The Blood Circus at Mar-a-Lago “Stupidity cannot be cured, but it sure can be staged.” — Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, known as Molière.
As diplomatic codes collapse and the “Sacred Monsters” of Mar-a-Lago and the Tundra rise, traditional journalism finds itself firing blanks. How can one seriously analyze what amounts to a tragic farce? This is where satire becomes a necessity. As we noted in “The Tundra’s Tartuffe,” we are witnessing a “King’s Banquet” where the guests carve up the planet between the cheese course and dessert, while no one else is even invited to the table.
Prologue: Operation Sphinx in Florida
Autumn 2024. At the Élysée, the mood is buoyant: Parisian polls show Kamala Harris with a comfortable lead. Yet, between two policy briefs, President Macron receives an encrypted memo from the DGSE that feels like a cold shower. Foreign intelligence has spotted an unusual influx of Russian and Israeli “consultants” converging on Palm Beach. Rumor has it a cyber-weapon, the mysterious SPHINX-0 project, is primed to “correct” American voting reality and hand victory to the “Beast of Mar-a-Lago.” Facing a global tectonic shift, the DCRI passes the buck: sending silk-tied diplomats to be spotted among the MAGA hats is out of the question. What’s needed are outliers—profiles that can blend into the scenery while maintaining maximum nuisance capacity. Thus, Commissioner San-Antonio, the dandy of deception, and his inseparable Berrurier, the iron-stomached colossus, are pulled from retirement for a last-ditch mission. Their objective: infiltrate Trump’s temple, track down Vlad and Bibi’s ghost servers, and if possible, stop the Sphinx from rising from its electronic ashes before the final blackout.
By François de Vries — Paris, April 12, 2026
Season 1 – Episode 1: The Hall of Shadowed Gold
Location: Élysée Palace, Golden Salon. Atmosphere: Crystal chandeliers, heavy silence, and the scent of beeswax. Under the imposing gilding, President Macron—a sharp silhouette in an impeccable midnight-blue suit—intenseley stares at the two specimens he just snuck in through the service stairs. The first, San-Antonio, has the predatory elegance of a wolf in a tuxedo; the second, Berrurier, already has a mustard stain on his lapel and is scanning the room for a place to rest his elbow.
Macron: — (low, sharp voice): “Gentlemen, this is grave. Paris is betting on Kamala Harris. We’re living in a dream world. But reality is in Florida, and it’s toxic. A project called ‘Sphinx Rising.’ Netanyahu and Putin’s networks are weaving a cyber-electoral and financial web that’s going to leave us all broke.”
He steps toward them, eyes narrowing.
Macron: — “You leave tonight. No tracks, no official backing. If you end up in a Palm Beach County jail, I don’t know you. San-Antonio, you handle the ‘finesse’ and the female assets… I know it’s your specialty. Berrurier… for the love of God, try not to devour the entire local buffet and don’t shoot everything that moves until the target is identified.”
Béru: — (loudly sucking down a hot dog that appeared from nowhere): “Chief, will there be broads at least? Because this geo-thingy-majig… it makes you hungry, but it doesn’t get the heart pumping!”
The President closes his eyes for a moment, lets out a long sigh, and hands them two First Class tickets to Miami.
Macron: “Find out who’s really pulling the strings. Stop the SPHINX-0 malware. And bring me back that damn statue that serves as the key. France is counting on you… well, mostly on your ability not to get caught.”
Agent San-Antonio adjusts his tie with a predatory grin. The curtain falls on Paris. Next stop: the gilded swamp of Palm Beach.
Season 1 – Episode 2: Two Gauls in the Billionaire’s Den
The Setting: A lawn so green it looks spray-painted, marble columns whiter than a Fox News anchor’s teeth, and a humid heat that glues your shirt to your shoulder blades.
San-Antonio: — Look at this, Béru. A temple of bad taste raised to the level of a state religion. It’s like Versailles had a head-on collision with a Las Vegas casino. You ready for the infiltration?
