Pneuma Palingenesis
The true spirit will always prevail over the flesh
- Joined
- Sep 16, 2024
- Posts
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It was a dark and stormy night in D.C. The streets were quiet, but the city was tense. Somewhere out there, Jokebiden, the cackling menace, was plotting something big. He had been leaving clues all week, cryptic tweets, and laughing voice notes sent to news networks. And tonight was the night he planned to blow up the HUGE Freedom Bridge, the centerpiece of the city’s infrastructure and—more importantly—Bat Trump’s latest construction project.
Bat Trump, the hero the city didn’t know it needed but somehow ended up with, sat in his golden Bat Tower, staring out over the city through a pair of comically large binoculars. He adjusted his red tie, fixed his hair (which had its own defense mechanism in case of wind), and pressed a button to lower the Bat Trump mask over his face. It was time to take action.
"Alfred Pence!" Bat Trump bellowed, calling his loyal but extremely confused sidekick, formerly Vice President, now full-time butler. "Prepare the Batmobile. The one with the HUUUGE wheels. You know the one."
Alfred Pence, looking weary, gave a soft sigh. "Of course, sir. The one with... the custom gold trim?"
"That’s right," Bat Trump grinned. "Only the best for this rescue. The people deserve it. They love me. We're gonna stop Jokebiden. Everyone says so!"
Meanwhile, at the Freedom Bridge, Jokebiden was having the time of his life. He paced back and forth in front of a giant pile of explosives, laughing maniacally—but also occasionally losing his train of thought.
"You see…uh...here’s the thing...the bridge...we blow it up...and then...um, oh! The...the people won’t be able to...cross!" Jokebiden snickered to himself, scratching his head as he tried to remember his next line. "And then, America will...wait, what was I talking about?"
Suddenly, a WHOOOSH filled the air, and the Batmobile screeched to a halt right in front of Jokebiden. Bat Trump stepped out, dramatically, his cape billowing in the wind (even though there was no wind). He pointed a finger at Jokebiden, puffing out his chest like an eagle at a press conference.
“Jokebiden!” Bat Trump shouted. “You’ve gone too far this time! Nobody blows up MY bridges. I build the best bridges. Tremendous bridges. They're the greatest. And you’re not touching them!”
Jokebiden squinted, his confusion momentarily lifting. “Bat Trump! You...you big orange bat freak! You think you can stop me? You can’t even stop a...uh...what do they call it? The...the subway?”
Bat Trump’s eyes narrowed beneath his mask. “You’re losing it, Jokebiden. You’ve never had it, actually. Sad! But it’s okay. I’ll stop you. Because I’m Bat Trump, and I do two things: win bigly and make sure people can drive across bridges.”
Jokebiden laughed maniacally, then pressed a big, red button. The explosives started ticking.
"Oh no, folks!" Bat Trump gasped. "He actually pressed the button! Sad! Very sad!"
Jokebiden cackled and tried to run away but immediately tripped over his own shoelaces, rolling across the pavement like a clown at a rodeo. As he struggled to get up, Bat Trump casually walked over, stepped on Jokebiden’s cape, and grinned.
“You thought you could get away? Wrong! I’m the best at stopping people from getting away. I never let them get away. Ask anyone!”
Jokebiden groaned. “You...you big, mean orange guy! You won’t stop me! The bomb will go off! And I’ll get away, just like...like...um, what’s his name...oh right! Nixon!”
Bat Trump scratched his head for a second but quickly refocused. “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about. Anyway, let’s deal with that bomb.”
Bat Trump sauntered over to the ticking bomb, pulling out a tiny phone from his Bat Belt. “I’m gonna call the best bomb expert. He’s the greatest. Knows more about bombs than anyone. Nobody knows more about bombs than him.”
Jokebiden, still flailing on the ground, shouted, “You’re running out of time! In... in 10 seconds... or 20... or, wait, 30! No, it’s 10! It’s gonna blow!”
Bat Trump rolled his eyes. “Wrong. It's not gonna blow. I've got the best timing. Tremendous timing. And you know what? I’ll just disarm it myself.” He looked around, shrugged, and pressed the “cancel” button on the bomb.
The timer immediately stopped.
“See? Easy,” Bat Trump said, smugly. “I’m great with technology. People say I’m the best.”
Jokebiden stared, his face twisted in disbelief. “But... but... that’s not fair! You didn’t even give a speech! Where’s your speech?!”
Bat Trump smirked. “I don’t need speeches. I give speeches all the time. Best speeches. But when you’re Bat Trump, you just get things done. And now, Jokebiden, it’s time for you to go back to your basement.”
As Jokebiden was hauled away by Bat Trump’s security detail (which appeared out of nowhere), Bat Trump stood tall, gazing out at the Freedom Bridge.
“Another victory for Bat Trump,” he muttered to himself. “And the people of this city? They’re gonna be HUGE winners, folks. Because I’m always winning. And I make sure they win too.”
Just then, Alfred Pence appeared beside him, holding a Diet Coke on a silver tray. “Sir, your celebratory drink.”
Bat Trump took it, sipped it with a satisfied nod, and said, “Ah, perfect. Just like my presidency. This bridge will never fall. Because I build the best bridges.”
