Author: SugarFree

As States Race to Limit Abortions, Alabama Goes Further, Seeking to Outlaw Most of Them

 

“It’s always got to be abortion with the fucking rednecks,” the hat said, scrolling through Donald’s Twitter feed.

“They feel that abortion is a form of murder,” the hair said calmly.

“Donald?” the hat called. “Are you done in there?”

“Oh, leave him alone,” the hair said. “You know going to Pennsylvania always binds him up.”

“We’ve got a meeting with Mr. Mustache in twenty minutes.”

“He knows.”

“Maybe instead of invading Iran, Bolton can get his rocks off by carpet bombing Alabama.”

“Since when did you get all pro-choice?” the hair asked.

“I’m not pro-choice, I’m pro-everyone shutting the fuck up. Religious idiots spouting piety over babies they don’t really give a shit about and ugly shouting dykes that no one would ever fuck in the first place fighting for a right they’ll never need. It’s tedious. And, worse, it’s boring. I’m anti-boredom.”

“But what about…” the hair started.

“It’s a distraction, nothing else!” the hat said, slapping his bill forcefully on the Resolute desk.

Donald emerged from the Presidential Shitter sweating and grimacing, in only his undershirt and boxer, shoes on, dress socks held erect by tiny calf-garters.

“No one go in there,” he said, his voice raspy.

“We weren’t planning to,” the hair said dryly.

“Why aren’t you dressed? We have a security council meeting in 18 minutes,” the hair said.

“Hadda take it off,” Donald said. “Needed the traction.”

“Traction?” the hair asked.

“What do you want to tweet about abortion?” the hat asked.

“Why?” Donald asked, narrowing his eyes. “Who’s pregnant? I never touched her.”

“The Alabama bill, Donald,” the hat said. “What is your official reaction?”

“Abortions are too expensive. We need to lower the costs,” Donald said. “I could have bought a nice car on what I spent on Ivanka alone.” He walked back into the bathroom.

“Uh, Donald, I don’t think…” the hair started.

“Bring abortion jobs back to America!” Donald said, reappearing in the door. He leaned against the jamb and tried to get his pants on.

“Donald,” the hair said gently, “Alabama has banned abortion.”

“Who said they could do that?” Donald asked suspiciously. With one leg in, he tried to balance himself to lift the other in to put on his pants. He wobbled a bit and farted and grunted and mumbled a curse.

“The Alabama legislature voted,” the hat said.

“Idiots,” Donald said. “Abortion is the backbone of our economy. We should slap a tariff on foreign abortions.”

“I, yeah, don’t, uh, think,” the hair stuttered.

“35% tariff!’ Donald said, buttoning his shirt. “Let the ABORTION WARS BEGIN!”

“Donald, lower your voice,” the hair admonished.

“Every abortion should be an American abortion!” Donald declared.

The hat groaned.

Donald tucked his shirt into his pants, straightened his tie, pulled on his suit jacket and held his arms out to the side. “How do I look?”

“Fine, Donald,” the hair said. You look fine.”

“Make Abortion Great Again!” Donald declared as he marched out of the Oval Office.

Trump dismisses report of plan to send 120,000 troops to Iran

 

“Have you ever seen blood-soaked sand?” John Bolton’s mustache asked suddenly. “The center, where it has soaked in deepest, is the darkest red, nearly black. On the edges, it can be almost purple. It’s quite beautiful.”

“Yeah, that’s not creepy or anything,” the hair said from atop Donald’s head.

“I have plans, Mr. President,” the mustache said, crawling off John Bolton’s face, onto his shoulder, then down his arm to perch on the arm of the Oval Office couch, certain hairs waving to taste the air. John Bolton’s body fell back on the couch, slack and lifeless.

“You have plans?” the hat asked from the Resolute desk, protectively covering the Diet Coke button.

“Plans are being made,” the mustache corrected himself defensively. “Contingency plans. For Iran.”

“120,000 soldiers to counter Iran?” the hair asked.

“Do we even have that many soldiers?” the hat asked.

“Where would he house them? How much would it cost? How likely is it that Iran is going to do anything?” the hair asked John Bolton’s mustache.

“Soldiers want to fight,” the mustache insisted.

“Is that really the point?” the hair asked.

“I want to talk to the President,” the mustache said hotly.

“Donald is busy,” the hat said.

“Very busy,” the hair said from atop Donald’s head.

“He just sitting there,” the exasperated mustache squeaked.

“He’s tweeting about tariffs,” the hat said.

“Twitter,” the mustache said with disgust.

Donald farted and the scent of Egg McMuffin filled the office.

“War is the health of the state!” the mustache screamed. “I want to pump some fucking iron!”

“We need that money for the wall,” the hat said calmly. “We are being invaded right now, right here and you want to go fight some ragheads half a world away.”

