Setting: The subterranean Cheyenne Mountain bunker. The giant electronic map blinks red as Nelly Furtado and General Joe Jukic stand shoulder-to-shoulder against the table, glaring at the two tech-and-real-estate moguls across from them.
Nelly: This is complete madness! Earth is sitting on a powder keg, and your absolute highest priority is setting up a lawless, corporate playground on Mars? It’s completely unethical, and we won’t let you use the future of humanity as a tax haven for billionaires!
Joe:(Nodding aggressively, clenching his cigar) Damn right, Nelly! This isn’t a survival plan, it’s a corporate syndicate disguised as an evacuation! You’re talking about setting up an unregulated, offshore colony built on a forced 10:1 female-to-male ratio just to skyrocket the GDP. It’s a disgrace to the uniform!
Elon:(Stammering, typing frantically) Look, you—you both have to look at the macro-threat matrix. If a thermonuclear exchange occurs on Earth, the atmospheric fallout will cause a total biological reset. It is mathematically vital that we preserve a nucleas of the human species. If we don’t scale the Martian population exponentially using a high-efficiency demographic ratio, the species faces an evolutionary dead end. It’s a pure numbers game to save consciousness!
Trump:(Waving his hands, leaning into the gold microphone) Elon is right. It’s about preservation, Joe. You need a nucleas. A beautiful, high-quality nucleas of people up there to keep the flame going, and you need top-tier corporate sponsors to fund the infrastructure. I’m already talking to the biggest brands. Starbucks is coming. They’re building a beautiful dome right on the Olympus Mons. You’re going to get a hot latte in sub-zero gravity, folks. Tremendous.
Nelly: You are bringing fast-food chains and coffee conglomerates to a life-or-death survival outpost?!
Trump: Not just coffee, Nelly. We’re doing a massive deal with McDonald’s. I told Elon, I said, “Elon, if I’m going to a frozen red rock to save the human race, I want Big Macs on Mars.” And we’re doing it. The Golden Arches, visible from orbit. The astronauts, the miners—with that 10:1 ratio, they’re going to be very hungry. They’re going to want the Quarter Pounder. It’s a survival coefficient. The Martian GDP goes through the roof, the population rebounds, and they’re eating the best food.
Joe: You’re turning the survival of Western civilization into a strip mall, Donald! What’s next, a slot machine next to the life support systems?
Trump:(Smiling smoothly) Actually, Joe, since you mention it, the centerpiece of the whole colony is going to be the Trump Martian Hotel and Casino. It’s going to be spectacular. Gold plating on the outer hull. No taxes, no Earth subpoenas, just pure luxury while the world below us resets. When the dust settles, people are going to look up at that beautiful red planet and say, “They did a tremendous job. The Big Macs were delicious.”
Nelly: A backup drive with a food court?! You’re abandoning Earth entirely to build a dystopian harem in space! If you treat the survival of our species as a corporate asset to be optimized by fast-food sponsors, then whatever survives on Mars won’t be human anyway.
Elon:(Twitchy, eyes widening) It’s not just a food court, Nelly. To achieve the 10:1 ratio with maximum efficiency, we have to look at somatic cell nuclear transfer. We’ve actually been preparing for this exact scenario since 1996.
Joe:(Stops pacing, squinting) What do you mean, 1996?
Elon:Dolly the Sheep. It wasn’t just an agricultural experiment; it was proof of concept. The long-term blueprint was always to clone our absolute best, most iconic women—like Dolly Parton—to populate the Martian entertainment sectors. We can mass-produce the genetic archetype of perfection to maintain morale for the engineering corps.
Nelly:(Horrified) You have both completely lost your minds. You’re talking about building an Epstein Island in space! A totally lawless, deregulated corporate playground for billionaire vices hidden behind millions of miles of vacuum where no court on Earth can reach you!
Trump:(Waving a hand dismissively) Epstein? Terrible guy. Total disaster. Very bad energy. But look, what Elon is talking about with the cloning—it’s very high-tech, very smart. If you have the best women, cloned perfectly, right next to the Trump Casino, it’s going to be an incredible environment. No regulations, no subpoenas, just pure survival of the fittest. When the dust clears down here, Mars is going to be the premium brand of the entire universe.