He tossed his cape behind him dramatically and walked back toward the Batmobile, leaving the city safe once more from the chaotic (and forgetful) menace of Jokebiden.
And as the night settled over D.C., one thing was certain: as long as Bat Trump was around, no bridge—or Diet Coke—was in danger.
Bat Trump, the hero the city didn’t know it needed but somehow ended up with, sat in his golden Bat Tower, staring out over the city through a pair of comically large binoculars. He adjusted his red tie, fixed his hair (which had its own defense mechanism in case of wind), and pressed a button to lower the Bat Trump mask over his face. It was time to take action.
"Alfred Pence!" Bat Trump bellowed, calling his loyal but extremely confused sidekick, formerly Vice President, now full-time butler. "Prepare the Batmobile. The one with the HUUUGE wheels. You know the one."
Alfred Pence, looking weary, gave a soft sigh. "Of course, sir. The one with... the custom gold trim?"
"That’s right," Bat Trump grinned. "Only the best for this rescue. The people deserve it. They love me. We're gonna stop Jokebiden. Everyone says so!"
Meanwhile, at the Freedom Bridge, Jokebiden was having the time of his life. He paced back and forth in front of a giant pile of explosives, laughing maniacally—but also occasionally losing his train of thought.
"You see…uh...here’s the thing...the bridge...we blow it up...and then...um, oh! The...the people won’t be able to...cross!" Jokebiden snickered to himself, scratching his head as he tried to remember his next line. "And then, America will...wait, what was I talking about?"
Suddenly, a WHOOOSH filled the air, and the Batmobile screeched to a halt right in front of Jokebiden. Bat Trump stepped out, dramatically, his cape billowing in the wind (even though there was no wind). He pointed a finger at Jokebiden, puffing out his chest like an eagle at a press conference.
“Jokebiden!” Bat Trump shouted. “You’ve gone too far this time! Nobody blows up MY bridges. I build the best bridges. Tremendous bridges. They're the greatest. And you’re not touching them!”
Jokebiden squinted, his confusion momentarily lifting. “Bat Trump! You...you big orange bat freak! You think you can stop me? You can’t even stop a...uh...what do they call it? The...the subway?”
Bat Trump’s eyes narrowed beneath his mask. “You’re losing it, Jokebiden. You’ve never had it, actually. Sad! But it’s okay. I’ll stop you. Because I’m Bat Trump, and I do two things: win bigly and make sure people can drive across bridges.”
Jokebiden laughed maniacally, then pressed a big, red button. The explosives started ticking.
"Oh no, folks!" Bat Trump gasped. "He actually pressed the button! Sad! Very sad!"
Jokebiden cackled and tried to run away but immediately tripped over his own shoelaces, rolling across the pavement like a clown at a rodeo. As he struggled to get up, Bat Trump casually walked over, stepped on Jokebiden’s cape, and grinned.
“You thought you could get away? Wrong! I’m the best at stopping people from getting away. I never let them get away. Ask anyone!”
Jokebiden groaned. “You...you big, mean orange guy! You won’t stop me! The bomb will go off! And I’ll get away, just like...like...um, what’s his name...oh right! Nixon!”
Bat Trump scratched his head for a second but quickly refocused. “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about. Anyway, let’s deal with that bomb.”
Bat Trump sauntered over to the ticking bomb, pulling out a tiny phone from his Bat Belt. “I’m gonna call the best bomb expert. He’s the greatest. Knows more about bombs than anyone. Nobody knows more about bombs than him.”
Jokebiden, still flailing on the ground, shouted, “You’re running out of time! In... in 10 seconds... or 20... or, wait, 30! No, it’s 10! It’s gonna blow!”
Bat Trump rolled his eyes. “Wrong. It's not gonna blow. I've got the best timing. Tremendous timing. And you know what? I’ll just disarm it myself.” He looked around, shrugged, and pressed the “cancel” button on the bomb.
The timer immediately stopped.
“See? Easy,” Bat Trump said, smugly. “I’m great with technology. People say I’m the best.”
Jokebiden stared, his face twisted in disbelief. “But... but... that’s not fair! You didn’t even give a speech! Where’s your speech?!”
Bat Trump smirked. “I don’t need speeches. I give speeches all the time. Best speeches. But when you’re Bat Trump, you just get things done. And now, Jokebiden, it’s time for you to go back to your basement.”
As Jokebiden was hauled away by Bat Trump’s security detail (which appeared out of nowhere), Bat Trump stood tall, gazing out at the Freedom Bridge.
“Another victory for Bat Trump,” he muttered to himself. “And the people of this city? They’re gonna be HUGE winners, folks. Because I’m always winning. And I make sure they win too.”
Just then, Alfred Pence appeared beside him, holding a Diet Coke on a silver tray. “Sir, your celebratory drink.”
Bat Trump took it, sipped it with a satisfied nod, and said, “Ah, perfect. Just like my presidency. This bridge will never fall. Because I build the best bridges.”
He tossed his cape behind him dramatically and walked back toward the Batmobile, leaving the city safe once more from the chaotic (and forgetful) menace of Jokebiden.
And as the night settled over D.C., one thing was certain: as long as Bat Trump was around, no bridge—or Diet Coke—was in danger.
This is meant for comedic purposes only and is not meant to be taken seriously
