Usurper
Religion
The Oval Office smelled of cold McDonald’s and leather polish. Donald Trump sat behind the Resolute Desk, scrolling through his phone with one thumb while the other hand groped absently at a half-eaten Big Mac. JD Vance suggestively occupied the couch nearest the fireplace, legs crossed, looking like a man who had recently discovered that selling his soul came with excellent dental benefits. Pete Hegseth stood by the window, still wearing his Fox News makeup from an earlier hit, while Marco Rubio perched on the edge of an armchair, his posture suggesting a man perpetually ready to flee.
“Beautiful numbers,” Trump said, not looking up. “You see the polling on the USAID thing? Through the roof.”
“PEPFAR was bleeding us dry,” Vance said. “Billions of dollars to keep foreigners alive. The base gets it.”
“Twenty million people,” Rubio murmured, almost to himself.
“What’s that, Marco?”
“Nothing, Mr. President. Just reviewing the figures.”
Hegseth turned from the window. “The Venezuela operation is getting traction too. Tucker did a whole segment. Called it ‘muscular foreign policy.’ Said we’re finally treating the hemisphere like our backyard again.”
“Those fishermen.” Trump smiled, a thin crease appearing beneath his eyes. “They said they were fishermen. Can you believe it? Fishermen with GPS coordinates for our naval bases.”
They had not, in fact, possessed any such coordinates. The intelligence had been fabricated by an intelligence analyst eager for a promotion, but the drone strike had been so clean, so cinematic, that the detail seemed almost irrelevant now. The Venezuelan government had protested. The UN had condemned. Fox News had run a graphic showing the strike zone with patriotic music underneath.
“The Christians love it,” Vance said. “Falwell Jr. called me yesterday. Said we’re doing God’s work.”
“God’s work,” Trump repeated, savoring the phrase. “I like that. Put that in the next speech.”
Rubio shifted in his chair. “There’s been some pushback, actually. Some of the smaller evangelical groups. They’re citing scripture.”
The room went quiet. Trump set down his phone.
“Scripture,” he said flatly.
“Matthew 25. The sheep and the goats. ‘Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ They’re saying the AIDS funding, the refugees, the, ah, the fishermen. They’re saying it contradicts.”
“Contradicts what?”
“The Gospels, Mr. President.”
Hegseth laughed, a sharp bark that echoed off the curved walls. “The Gospels. Marco, come on. These people voted for us. They’re not going to suddenly start reading.”
“Some of them are reading. That’s the problem. There’s a pastor in Tennessee, got ten million followers on YouTube, did a whole series on the Sermon on the Mount. Blessed are the merciful. Blessed are the peacemakers. He’s asking questions.”
Trump stood, walked to the window, gazed out at his new Ballroom where the winter light made everything look gray and brittle. When he spoke, his voice was thoughtful, almost dreamy.
“You know what I’ve always said about the Bible? Beautiful book. The best book. But it’s old, right? Very old. Written by people who didn’t understand modern problems. Didn’t understand strength. Didn’t understand winning.”
“Sir?” Rubio’s voice cracked slightly.
“The meek inheriting the earth. That’s loser shit, Marco. That’s what losers tell themselves so they can sleep at night. And this ‘least of these’ stuff. You know what that is? That’s socialism. That’s AOC with sandals and a beard.”
Vance uncrossed his legs, leaning forward with the eager expression of a man who had just glimpsed a promotion. “What are you suggesting, Mr. President?”
“I’m suggesting that maybe what America needs isn’t a new interpretation. Maybe what America needs is a new edition.”
The silence that followed was different from before. It had weight, texture, the quality of something being born.
“Think about it,” Trump continued, warming to the idea. “We did it with the Constitution, basically. The unitary executive stuff. Why not the Bible? Take out the woke crap. The weakness. Keep the good parts. The strength, the prosperity, the chosen people stuff. Manifest destiny, but holy.”
“Leviticus stays,” Hegseth said quickly. “The parts about, you know. The lifestyle stuff.”
“Obviously. All that stays. But the camel through the eye of the needle? Gone. Rich people go to heaven. I’m proof of that. And the refugees, the strangers, all that ‘welcome the immigrant’ nonsense. Out. We replace it with something about protecting borders. Borders are biblical. Look at the walls of Jericho.”
“The walls of Jericho fell,” Rubio said quietly.
“Because God wanted them to fall, Marco. Stay with me here.”
Vance had produced a leather notebook from somewhere and was scribbling rapidly. “We could commission it through one of the Christian publishers. Put your name on it. Like the Trump Bible we did during the campaign, but actually rewritten.”
“New verses,” Trump said. “Better verses. ‘Blessed are the strong, for they shall inherit everything.’ ‘Whatsoever you do unto the least of these, make sure they’re documented first.’ See? It writes itself.”
“The base would buy millions of copies,” Hegseth said, his Fox News instincts calculating the merchandising potential.
Rubio stood abruptly, walked to the corner of the room, stood facing the wall like a man in timeout. No one paid him any attention.
“We’d need a title,” Vance said. “Something with gravitas. The American Standard Bible. The Patriot’s Gospel.”
Trump shook his head. “No. Keep it simple. People trust brands they know.”
He returned to his desk, sat heavily in the leather chair, and smiled the smile of a man who had just solved a problem that had vexed theologians for two millennia.
“The King Trump Edition.”
Vance wrote it down. Hegseth nodded approvingly. Rubio remained facing the wall, his lips moving silently, perhaps in prayer, perhaps in something else entirely, while outside the window, the winter sun continued its indifferent descent over a nation that had found, at last, the scripture it deserved.