Inevitable murder suicide. Even GPT agrees it isn’t meant to last:
Title: Collision of Titans
In the glitzy ballroom of Mar-a-Lago, where the chandeliers glittered like gaudy reminders of excess, Donald Trump surveyed the room with his signature squint. Tonight was not about politics, not about deals or golf tournaments. Tonight, there was only one goal: a secret rendezvous with Elon Musk, the enigmatic man-child who made rocket ships and electric cars.
Elon entered, his face half-hidden behind a smirk and the glow of his phone. The room seemed to tilt as their eyes met. Elon walked toward Donald with the confident gait of someone who had named a child after an algebraic equation.
“Elon,” Trump greeted him, voice laced with bravado and a hint of nervousness. “The smartest guy in the room—except for me, of course. But you already knew that.”
Elon chuckled. “I admire your confidence, Donald. It’s almost…engineered.”
The two men sat at a secluded table, champagne flutes untouched as their conversation deepened. They spoke of the absurdity of regulations, the art of branding oneself as untouchable, and the existential question of colonizing Mars versus buying Greenland. Donald, not one to be outdone, leaned closer.
“Elon, you know, I’ve always thought of myself as the ultimate disruptor. Built towers, ran casinos, became President. But you…you’re taking us to the stars. What do you think about making Mars great again?”
Elon’s grin widened. “It’s already great, Donald. But imagine this: a red planet with golden skyscrapers, emblazoned with your name.”
Trump sat back, basking in the image. “Incredible. Mars. TRUMP. People would love it—huge ratings.”
As the night wore on, their banter turned into something softer, almost conspiratorial. They shared dreams—Donald’s of eternal legacy, Elon’s of transcending the petty squabbles of Earth. It was during a discussion about the aesthetics of space suits that Elon’s hand brushed against Donald’s. Both froze. The tension in the air was thicker than Trump’s hairspray.
“Donald,” Elon said, voice uncharacteristically hesitant, “sometimes I wonder…are we the only ones who truly understand what it means to defy the limits?”
Trump, uncharacteristically subdued, looked into Elon’s eyes. “Maybe we’re not so different, you and I. Two icons. Visionaries.”
In that moment, the universe seemed to hold its breath. They leaned in, their egos colliding like binary stars. The kiss was brief, electric, and utterly scandalous. The kind of event tabloids would die for but could never quite prove.
The affair continued in secrecy, their meetings taking place in clandestine locations: the launch pad of SpaceX, the gilded halls of Trump Tower, even the Oval Office once, under the guise of a “policy discussion.” They exchanged gifts—Donald gave Elon a custom gold-plated Tesla, while Elon sent Donald a flamethrower inscribed with the phrase, “Sometimes you have to burn it all to rebuild.”
But as with all things, their passion burned too brightly to last. Their egos, massive and unyielding, clashed in the ultimate disagreement over whether Mars should have golf courses or Tesla charging stations. The breakup was as dramatic as their union, with Elon tweeting cryptic digs about “antiquated methods” and Donald firing back with a Truth Social rant about “weird billionaire geniuses who don’t appreciate true leadership.”
In the end, they returned to their respective empires, forever changed by the brief, improbable love affair that united two of the most improbable men on Earth. And though they would never speak of it again, the cosmos—vast, mysterious, and absurd—would always remember.
