The broadcast was advertised as the “collision of the century,” a prime-time special titled Power & Presence. The set in the Rockefeller Center studio was designed to intimidate: sharp chrome angles, blinding LED screens, and a temperature kept briskly cool. On one side of the expansive glass desk sat President Donald Trump, occupying his space with the heavy, forward-leaning posture of a man accustomed to dominating boardrooms. On the other side sat a figure who required no introduction, yet commanded the room with a completely different kind of energy: Patti LaBelle.

The “Godmother of Soul” looked regal. She wore a tailored suit that shimmered under the studio lights, her hair perfectly coiffed, and her expression one of polite, observant patience. While Trump projected the chaotic energy of a political rally, LaBelle projected the grounded, unshakeable authority of a woman who has commanded stages for sixty years. She didn’t need to shout; her presence was the volume.

The interview began with the usual sparring over culture and popularity, but Trump, never one to stay on a shared topic, quickly pivoted to his favorite subject: his own genetic and intellectual superiority.

“They tested me, Patti, and they were amazed,” Trump announced, his voice booming. He held his hands up, accordion-style, emphasizing the width of his claim. “The doctors at Walter Reed—genius doctors, the best in the world—they said, ‘Sir, we’ve never seen a brain like this.’ It’s a machine. A 195 IQ. That’s the number. One-nine-five. Einstein? He was a disaster compared to this number. I see things before they happen. I’m playing 4D chess while the radical left is playing checkers. It’s instinct, but it’s high-voltage processing.”

The audience, a mixture of political loyalists and music fans, sat in a stunned hush. A score of 195 is statistically nearly impossible, a number that would place a human being in a cognitive stratosphere inhabited by almost no one in recorded history.

Patti LaBelle didn’t roll her eyes. She didn’t scoff. She simply looked at him. It was the look she might give a choir member who was singing off-key—a look of deep, knowing skepticism mixed with a touch of “bless your heart.” She adjusted her glasses, the diamonds on the frames catching the light.

“I know more about the economy, the military, and science than the experts,” Trump continued, mistaking her silence for awe. “Because when you have a brain like this, you don’t need to read the books. You just know. It’s genetic. You have a great voice, Patti, tremendous voice, but this?” He tapped his temple. “This is a lethal weapon. You can’t teach this.”

That was when Patti LaBelle leaned in.

The movement was slow, deliberate. She placed her manicured hands on the table, interlacing her fingers. The room seemed to shrink down to just the two of them.

“That is truly a fascinating number, Donald,” LaBelle said. Her voice was smooth, rich, and carried the unmistakable cadence of a woman who does not suffer fools. “A 195. That is a heavy burden to carry. Since that suggests a logic speed far beyond us normal folks, I have just one little question. A simple little riddle, honey, just to see how that big engine runs.”

Trump smirked, leaning back, confident he could outmaneuver a singer. “Go ahead. Ask me anything. I love riddles. I solve them faster than anyone.”

Patti’s eyes narrowed slightly, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “Alright then. Listen close. If you are running a race, and you pass the person in second place, what place are you in?”

It was a classic logic trap. To a calm mind, the answer is obvious: if you pass the person in second, you take their spot. You are in second place. But to a mind obsessed with winning, a mind that refuses to accept any position other than the top, the instinctive, ego-driven answer is “First.”

The studio went dead silent.

Trump opened his mouth to answer immediately. The word “First” was poised on his lips. It was the only rank he recognized. But as he looked at Patti LaBelle—at the intensity of her stare, the “don’t try me” energy radiating from her—he hesitated.

The gears in his mind, usually greased by absolute confidence, ground to a halt. He realized, with a jolt of panic, that it was a trap.

If he said “First,” he would be wrong—a public failure of logic immediately after claiming a 195 IQ. But if he said “Second,” he would have to hear himself say the words “I am in second place.” His psyche, built entirely on the concept of being number one, violently rejected the phrase.

So, he froze.

The confident smile curdled into a tight, confused grimace. His eyes darted from LaBelle to the camera, then to the teleprompter, which offered no help. One second passed. Then five. Then ten.

Patti LaBelle, who is famous for holding a high note for what feels like an eternity, was now holding a silence that felt even longer. She didn’t gloat. She just waited, her eyebrows raised, looking like a school principal waiting for a student to explain why they didn’t do their homework.

The producers in the control room were frantic. “Is the feed frozen?” someone shouted. But the feed wasn’t frozen; the guest was.

Trump shifted in his seat. He reached for a water glass that wasn’t there. “Well, you know,” he finally stammered, his voice stripped of its earlier bluster. “It depends on the race. Is it a fair race? Who’s running? Because frankly, if I’m running, I’m winning. I don’t follow people. I lead.”

“But the logic, baby,” Patti pressed gently, her voice dropping an octave, smooth as silk but hard as steel. “If you pass the person in second…”

“I pass everyone!” Trump snapped, his face flushing a deep, defensive red. “Next question. That’s a nasty question. A trick question.”

The tension in the room broke, replaced by a ripple of disbelief and scattered laughter from the audience. The spell of the “super-genius” had been broken, not by a debater or a journalist, but by the Godmother of Soul with a simple riddle.

As the cameras cut to a commercial, the final image was striking: Donald Trump looking furiously at the floor, while Patti LaBelle simply smoothed her jacket, looked into the camera, and gave a little wink—proving that you don’t need a 195 IQ to know the score.