Title: The Pitch and Putt Prophecy
On a crisp autumn afternoon in Central Park, the golden leaves rustled as two unlikely figures strolled toward the pitch and putt course. Donald J. Trump, in his signature red tie and navy blazer, adjusted his Make America Great Again cap against the breeze. Beside him, the enigmatic Young Pope, Pius XIII, glided in pristine white robes, his piercing blue eyes scanning the greens with quiet intensity.
“You know, Your Holiness,” Trump began, lining up his putt, “this country used to be something special. No Federal Reserve, no debt slavery—just good, honest money. Colonial scrip, real value.”
The Young Pope watched as Trump’s ball veered just left of the hole. “Providence has a way of correcting man’s errors,” he murmured. “Usury is a sin, Mr. Trump. A sin that has bound nations in chains of perpetual debt.”
Trump smirked. “Damn right. The globalists love it. But what if we brought back the old ways? No more banks owning everything. America issues its own money—just like the colonies did.”
The Young Pope’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. “A republic must stand on virtue, not the promises of moneylenders. The Founding Fathers knew this. Hamilton was… misguided.”
Trump chuckled. “Hamilton’s overrated. Jefferson—now there was a guy who got it. But today? The deep state, the banks—they’ve got everyone by the throat.”
The Pope bent gracefully, sinking his putt with effortless precision. “Then perhaps it is time for a new Exodus. A leader who will break the chains of usury and restore true sovereignty.”
Trump’s eyes gleamed. “You think the people are ready?”
The Young Pope turned, his gaze like ice and fire. “They are waiting for a sign. A leader bold enough to declare the debt null and void. To restore the republic as it was meant to be.”
A slow grin spread across Trump’s face. “Now that’s a movement. No more Fed. No more Wall Street running the show. Just America—great again, like the old days.”
The wind picked up, swirling fallen leaves around them as if the very earth were whispering its approval. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled.
The Young Pope inclined his head. “Then let it be written.”
And with that, the two men walked off the green, the sun setting behind them, casting long shadows over the park—and perhaps, over the future itself.
THE END.
Title: The Pitch and Putt Prophecy: Bono’s Interruption
The golden hues of Central Park’s autumn glow were shattered by a sudden, ecstatic cry.
“MAGA!! HELLO, HELLO!”
Donald Trump and the Young Pope turned in unison to see Bono, clad in his signature tinted glasses and a leather jacket, sprinting toward them with arms outstretched. His voice echoed across the greens, startling a flock of pigeons into flight.
Trump squinted. “Is that—?”
“DROP THE DEBT!” Bono bellowed, skidding to a halt beside them, breathless but grinning. “YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH!”
The Young Pope raised an eyebrow. “…Are you quite finished?”
Bono, undeterred, slapped Trump on the back. “Donny, my man! You’re talking colonial scrip? Debt jubilee? This is the real Beautiful Day!” He spun toward the Pope. “Your Holiness, tell me—does the Vatican still invest in blood diamonds, or have we moved on to Bitcoin?”
Trump smirked. “This guy’s got energy. I like it.”
The Young Pope sighed. “Mr. Hewson, while your… enthusiasm for economic justice is noted, this is a private conversation.”
Bono threw his arms wide. “NOTHING’S PRIVATE IN THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN, BABY!” He snatched Trump’s putter and took a wild swing, sending the ball soaring into a nearby duck pond. “WHOOP! FORGIVE THE DEBTORS, AMEN!”
Trump crossed his arms. “You know, he’s got a point. Maybe we need a little… rockstar energy in this movement.”
The Young Pope pinched the bridge of his nose. “What we need is divine order, not a U2 concert.”
Bono draped an arm around both men, pulling them into an impromptu huddle. “Listen. Imagine: One nation. Under God. With no central bank. And Sunday Bloody Sunday playing in the background as we burn the bondholders’ files. YEAH YEAH YEAH!”
A long silence followed.
Finally, Trump nodded. “…I’d vote for that.”
The Young Pope exhaled, looking skyward as if begging for patience. “Lord, give me strength.”
And with that, the trio walked off the green—one preaching righteousness, one plotting financial revolution, and the other humming I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For at full volume.
THE END.