🧊 Fortress of Insecurity

A hero, a narcissist, and a meltdown.

In the White House cinema room, President Trump watched the latest Superman movie alone, clutching a bucket of fried chicken and envy.

Supergirl's cameo made the crowd in the premiere theater cheer.

“Why does she get the Fortress? The cape? The dog? The hair?”

He rolled his eyes.

“I could fly better. If I wanted. I just… choose not to.”

To show he wasn’t jealous, Trump announced something big:

“I’m appointing Superman as my new National Security Advisor. He's strong, legal—unlike certain people crossing our border.”

Superman accepted awkwardly, still chewing his last burrito.

“Happy to serve. Though I thought… I'd be fighting crime, not briefing on cyber threats.”

A week later, Superman visited the U.S.–Mexico border to deliver aid.

There, a group of angry vigilantes mistook him for a government drone.
They threw tortillas, yelled in Spanish, and tackled him with lawn chairs.

“¡Extraterrestre ilegal!” one shouted.

Superman didn’t fight back.
He just lay in the dirt, cape crumpled, eyes wet.

Back in the White House, Superman wouldn’t speak.
He sat cross-legged in the Rose Garden, making daisy chains and muttering:

“Truth... justice... emotional collapse…”

Trump stared at him through the blinds.

“This guy’s more unstable than me. I love it. I’ve finally found someone worse.”

Superman moved back into the Fortress of Solitude, now renamed “Emotional Support Bunker.”

He refused to fly. Refused to shower.
Wrote emo poems about losing the public’s love to a teenage Kryptonian with perfect eyeliner.

Krypto ran away.

Even Superman have breakdowns—especially when their boss is Donald Trump.

Prime Crude