Berrurier: — (wiping his forehead with a handkerchief that’s seen better days) — Listen, San-A, as soon as I see columns, it reminds me of the bistro back on Rue de l’Échaudé, just cleaner. But their security is no joke. I had to hide my dry sausage in my jacket lining so their sniffer dogs wouldn’t tag me as a deli-terrorist.
San-Antonio: — Stay low, for the love of France. Macron wants intel on this “Sphinx” project. For now, we’re just lost tourists. But look over there, by the pool…
San A and Béru prepare for action, despite the language barrier — Photo © European-Security
Berrurier: — (eyes suddenly lighting up) — Holy smoke! Those aren’t security guards, that’s a James Bond casting call on steroids. You see that tall brunette with the satellite terminal? She’s typing faster than my old lady on her sewing machine.
They’re using the encryption key hidden in that Sphinx statue on the coffee table — Photo © E-S
San-Antonio: — That’s Irina. The “Widow.” Vlad’s foreign intelligence. If she’s here, it means the SPHINX-0 malware is already warming up in the cyber-pipes. And the blonde smiling at her is Noa, Bibi’s envoy. A systems intrusion expert who could hack a toaster from a mile away.
🇺🇸 Version Américaine (US English)
Irina and Noa at the helm: San Antonio prepares Plan A and Plan B because of Béru… — Photo © E-S
Berrurier: — Computer spies? In my day, we were happy just lifting files from safes! Now, with their tablets, they’re quietly screwing over universal suffrage. Tell me, San-A, is that DCRI gadget of yours picking up anything?
San-Antonio: — (discreetly checking his Omega) — It’s crackling, old friend. Crackling hard. They aren’t using standard networks. They’re using an encryption key hidden inside that Sphinx statue on the coffee table. In 87 minutes, the signal goes live. If we don’t move, the next tenant of the White House won’t be elected—he’ll be “downloaded.”
San A slipped the DCRI gadget under the table to grab the codes, protected by the loyal Béru.
Berrurier: — 87 minutes? Just enough time to find the buffet and sabotage their voting machine between two appetizers. Let’s roll—France is watching, and my bladder is calling!
Season 1 – Episode 3: Poisonous Cocktails and Cyber-Sirens
The Setting: A postcard-perfect blue sky. Teak loungers, servers in white livery, and in the middle of this movie set, two women who aren’t there to tan: Irina, the statuesque “Widow” of the Kremlin, and Noa, the Mossad’s tech icon.
San-Antonio: — Look at those two, Béru. It’s like Silicon Valley merged with a high-fashion runway. They won’t take their eyes off that Sphinx statue on the side table. It’s more than a trinket; it’s the relay-antenna for their end-of-the-world plot.
Berrurier: — (adjusting his leopard-print swim trunks, enough to scare off the iguanas) — Say, San-A, that tall brunette with the iceberg stare is giving my spine the chills. But the little blonde, Noa—she’s handling that tablet with such speed it’s making my head spin. If I go ask them for the time, you think I get a virus or a slap?
San-Antonio: — Probably both, in that order. We’re playing the “French Paradox” card. I’ll try the velvet approach with Irina. You, go create a diversion at the bar. Spill your drink, order twelve dozen oysters—do the “Berrurier” thing! Noa needs to look away from that tablet for just one minute, long enough for me to scan the Sphinx.
Berrurier: — Got it! I’ll give ’em the “French tourist in a calorie deficit” routine. There’s gonna be soda and peanuts flying everywhere, I guarantee it!
(Berrurier lumbered toward the bar with the grace of a drifting icebreaker. San-Antonio smoothed his white linen jacket and stepped toward Irina with his best diplomatic predator smile.)
San-Antonio: — “Pardon the intrusion, Madame, but I’m torn… Is it the blue of this pool or the spark in your eyes that suddenly makes Florida bearable?”
