Trump vs. His Reflection – “The Ghost of Sex Trafficking Past”

(Scene opens: The gold-plated bathroom of Mar-a-Lago. TRUMP stands at the mirror in a silk robe, adjusting his hair like it’s still 1993. He mutters to himself while scrolling on his phone.)

TRUMP: The Epstein list is fake. FAKE! People keep bringing it up—nasty people. But I barely knew him. Maybe waved across the room once. Total hoax. Distraction. The media is like "Epstein this and Epstein that." Nobody cares.

(Suddenly, the lights flicker. The mirror ripples like bad CGI. TRUMP stumbles back as a fog creeps across the glass. A spectral figure materializes—JEFFREY EPSTEIN, glowing faintly blue, in a rumpled suit and that eternal smug grin.)

GHOST OF EPSTEIN: Oh Donnie... Absolutely right, old friend. No list. Never was. Total hoax. *winks* Just a liberal fantasy made up by people who hate jet fuel and orgies.

TRUMP (blinking): What the hell—Jeffrey?

REFLECTION (dry): Congratulations, Don. You’ve said “Epstein” into the mirror three times and summoned the ghost of sex trafficking past.

GHOST OF EPSTEIN: Don’t listen to him. We barely knew each other, right? I mean, apart from all the times you were at Mar-a-Lago while I was recruiting—I mean reclining. And you definitely weren’t ever on my plane. *grins wider, eyes twinkling with exquisite dishonesty*

TRUMP (sputtering): Right! Right. That’s what I said. I mean, I might’ve been near the plane. Like once. In traffic.

GHOST OF EPSTEIN (nodding solemnly): Totally. Just like how I definitely “hung myself” in that jail cell. With paper sheets. Two broken neck bones. No cameras working. Very standard.

(He crosses his spectral arms and floats slightly upward.)

And of course, the real Deep State? Aliens. Area 51. They're the ones pulling the strings now. Deep tentacles in everything. They helped the Chinese build that spy base on the dark side of the moon. You know, the side we conveniently never see.

TRUMP (eyes wide): Wait—so you're saying the aliens—

REFLECTION (deadpan): —Are real, work with the CCP, and staged your friend’s “suicide” to cover up an interplanetary child blackmail ring. Yep. Totally makes more sense than just releasing the passenger logs.

GHOST OF EPSTEIN (floating in slow circles): But hey, Donnie, I get it. You have to say it’s all a hoax. Because if the list is real, well… Then people start asking questions. Like, “Why was Trump always at the parties?”

“Why’d he say Epstein ‘likes them young’ like it was a Yelp review?”

Or, my personal favorite: “Why is the guy who promised to drain the swamp suddenly trying to fill it back in?”

TRUMP (pointing a finger): You shut up! You’re not real. You’re just—just some ghost or hologram from MSNBC!

REFLECTION (withering): And yet here he is…More coherent than your last rally speech.

GHOST OF EPSTEIN: Anyway, I’ve got a poker game with Antonin Scalia, Rush Limbaugh, and the guy who invented QAnon standing in for Adolf. Just thought I’d swing by and remind you: The truth always floats to the top. Unlike me.

(He vanishes in a puff of sulfur and Axe Body Spray. The mirror settles. The lights stabilize.)

TRUMP (breathing hard): I need a Diet Coke.

REFLECTION (Icy): You need a lawyer and a Big Mac. And maybe an exorcist.

The lights dim as TRUMP picks up his phone to post on Truth Social. His thumb hovers above the screen… then he pauses, blinking like a man who just discovered water is wet.)

TRUMP (confused): Wait… if aliens helped the Chinese build a moon base, maybe we can trade Greenland for it. I always wanted Greenland. Big. Icy. Like Ivanka’s stare. We give them Eric. They give us the moon.

REFLECTION (aghast): You’re trying to deflect from a sex trafficking scandal with a lunar real estate deal?

TRUMP: It’s called thinking outside the box, okay? People are saying MTG is Deep State now—because she wants the list. Traitor. Said she’s gonna subpoena me! I made her! I gave her the nickname! She was nothing before I tweeted her into existence!

REFLECTION: So just to summarize...

(ticking points off with his fingers) You’re losing Marjorie Taylor Greene. You’re blaming space aliens. And you’re trading Eric for moon property rights.

TRUMP (nodding seriously): The art of the deal, baby. Best president. Stable genius. Might even run in 2028.

(The mirror goes silent for a moment. Even REFLECTION seems stunned.)

REFLECTION (slowly): I genuinely don’t know if you’re joking anymore. And I am you.

(Lights dim. Somewhere in the distance, the ghost of Epstein laughs, a raspy echo that fades into the sound of a Truth Social notification ping.)