. “Sir, we can have personnel in position by Friday. Peacekeeping operations. Standard protocol.”

Sources indicate that no one in the room objected. No one laughed. No one suggested this was insane.

“Good,” Trump said, settling back into his chair. “That’s what I want to hear. Loyalty. I’m the president. I decide what happens at the Super Bowl.”

He reached for another bag of fries.

By dawn, the orders had been drafted. By noon, they were being reviewed by the Department of War. The networks didn’t move on because there was nothing to move on from. This wasn’t a scandal. This was policy.

Sources confirm the briefing papers, still stained with ketchup, were filed as official documents. The demand for troops in Bayamón went from rant to requisition. No one disavowed anything because there was no one left to disavow it.

Bad Bunny’s camp has gone silent. The halftime show remains officially scheduled, but legal challenges are already being prepared. The Supreme Court will hear arguments on emergency cultural security powers next week.

Trump hasn’t left the compound. He’s still watching the Bad Bunny videos, still eating fries, still convinced he’s stopping something catastrophic. And the terrifying truth, according to everyone who was in that room, is that he might actually do it.

There is no mediation coming. There is no adult in the room. The theater isn’t collapsing.

It’s being demolished from the inside, one fry at a time.