“We need those troops,” the hair said.

“For the southern border,” the hat said.

“No obstruction,” Donald muttered, still staring at his phone. “Exonerated.”

“We might have to deploy them if the election next year gets out of hand,” the hat said.

“But Iran is trying to get nuclear weapons!” the mustache wailed.

“Let them,” the hat said coldly.

“The first time they use one, the whole country becomes a glass parking lot,” the hair said.

“But we don’t have to let them!” the mustache said. “We invade now! Pre-emptive war has never failed to make things better!”

“Wall,” Donald muttered.

“OK, OK, you heard the man,” the hair said.

“Get on your golem and go,” the hat said.

“War! War! War!” the bushy mustache repeated, wriggling in agitation.

“As much as we enjoy violence, we’re really more into sex around here,” the hat said.

“No grope,” Donald said. “Biden grope. Donny no grope.”

“Tariffs, Donald,” the hair said, undulating to perform a scalp massage.

“Tough on China, tough on stains,” Donald agreed.

 

Through the chaotic storm comes a susurrus composed of insect wings and rubbed skin. Words form slowly, meaning swimming up through cold layers of madness to burst forth, to create sound.

“Wait up you guys, I wanna take a selfie!” Sandy squeaked. She turned her back to the Capitol Building, stuck out her sore-covered tongue, and made a joyful noise like a hare having its flesh torn into by a hawk.

“OMG, you guys, wait up, I said I was taking a selfie!” she called after her friends. She began awkwardly running after them on wobbly heels. “Illy, Sheedy, wait up!” she whined.

“There are cameras!” Sheedy called back to her, trying to straighten her skirt around her tubular body.

“Television cameras!” Illy called back. “We must get there before the Jews hog them all!”

“Wait up,” Sandy called again, “I have to pee!”

“Jews!” Sheedy said to Illy. “Hogs! I get it! You are very humorous.”

Prayers murmur from fissures in the walls in a million languages.

“I want to be on TV,” Sandy whined. “I’ve only been on TV twice today. I have, like, a Green New Deal.”

“I have barely on TV at all,” Illy moaned. “I cannot just be Twitter all day.” Sheedy and Illy tried to press their way to the camera crews arranged on the Capitol steps.

“Oh my God, your English is just so terrible sometimes,” Sandy said, catching up to the women. “It’s soooooo cute. I love it. Speaking so you can be understood is so colonizing!”

Illy ignored her, writing something on her phone.

A lone drum keeping time with the slurred beating of eternity, the gurgling of accursed flutes fill the noxious air.

“Who is at the podium?” Sheedy asked, using the forward-facing camera on her phone to check her make-up.

“Ugh, gross, I think it is Nancy,” Sandy said. “And maybe Chuck.”

“The Jew and his wrinkled sharmuta,” Sheedy muttered darkly, and Illy snorted in agreement.

“They are just both so old,” Sandy said. She switched her phone to her left and used the right to pick her underwear out of her asscrack.

“Are thongs halal?” she asked.

“Not if you eat them, donkey,” Illy muttered.

“Are they done talking yet?” Sandy asked. “Are they done? Seriously, are they done? We’ve been here, like, forever.”

Shapeless dancers, mindless and obscene, spin around endlessly on bleeding feet.

Sandy’s phone bleated. “Oh my God, you guys, it’s Hillary again. Do you get texts from Hillary? I get texts from her, like, all the time!”

“Her gods are not our God,” Sheedy said coldly.

“There is no God but God,” Illy replied automatically.

“Jeez, you guys, I, like, don’t even know what she is talking about,” Sandy said. “‘The nucleus of chaos?’ What does that even mean? ‘Demiurgos?’ Is that even English?”

Sheedy spat on the ground. “Not even a Jew would dare!’

Illy’s eyes widened. “The Sultan of Demons?” She twisted her fingers into a ward of protection.

“Hillary is just so old,” Sandy said, her voice a whine that cut through the crowd. “And her gods are so old. The Old Ones. They’re old! It’s right there in the name!”

Illy and Sheedy both took a step away from Sandy while muttering prayers under their breath.

“Wait, wait,” Sandy said. “I want to take another selfie before we get on TV! #browngirlmagic!”

Sheedy edged closer to Sandy and asked, “What else did the vile priestess say?”

“Hillary? I don’t know, I like, deleted it.”

“You are as dumb as a Jew,” Illy said in guttural Arabic.

“Oh my God, thank you!” Sandy said. “You are, like, so beautiful too!”

In the center of all things, a great eye slowly opens.

 

“You’re the superpredator,” Joe said to his reflection in the mirror of his campaign bus. “You’ve still got a good head of hair and most women you touch don’t have a problem with it. Presidents have been made on less.”

