The Clone Wars: Musk and Trump’s Bigly Adventure


The year was 2025, and the world was a very different place. Elon Musk had finally unlocked the secret to human cloning, and after a sleepless weekend fueled by Diet Coke and his unshakable belief in his own genius, he called the one person he thought could truly appreciate the magnitude of his achievement: President-elect Donald J. Trump.

“Elon,” Trump said, lounging on a gold-plated recliner in the Oval Office, which he had preemptively redecorated, “this is the most tremendous thing I’ve ever heard. Tremendous! People are always saying, ‘Donald, you’re the best, you’re the smartest,’ and I’ve always said, ‘You know what’s better than me? Two of me.’ This is huge.”

Musk nodded vigorously. “Exactly! I’ve been saying the same thing about myself. If there were 100 Elons, we could colonize Mars by Wednesday, solve climate change by Friday, and probably replace all customer service workers with my AI-powered clones by Saturday.”

Trump leaned forward. “100 Elons is good. But you know what’s better? 101 Trumps. One of me to run the country, one to open the world’s biggest Trump Hotel on Mars, one to launch the Trump Social Network that actually works—unlike that fake Twitter you keep trying to fix.”

The deal was struck: For every Musk clone, there’d be a Trump clone. Musk agreed to the terms, although privately he calculated that his clones would “obviously” be superior due to their “optimized intellectual algorithms.”

The Great Cloning Boom

The cloning project, dubbed Operation Bigly Genius, got off to a roaring start. By the end of the first month, there were 500 Musks and 500 Trumps. By month three, there were thousands.

At first, it was chaos. The Musk clones immediately started tinkering. One built a solar-powered flamethrower; another rewired the White House microwave to be "quantum-entangled" with one on the SpaceX Starship. A third Musk spent a week arguing with himself about whether underground hyperloop tunnels should have marble floors or just polished steel.

The Trump clones, meanwhile, set about building Trump Towers in places no one had asked for: Antarctica, the Sahara Desert, and even a floating one on the Dead Sea. “People are calling it the greatest saltwater resort of all time,” one Trump clone boasted at the ribbon-cutting ceremony, which he officiated alongside five other Trump clones.

The Partnerships Begin

Over time, a strange partnership developed between the Musk clones and the Trump clones. Each pair, dubbing themselves “Musk-Trump” or “Trump-Musk” depending on who felt more “tremendous” that day, took on a different mission.

  • Musk-Trump #47 worked on space travel. Musk #47 wanted to reach Alpha Centauri. Trump #47 wanted to rename it Trump Centauri. They compromised by launching the “Bigly Spaceship,” which featured a golden hull and a banner that read, “Making the Galaxy Great Again.”

  • Trump-Musk #238 created a startup selling jetpacks. Musk #238 focused on the technology, making them fast and efficient. Trump #238 made sure the jetpacks came with his name in lights and played the national anthem whenever they were activated. The project tanked when customers kept complaining that the jetpacks insisted on tweeting every time they took off.

  • Musk-Trump #812 got into tech. Musk #812 developed a cutting-edge neural interface that could connect human brains directly to the internet. Trump #812 used it exclusively to stream old episodes of The Apprentice directly into people’s dreams.

The World Reacts

By 2027, the sheer number of Musk-Trump duos was becoming unmanageable. Cities were overrun with startups, spaceports, and luxury casinos. Every square inch of Times Square was now a hologram of Trump or Musk announcing their latest ventures.

World leaders tried to intervene. At a UN emergency meeting, Canadian Prime Minister Sophia Trudeau lamented, “They’re everywhere! My grocery store has been replaced by a Tesla-Trump SuperMart. I just wanted apples, and now I’m in line for a self-driving grocery cart that critiques my choices.”

Environmentalists complained that the Trump clones had renamed every national park after themselves. Musk clones countered that their green initiatives—like solar panels on the Statue of Liberty—balanced things out. “Besides,” Musk #556 said, “who needs Yosemite when we’re terraforming Mars?”

The Ego Showdown

Eventually, the Musks and Trumps began to clash. Every Musk thought he was the smartest Musk, and every Trump thought he was the most “bigly” Trump. The breaking point came during the unveiling of “Bigly Tower Tesla,” a skyscraper that combined Musk’s sleek, futuristic designs with Trump’s gold plating and personal branding.

At the grand opening, Trump #1 grabbed the mic. “This tower—MY tower—is the greatest structure in history. People are calling it the eighth wonder of the world.”

Musk #1 rolled his eyes. “It’s not even optimized for space habitation.”

“You don’t need space! Earth loves me.”

“Elonopolis on Mars will be self-sustaining in two years.”

“Nobody cares about Elonopolis,” Trump #1 retorted. “I’d rather live in a gold-plated bunker on Mars, called Trump-topia.”

“Trump-topia?” Musk #1 sneered. “That’s not aerodynamic.”

The Aftermath

By 2029, the world had finally had enough. A coalition of regular humans organized a global referendum to “decommission” the clones. A compromise was reached: The clones would be sent to colonize Mars together. The Musks were thrilled—they finally had their Mars settlement. The Trumps, although initially reluctant, were won over when promised unlimited naming rights.

As the final rocket left Earth, regular citizens sighed with relief. “At least now,” one person said, “we can get back to normal.”

But in the quiet, a lone voice whispered, “Wait… didn’t they clone Zuckerberg, too?”

The end—or was it?

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