Gold-Plated Delusion Mirror: Vatican Edition

(Interior Vatican Guest Bathroom - Daytime)

Gilt fixtures. Carrara marble. Frescoes of saints looking vaguely uncomfortable. And a mirror—too large, too baroque, clearly installed just for him.

DONALD TRUMP stands before it, smoothing his red tie and admiring the reflection like it’s polling at 100%.

TRUMP: They’re calling him the Trump Pope, you know. First American. Big fan. Watched The Apprentice in seminary. Said “You’re fired” to Satan himself. Tremendous guy.

REFLECTION (low, steady, coiled): He took a vow of poverty, Donald.

TRUMP: I respect that. I took a vow of success. Same thing if you think about it.

REFLECTION: He prays for peace. You sell vengeance…wholesale.

TRUMP: That’s called foreign policy.

REFLECTION: This Pope is trying to heal. You are the disease.

TRUMP: The cure! I’m the cure; the final solution. I bring people together. Millions! Like Jesus and Elvis had a rally.

REFLECTION: You declared yourself the chosen one—on camera. Compared your mugshot to Christ. Claimed the Second Coming would be you winning Georgia.

TRUMP: I said it in jest. Sort of. But it’s true—people say it. A lot of people. Very religious people.

REFLECTION: You wrote “Thou shalt not indict me” on the Ten Commandments display in the museum gift shop.

TRUMP: Improvement! Much more relevant. It’s called updating your brand.

REFLECTION (growing darker): You desecrate sacred spaces like you license golf resorts. Turn pulpits into podiums. Sermons into soundbites.

TRUMP: What’s the difference?

REFLECTION: One calls for grace. The other screams at rally crowds to "lock them up" and sells golden sneakers with a cross stitched in.

TRUMP: Those sold out in six minutes. The Vatican could learn a thing or two about monetization.

REFLECTION: You tried to sell papal blessings as NFTs.

TRUMP: Digital salvation. Very efficient. The cloud is the future—and heaven is in the clouds. Think about it.

REFLECTION (cutting deep): You parade through Rome like Nero with Wi-Fi and a grudge. You mock the faith you claim. You poison every altar you touch.

TRUMP: It’s called influence. Read the room. The people love me. Even the cardinals are starting to wear red hats.

REFLECTION: You replaced the crucifix in your suite with a portrait of yourself holding a Bible upside down.

TRUMP: Iconic moment. Historic.

REFLECTION (almost whispering): And yet you wonder why the thunder won’t stop.

(A pause. In the distance, faint thunder rolls.)

TRUMP: That’s probably just Biden’s climate hoax acting up.

REFLECTION: Or maybe it’s warning fire. You don’t just tempt wrath, Donald. You dare it.

TRUMP: Look, all I’m saying is—I helped get an American into the white robes. A little credit wouldn’t kill you.

REFLECTION: No, but the blasphemy might.

(The door creaks open. The Pope Leo XIV enters—tired, gaunt, exhausted.)

POPE: Mr. Trump… you cannot call the Swiss Guard your “private security.” And the PopeMobile is not “available for rallies.”

TRUMP: We could do a tour! Call it “Holy Wheels.” Wrap it with my face and the words Blessed and Best.

POPE (softly): You terrify angels.

(The Pope exits. Thunder cracks louder.)

TRUMP (to the mirror): They're just jealous. All of them. Even God needs ratings.

REFLECTION (final line): No. God needs no audience. Only judgment. And it is coming for you.

(A final bolt of thunder shakes the glass. For a moment, the reflection’s face warps—less Trump, more something ancient, staring back.)

(Blackout)

Then hours later…

(Interior Vatican Guest Bathroom - Night)

The lights flicker. The mirror is cracked—hairline fractures webbed like judgment frozen mid-shatter.

A YOUNG SWISS GUARD tiptoes in, clutching a rag and a spray bottle labeled Holy Shine.

He approaches the mirror very cautiously, avoiding eye contact with his own reflection.

YOUNG GUARD (muttering): Speculum maledictum… quid fecisti nunc?

He sprays the mirror.

The cracks tremble.

Suddenly, the mirror speaks—a guttural, distorted phrase in English, played backward:

MIRROR (low and glitching): “sgod eht gnitae er’yehT…”

The guard freezes. Drops the bottle. Crosses himself so fast he nearly dislocates his shoulder.

A CARDINAL pokes his head in.

CARDINAL: Is it still… speaking?

YOUNG GUARD (visibly shaken): Yes, Eminence. And… I think it said… “They’re eating the dogs.” Backwards.

The cardinal exhales like a man who’s seen too much. Steps inside.

CARDINAL: We warned them. Never install mirrors in a room that man enters. Not after Mar-a-Lago. Not after Bedminster.

He opens a small case—inside, a crucifix, a tiny hammer, and a scroll sealed in wax.

CARDINAL (gravely): Fetch the Jesuits. And salt the floor.

The guard nods and bolts out.

CARDINAL (to the mirror): You think you reflect a man. But you echo a plague.

The mirror flickers and growls. A faint golden shimmer pulses through the cracks.

CARDINAL (whispers): God have mercy on whoever looks next.

He raises the hammer. The lights go out. The mirror shatters.

A half heard whisper echoes from the void: “fake news”