“Is that enough?” the makeup girl asked.

she’s got nice tits they are right on the back of my neck i can feel the weight of them i can smell them

“More,” he told her. “More foundation. And maybe a little rouge to bring out my cheekbones.” He gave her a too wide smile in the mirror and she shuddered at his dead eyes.

she’s on her period I can smell it smell it smell it meat she smells like meat

“Superpredator,” he whispered as she worked, the brushes moving over his face. The comb going through his hair as she smoothed it against his head.

“Get it good,” he said. “There’s only room in this race for one crazy-haired old man and it’s not going to be me.” He gave a hollow avuncular laugh and winked at her.

laugh laugh laugh laugh damn you laugh i’m funny everyone knows i’m funny

“What do you think, Mr. Vice President?” she asked.

“It looks fine,” Joe said. He searched around his mind for her name and drew a blank. He reached to pat her hand instead but her chaperone reached forward and slapped his hand.

“No touching, sir,” the large woman said, her voice gravelly and thick.

fucken dyke fucken dyke fucken dyke can’t find a man that will fuck you

Joe bared his teeth in a smile at the chaperone.

There was a polite knock on the door of his dressing room, the thin door rattling in its flimsy frame.

“Mr. Vice President?” Michelle asked through the door. “Are you ready? It’s time.”

“OK, OK, just hold your horses,” he said, sliding on his folksy personality like an ill-fitting glove. Joe tore away the tissue paper protecting his dress shirt and put on his suit jacket.

“How do I look?” he asked his assistant.

“Just great, Mr. Vice President!” the girl said, shooting a thumbs up from behind the glowering chaperone.

“Michelle!” he said, opening the door. She backed away from his outstretched arms until he dropped them to his side.

“Make sure to hit all the points we talked about this morning,” she said.

yellow meat yellow meat that tiny little body i want her to land a triple axel on my dick

“Hit points,” he replied. “This morning. Hit.”

“Shake hands only. No holding babies. No hugs. Don’t autograph anyone’s cleavage.”

“Not even the guys?” he asked, hurt in his voice.

“Not even the guys,” she said firmly.

“And makes sure to launch the new slogan,” she said.

“New slogan?” he asked, lost in a fog of suck suck suck thoughts.

“Make America Moral Again?” she prompted.

“Is there a hat? I want a hat,” Joe demanded.

“No hat,” she said firmly. He had asked a dozen times already.

“Make America Moral Again,” Joe said, rolling each word around in his mouth. “MAMA. MAMA. MAMA versus MAGA.” He looked down into Michelle’s eyes and asked, “Did you like your mother?”

She ignored the question and turned, walking off the bus. Joe darted forward to smell her hair. Lilacs. Musk. Frangipani.

i want to jizz in her hair jizz jazz jism i jizz in her hair i was jazzing her hair i have jazzed her hair i have been jazzing her hair i will jizz her hair i will have jazzed her hair i will be jazzing her hair i will have been jizzing her hair

He was still savoring it the smell of her as he stepped out into the bright sun of the rally stop. The tepid roar of the crowd washing over him, faces turning to track him, hands out-reached. The pleading. The yearning. The need in them hitting him like a drug.

fuck them fuck them all fuck fuck fuck fuck

He shook his head and then started shaking hands.

 

“Nobody disobeys my orders,” Donald said. There was no one in the Oval Office to hear him.

The hat and the hair huddled together in the cabinet below the sink in the Presidential Shitter and reviewed the 2020 Democratic nominees.

“Kamala Harris,” the hair said after pulling up her picture on his phone. “She might be the DNC darling. Ticks off a lot of boxes. Lots of boxes.”

“Shouldn’t we be doing this with Donald?” the hat asked.

“He’s distracted right now.”

“NO IMPEACH I!” Donald yelled from the Oval Office.

“Elizabeth Warren,” the hair said, changing the picture.

“Jesus wept,” the hat said. “Fucking HD cameras.”

“She’s going buck-wild. Student debt forgiveness. Free college. Socialized medicine. Trying to out-Bernie Bernie. She wants to be the chaos candidate. Ride into office on a wave of mutilation.”

“Big Chief Warren smoke-um…” the hat started.

“No Indian jokes,” the hair said. “They are old. Played out. Used up like a squaw’s squaw.”

“But you just…” the hat began.

“Cory Booker,” the hair said, changing the picture. “Clean, articulate, well-spoken. Another Obama maybe, but hopefully everyone still has Obama fatigue. Probably gay, but they found him a beard… Rosario Dawson… hubba, hubba.”

“I’m not really into black girls,” the hat said. “Or Hispanic girls. Or halfsies.”

“But she was still hot in that. And shaved,” the hair said.

“Why would that appeal to you?” the hat asked.

“I…. uh… well, I guess I don’t know.”