Irina: — (without looking up from her screen, in a voice of chilled velvet) — The pool’s blue is artificial, Monsieur. So is my gaze. As for your flattery, it’s about twenty years behind the local fashion. Who are you with? The CIA or a bankrupt perfumer?
Noa: — (smiling mischievously at San-A while typing a security code) — Leave him be, Irina.
He’s French. They’re programmed for this. It’s charming, like a scratched vinyl record.
Season 1 – Episode 4: Scanning the Sphinx and the Buffet Brawl
The Setting: The poolside bar. Pyramids of jumbo shrimp, mountains of avocado mousse, and champagne flutes waiting for the “Don’s” signal. Noa sets her tablet down for a split second to adjust her sunglasses.
San-Antonio: — (whispering into his lapel mic) — Béru, now’s the time. Irina is busy insulting my ancestry, but Noa is still watching the Sphinx out of the corner of her eye. I need thirty seconds of pure chaos. Do your thing, big guy.
Berrurier: — (through the earpiece, with a chewing sound) — Roger that, Prince. I’m about to give ’em a demo of “earthly gravity” applied to American gastronomy. Eyes open, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride!
(Berrurier approaches the bar heavily. He feigns a slip on an imaginary palm leaf. In his spectacular fall, he snags the tablecloth, bringing down a punch fountain and three dozen crab appetizers. The noise is deafening. Vlad’s goons pull their weapons, Noa jumps and drops her tablet to avoid a rum flood.)
Berrurier: — (bellowing amidst the debris) — Ah! Dammit! My hip! And my hot dog just took a flight into the pool! This is an assassination attempt! Call a vet!
San-Antonio: — (seizing the confusion, he passes his Omega watch over the Sphinx statue) — Come on, beautiful, give me your secrets…
(The watch vibrates. Scan complete: 100%. The encryption key is sucked out. San-A approaches Irina, who has stood up, furious.)
San-Antonio: — A thousand apologies, dear friend. My cousin is a bit… exuberant. It’s the Florida emotion, no doubt. Nothing on your dress, I hope?
Irina: — (a death stare) — Your “cousin” is a walking natural disaster. Tell him to back off before I turn his other hip into a jigsaw puzzle.
Noa: — (recovering her tablet) — Everything’s fine, Irina. The system is still online. The SPHINX-0 signal is armed. In 40 minutes, the Renaissance begins.
“In critical situations, when steel does the talking, intelligence rarely has the last word.” — Michel Audiard
Season 1 – Episode 5: Burning Rubber and Unraveling Buns
The Setting: The majestic driveway of Mar-a-Lago. San-Antonio has commandeered a sports convertible (“French Blue,” naturally). Behind, two black SUVs with tinted windows and a red convertible driven by Irina scream in the rearview mirrors.
San-Antonio: — Hold on tight, Béru! We’ve got the scan, we’ve got the statue, but we’ve also got the entire Deep State security on our tail. Irina seems to have taken that cocktail sauce stain personally.
Berrurier: — (head half out the window, hair in the wind, cheeks flapping) — Damn, San-A! The Widow drives like a maniac! And little Noa next to her is holding something that doesn’t look like lipstick—is that a signal jammer or a potato cannon?
San-Antonio: — It’s an EMP rifle. If she hits us, the car dies and we end up as canned meat for the Don. Look left—Vlad’s gorillas are trying to pin us against the palm trees!
Berrurier: — (pulling a massive pistol from an unlikely pocket) — Oh no you don’t! Not the palms! I didn’t come all this way to end up as a fruit salad! Take that, Comrade!
(Béru fires… not a bullet, but a homemade smoke grenade that releases a thick tricolor cloud: blue, white, and red. His signature.)
San-Antonio: — Well played, artist! They’re blinded. Now, deploy the second gadget: expansion spikes. We’re going to deflate their pride and their tires at the same time.
Voici les deux dernières traductions pour clore cette Saison 1 en beauté et lancer les hostilités de la Saison 2.
