In a galaxy far, far away, but also somehow in the 1970s, a tale unfolds…
The Death Star had been destroyed. The Rebel Alliance had struck a decisive blow against the Empire, and across the galaxy, celebrations erupted. But in a lavishly gold-plated penthouse on Coruscant, one man was inconsolable. Donald J. Trump, the galaxy’s most famous property tycoon and self-proclaimed “best Death Star investor,” was in a state of utter despair.
“It’s gone. My beautiful Death Star. The best space station. Everyone said it was the greatest. The most powerful. The most luxurious. And now… it’s a pile of space dust!” Trump wailed, pacing back and forth in his office, which was adorned with holograms of himself and a miniature model of the Death Star.
His loyal aide, a long-suffering protocol droid named C-3PO, tried to console him. “Sir, perhaps it’s for the best. The Death Star was a weapon of mass destruction, after all.”
“Mass destruction? Mass destruction?!” Trump bellowed. “It was a peacekeeping station! A symbol of galactic stability! And it had the best amenities. Did you know I had a deal with Palpatine to put a Trump Spa on Level 42? It was going to be huge. Tremendous. Now it’s all gone because of some farm boy with a lightsaber and a bad haircut!”
Meanwhile, on the holonet, news anchors were reporting the destruction of the Death Star as a victory for freedom. Trump, however, was having none of it. He stormed onto his favourite talk show, Galaxy Tonight, to set the record straight.
“The Death Star was a masterpiece,” he declared, his hologram flickering dramatically. “The best space station ever built. And let me tell you, the Rebels? Total losers. They couldn’t even build their own space station. They had to blow up mine. Sad!”
Back in his penthouse, Trump’s grief took a bizarre turn. He began drafting a series of angry hologram messages to the Rebel Alliance. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers,” he muttered. “That Death Star was insured for billions of credits. And I want compensation for the emotional distress. Nobody grieves like I do. Nobody.”
As the days passed, Trump’s obsession with the Death Star’s destruction only grew. He commissioned a team of engineers to design a new space station, which he dubbed “Death Star II: Even Bigger, Even Better.” He even tried to trademark the phrase “Make the Galaxy Great Again,” though the Galactic Senate swiftly rejected his application.
In the end, Trump’s grief remained inconsolable. The Death Star was gone, and with it, his dreams of galactic domination. But as he gazed out at the stars from his penthouse, he couldn’t help but mutter, “I’ll build another one. The best one. And this time, it’ll be Death Star-proof.”
Cue dramatic music and a slow zoom-out of Trump’s silhouette against the Coruscant skyline.
The final clip, as credits roll, is of a man in a padded cell. He is having it explained to him that it was “just a film, sir. Now rest and sleep.”
The End.
