An upcoming R-rated comedy/horror film is about Jeffrey Epstein and Donald Trump getting imprisoned together on an island inhabited by vengeful teen girls who torture and mutilate them. Test screening audiences say they wish it was longer than its current 3.5 hours run time. This is the beginning.
PART I
Jeffrey and Donald board the Lolita Express heading to Jeffrey’s private island to celebrate Donald’s birthday. Jeffrey drinks champagne while Donald sips a Diet Coke, and tells Jeffrey he wishes Don Jr. and Eric had been girls so he’d have had more hot daughters like Ivanka.
Jeffrey tells Donald that Ghislaine Maxwell procured an “extra special batch of nubiles” for the birthday festivities, and Donald gives a toast to Jeffrey for being his best friend in the entire world. “You’re the only one who gets me, Jeff, who accepts the real me for me!” Donald says with a tear in his eye.
Then the plane hits some turbulence, and Donald is so frightened he shits himself. The audible sploosh sound is instantly recognized by Jeffrey.
“Not again,” Jeffrey mutters to himself as Donald goes to the bathroom to change his clothes, shouting kind of to no one that air travel is “rigged against me!”
Jeffrey rolls his eyes. “The girls hate it when he does this,” he mutters to himself, “and then they’re not in good moods because he reeks for the rest of the night. This is a bad omen!”
Just then the plane starts to violently shake as it’s battered by the high altitude winds. Donald comes falling out of the bathroom with his trousers around his ankles and dark brown and yellow stains on his tighty-whities. “I knew I should have worn the Depends!” Donald scolds himself.
The plane nosedives, and plummets as Jeffrey and Donald are knocked around the inside. Jeffrey catches himself on a seat and straps himself in, but Donald doesn’t have the arm or core strength to pull himself down. The plane starts to recover, and Donald falls into Jeffrey’s face crotch-first smashing his mushroom against Jeffrey’s cheek. Jeffrey feels it wiggle.
“Get off me!” Jeffrey screams, and pushes Donald into the seat behind him. Jeffrey leans back and struggles to get the seatbelt across Donald’s waist. “I’m only 215 pounds!” Donald yells out.
Jeffrey barely clicks it just a second before the plane hits a strong wind and nosedives again, and both of them slump back against their seats before they both black out as the plane crashes. They come to only momentarily enough to drag themselves with blurry vision through the dark smoke, out of the burning plane, and then they crawl across the sand and pass out.
Donald wakes up first. It is early morning, and the sun is golden but not yet hot. He leans up and wipes some soot out of his eyes. His makeup is all smeared, and his hair is a mess draping down one side of his head to his shoulder, the other side now revealed as bald. His hair is clumpy and singed all over because the decades of caked hairspray have left it extremely flammable.
Donald sees Jeffrey lying nearby, and can see that he is breathing. Jeffrey doesn’t know it yet, but the accident shredded and burned his penis and testicles, and now he’s a eunuch.
Donald looks around and sees they’ve miraculously crash landed on a remote island in the Caribbean. He deduces that the pilot is dead, and so is Stephen Miller who had come along. Stephen had ill-fatedly chosen to sleep in his coffin in the plane’s storage room — he liked it there because it was pitch black, a little damp and musty. But the plane’s entire weight crashed down upon his coffin, and Stephen’s decapitated head flew out of the coffin into a pile of coconuts that had been knocked free from the concussion of the plane’s fuel tanks exploding upon impact. His head was a white ball among many brown coconuts. “I can’t go out like this,” he gasped to himself with horror. His last conscious thought before his brain blood all drained out was despondence at his minority status.
Donald then scans the island and does a double take when he sees a teenage girl in a bikini far off in the tree line looking at him. Then he sees several other girls in bikinis climbing out of the plane with the little remaining food and supplies not burned.
Donald crawls over to Jeffrey and shakes him awake. “Jeffrey, I think we made it to your island after all! Look!”
Jeffrey slowly wakes up and assesses the situation. “Wow, Ghislaine did well,” he smiles. “But wait… this doesn’t look like my island.”
“They all look like Ivanka!” Donald squeals. “I love you Ghislaine! Seriously, you are the best. If I’m ever president, and if the sex-trafficking ring finally gets busted up, I’ll tell you what, I’ll let you live if you keep quiet about my involvement with all the sex-trafficking! I’ll make sure to move you to an extremely minimum security prison, and then eventually give you a pardon. Deal?”
Donald looks around.