Pour l’Américain, on accentue le contraste entre le “Franglais” désastreux de Béru et le cynisme pur des penthouses de Miami. Pour l’Allemand, on reste dans la satire sociale et l’observation clinique de la corruption.
Season 1 – Episode 6: The “Decoder” and Béru’s American Yogurt
The Setting: A discreet safehouse in Little Haiti. A sluggish ceiling fan, the smell of Cuban coffee. Our colleague from “The Shop,” Precision-Lulu, is waiting for the data transfer.
San-Antonio: — Lulu, take this. It’s the full scan of the Sphinx. Broadcast it on the secure channel before the SVR pins our location. We’re going to ground.
Berrurier: — (trying to order a coffee across the street) — Uh… “I want a coffee, please… and a big doughnut with… with jam, you know?” Hey San-A, these locals don’t understand a lick of my syntax! I’ve got that Chicago accent down, don’t I? “Hey, Guy! I am a big American boy, okay?”
San-Antonio: — Shut it, Béru. Your “American” sounds like a blender full of Auvergne dialect. We’re heading to South Beach. We’ll blend into the scenery: luxury, calm, and corruption.
Season 1 – Episode 7: The Carnival of Dollars and the “Long Teeth”
The Setting: A 50-million-dollar penthouse. Infinity pool, open suitcases of cash on the coffee tables. Jared (the golden boy with the porcelain smile) and Wittkoff (the one whose ambition—and teeth—scratch the floorboards) toast with Russian oligarchs escorted by SVR “sirens.”
Berrurier: — (hidden behind a velvet curtain with San-A) — Holy cow! This isn’t a hotel, it’s a paradise for the nouveau riche. You see Wittkoff’s teeth? If he gets too close to the rug, he’ll plow the whole thing up!
San-Antonio: — Look closely, Béru. Jared is doing the intros. This crowd has known each other since the preschool of dark finance. The oligarchs bring the cash, the Don’s clan brings the influence, and the Slavic beauties bring… technical entertainment.
Berrurier: — And they’re going at it Russian-style! It’s not diplomacy, it’s bedroom gymnastics! But wait… you see those little red dots in the flowerpots?
San-Antonio: — Exactly. The grand finale. The SVR is filming for blackmail, the Mossad is recording for strategy, and what’s left of the American “Deep State” is trying not to lose the signal. It’s an electronic orgy, old friend. Everyone is filming everyone.
Berrurier: — Are we the only ones without a camera? That’s frustrating! We could sell the rights to French TV, it’d blow Macron’s mind!
San-Antonio: — We’ve got something better, Béru. We have proof that this whole “Circus” is a global staging. Let’s bail. We’ve seen enough meat and bills for one day. We’re on the first flight home.
END OF SEASON 1
Season 2 — The Great Sphinx Fire Sale
Season 2 – Episode 1: The Coronation of the “Sultan of the Toupee”
The Setting: Washington, January 20, 2025. Polar cold, but the MAGA crowd is boiling over. Donald is at the podium, so orange he looks like he’s lit from the inside by a 100-watt bulb.
Berrurier: — (in the crowd, wearing a red hat that reads “Make Andouillette Great Again”) — Hey San-A, he doesn’t look like he invented the wheel, but when it comes to cashing out the world, he’s got a fast hand! You hear that? He wants to tax Camembert at 400%! It’s a gastric declaration of war!
San-Antonio: — (incognito under a cowboy hat) — It’s worse than that, old friend. Look behind him. JD Vance, the “Appalachian Idiot,” is smiling like a predator in front of an open chicken coop. He’s already got the maps of Europe on his tablet, and he’s crossing out the countries that aren’t “profitable.”
🥨 Season 2 – Episode 2: Munich, the Appalachian Idiot’s Roadshow
The Setting: The Hotel Bayerischer Hof. A forest of microphones, the faces of cabinet ministers looking as haggard as smoked herrings. JD Vance strides to the podium, chewing imaginary gum with the confidence of a guy who just bought the building to turn it into a parking lot. The Munich Security Conference begins… German officials are stiffer than their pretzels. JD Vance is at the lectern, hands in his pockets.
JD Vance: — “Alright, listen up, relics of the Old World. We’re done with the ‘transatlantic friendship’ talk. That’s a concept for history books and cocktail parties. America is no longer your free security guard. If you want GIs staying here to watch your borders, you better pull out the checkbook—and no funny money. Ukraine? It’s a money pit. We’re cutting off the tap. If Vlad wants to play around with a compass and redraw the maps, that’s your problem, not ours. We’ve got a new deal with Moscow, and you’re not on the guest list.”
Berrurier: — (disguised as a Bavarian waiter, carrying six one-liter mugs and a mountain of pretzels. He approaches Vance and “trips” magnificently, drenching the Vice President’s pants in thick foam) — “Oh! Holy Goulash! Shiver me timbers! Look at this disaster! It’s my center of gravity, Mr. Moron… uh, Senator! Your words made my knees wobble so much I lost control of the pressure! The shock of your speech just took the legs right out from under me! But tell me, is Greenland for keeping your neurons on ice or for growing corn?”
JD Vance: — (furious, wiping himself with a silk napkin) — “Get this clown out of here!”
Berrurier: — (leaving, whispering to San-A) — “You see that, San-A? While he was cursing about his soggy crotch, I got a look at his cheat sheet. It said ‘Operation Midnight Hammer’ with a big red dot on Berlin and another on Paris. These guys aren’t allies—they’re debt collectors acting on behalf of the Kremlin!”
San-Antonio: — (speaking into his cufflink) — Direct hit, Béru! While he’s mopping himself up, I swiped his notepad. It’s the “Midnight Hammer” playbook, alright. They don’t just want to leave Europe; they’re planning to carve it up with Vlad.
Season 2 – Episode 3: The Polar Flea Market
The Setting: A giant screen in the Situation Room. The Don is on a video call with the Danish Prime Minister, who looks like she just swallowed an ice cube the wrong way. The Don is holding a luxury real estate catalog, pointing at a photo of an iceberg.
Donald: — “Listen, Mette, my friend. We all know Denmark is a tiny country, very cute, with blonde people eating fish sandwiches. But Greenland? It’s too big for you. It’s a waste of prime real estate! I see potential. Hotels, heated dome golf courses, and maybe a missile base with a North Pole view. I’ll give you 500 billion and throw in a 10-year VIP card for Mar-a-Lago! It’s the deal of the century! If you say no, I’m slapping a 500% tax on your wind turbines and your Lego bricks. Your kids are gonna be playing with mud, believe me!”
Donald: — “Look, Denmark, that big white island of yours is wasted space! I’m buying it. I’ll give you Puerto Rico in exchange—it’s much warmer, it’s got palm trees, it’s fantastic. And if you argue, I’ll tax your Legos until your kids are playing with pebbles!”
San-Antonio: — (disguised as a technical advisor, adjusting his mic) — (Whispering to Béru) You hear that? He’s liquidating European sovereignty like he’s selling rugs at a flea market.
Berrurier: — (dismantling a radiator to plant a bug) — It’s disgusting, my Prince! Greenland! Why not buy the Eiffel Tower while he’s at it? Ask him if he wants to buy my aunt from the countryside too—we can bundle her with the penguins. He’s not a president; he’s a real estate agent on coke! He wants to turn the Arctic into a theme park for oligarchs in toupees! Boss, ask him if he wants a bulk price with Greenland—we’ll throw in a Lyon sausage and a signed photo of Mireille Mathieu!”
San-Antonio: — (whispering) — Quiet, Béru! The worst is yet to come. Vlad just called. They’re meeting in Reykjavik for the “Summit of Dupes.” That’s where they’ll deliver the death blow to Ukraine and drop the “Midnight Hammer” on our defense systems.