“Wait, where is Ghislaine?” he asks. Then he’s startled to notice the girls are all gone. “Where did the nubiles go?”
Jeffrey yells out, “Wait a minute, what do you mean you’ll let Ghislaine live? Do I not get to live in this scenario of you becoming president? What the Hell, man?”
“Relax, Jeffrey!” Donald very fakely consoles him. “BFFs forever. Donald J. Trump never betrays or backstabs his friends, and never throws anyone loyal to him under the bus for personal expediency!”
Then Jeffrey bends over in pain. “Oh, man, I feel like my crotch is on fire. Jeffrey examines his crotch, and it’s visible that his jeans had burned off and his penis was like a crumbling dying coal. Jeffrey touches it, and it turns to dust and blows away. He’s now as smooth as a Ken doll.
“Noooooooooooooooo!” Jeffrey screams. “Why, God, why me?”
“Dude,” Donald says, “do you have, like, any self-awareness?”
Donald’s eyes then open wide, and he grimaces. “I’m afraid to look at my own little guy,” he says. He slowly reaches down to touch his junk and inspect it. His suit pants are cut up, and there’s a moderate amount of blood present, but his gonads are intact. He breathes a sigh of relief. However, the fecal residue from his accident onboard are beginning to infect the wounds.
Then one of the girls clears her throat. Donald and Jeffrey gasp when they see a dozen of them real close, and all are holding a variety of blunt weapons: a crowbar, a knife, a sword, and one is holding the giant golf trophy Donald had awarded himself in the last weekend’s tournament at his New Jersey Bedminster course. He had named himself the first place finisher even after viral videos online showed his caddies throwing him new balls close to the holes when the balls he hit went into the middle of water hazards. And eye-witnesses claimed they saw Donald multiple times drive his golf cart real quick to the hole ahead of everyone else, and then kick his opponents’ balls much further away.
Donald was also observed doing the thing where he doesn’t putt the ball the last few feet but drags it into the hole with his club. Multiple times he’d roll it past the hole, and the ball would spin around and then roll away, and he’d have to do it again. He also audibly farted multiples times while leaning down to pick up his ball, and blamed the farts on his caddie.
It was an enjoyable tournament for the other golfers, though, as long as they made sure to never stand downwind of Donald while he was aiming and practicing his shot because of the stench. The players also appreciated that Donald let each of them get a turn spending five minutes in his new and improved “Classified Documents Bathroom 2.0” perusing top secret war plans.
Donald was, however, accused of lying about the 6 holes-in-one he claimed he hit, but the offended players withdrew their allegations after Donald threatened to mention their names on Twitter so that thousands of his most deranged cult addicts would start stalking, harassing, and threatening them.
Donald smiles at the girls. “I got first place in the tournament that trophy is from,” he informs them. “No one could believe how many holes-in-one I shot.”
A girl holding a can of pepper spray steps over to Donald and sprays his scratched up crotch so that his wounds burn wildly and he collapses to the ground in agony. Then the girl holding the trophy smashes it against Jeffrey’s head and knocks him out. A third girl pops open a can of Coke she had found in the plane wreckage, and pours it on Donald’s crying face.
He tastes it, and then shrieks, “Is that high fructose corn syrup? I specifically told Coca-Cola they couldn’t do that anymore! Get it away from me! I can only have Diet Coke. I’m watching my 215 pound figure!” Donald gargles on the soda for a moment, and then begs, “I need aspartame. One of you get me aspartame! It’s an emergency! I need a Diet Coke, or the withdrawal will kill me! My heart will burst!”
The girls all laugh. The one holding still the broken column of Donald’s trophy says, “We’re going to have fun with these pervs.”
“What are we going to do with them?” one asks.
“Make a human centipede out of them?” another offers. “I think the fat one with cankles should be the end.”
“Human centipede would be a good way to finish them off,” says the one with the trophy as she laughs with sinister eyes. “But I’m sure we can think up much more fun than just that!”
Donald screams, “You’ll never get me to sign a nondisclosure agreement for any of this! I’m going to sue you! I’ll sue you all for $5 billion each!”
“The Supreme Court on this island is made up of only girls who hate rapists,” says the girl who suggested the human centipede idea. “And our court has given all girls immunity to do anything they want to rapists!”
A girl with stripes of blood on her cheeks as war paint says, “On this island we are making matriarchy great again.”
All the girls laugh maniacally, and Donald passes out from fright. 🥃
END OF PART I
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