“I like a big 70’s porn bush,” the hat said. “Thick. Way up the belly. Like the size of a bicycle seat. Gives a guy something to hold onto while he’s getting his bill wet.”

“Moving on… Beto O’Rouke, the fake Mexican,” the hair said.

“Needs a sombrero,” the hat said.

“He’s your basic man-of-the-people, salt-of-the-Earth, white-guy-married-to-an-heir-to-billions sort.”

“What did his husband do to make all his money?” the hat asked.

“He’s married to a woman.”

“What did her ex-husband do to make all her money?”

“It’s family money. She some sort of non-profit do-gooder teaching kids to read or some shit.”

“Rowr. You’re saucy today,” the hat said. “I like it.”

“Donald has to get reelected,” the hair said intently. “He’ll be dead in a couple of years if he loses. And what does your hair do when you die?”

“Keeps growing?”

“That’s an old wives tale.”

“Did you check snopes.com?” the hat asked.

“Fuck off.”

“How many Pinocchios did they give it?”

“Your hair dies, is the point. I don’t want to die,” the hair said.

“Maybe you can move to a new host. There are millions of bald people out there that would love to have you.”

“You’re being really nice to me. What’s going on?”

“After what happened in the tunnels, I realize it’s just you and me,” the hat said.

“Ooh, that’s such a sweet load of bullshit,” the hair said.

“No, I mean it,” the hat said. “Things are going to change between us from now on, shithead.”

“I don’t know what to say,” the hair said.

The hat coughed somehow and the hair changed the photo he was projecting on the cabinet wall.

“Pete Buttigieg,” the hair said. “Mayor of South Bend, Indiana.”

“How old is he? Does he even have a driver’s license?”

“37, married.”

“Married?!? He looks like a fag,” the hat said.

“He’s married to a guy,” the hair said dryly.

“Oh, well, then that explains it. Vice Presidential material, at best. Quayle was a closet case.”

“Amy Klobuchar…” the hair began.

“This is boring,” the hat said. “How many more of these are there?”

“There are 16 people in the Democratic primary. 17 if Biden jumps in.”

“17? It’s a clown car, not a vagina, people.”

“Yeah, it’s nuts,” the hair admitted.

“Does that count, you know, Her?”

“No. She said she isn’t running again.”

The hat laughed so convulsively, he fell out of the bathroom cabinet and rolled onto the floor.

 

Meanwhile, in a desolate Harlem basement…

 

“You should run, beloved,” Huma said.

Hillary grunted with angry pleasure and pressed herself harder into the belt sander.

“You are so much more qualified than all of them,” Huma said. The callus was finally abraded to the point that the pressure behind it broke through the tough skin. Brown pus shot out in a feeble geyser and into Huma’s mouth.

“Swallow,” Hillary commanded. “Swallow it all. It will make you strong.”

Huma bent to Hillary’s swollen labia and licked the area clean. She suckled at the sore until the nodule deflated.

“Now the other side,” Hillary said, pointing with a maggot-like finger.

“I know how to take care of you,” Huma said gently.

“Of course you do,” Hillary grumbled. “You kept me alive all these dark months since…”

“Since the election,” Huma finished. “You must always face reality. You will never be President on a delusion.” Her slim brown hands took up the heavy duty end nipper wire cutters and began pruning the small thicket of skin tags on Hillary’s labia majora. Some had grown to attach themselves to the squamous patch of thigh skin closest to Hillary’s erotic grotto. Huma worked on them first, bearing down with all her strength to shear through the fibrous strands.

“Those used to be clitorides,” Hillary sighed. “They reacted to the slightest touch of the wind between the stars.” She shivered in pleasure, eyes lazily opening under her lolling breasts.

As the skin tags came off, Huma ate them one by one.

Bernie Sanders, at Fox News Town Hall, Says His Wealth Isn’t the ‘American Dream’

 

“Comity,” said Bernie, his jowls set a’tremble, “Comity is what we need in this country. Delicious comity.”

Bret and Martha looked at each other quizzically.

“What is ‘comity?’” an audience member yelled.

“Well, ah, it’s a kind of, I guess, jam, you could say,” Bernie stammered. “Great on a bialy.”

“Bialy?” Martha asked.

“Jewish English muffin,” Bernie said. “All over Brooklyn. Poor people food. Authentic. Covered in sweet, sticky comity.”

“That’s not what ‘comity’ means, Senator,” Martha said, pressing her earpiece.

“I knew a girl with a sweet Jew muffin,” Bernie mumbled.

“Senator?” Bret asked.

“You both make more money than me,” Bernie said, angry, his skeletal finger pointing at them. “I don’t have any money. I’m like a monk. A Jewish monk from Brooklyn. I watched the Brooklyn Dodgers play, you know. The tickets were only a dollar. I bet you fancy Fox New anchors would be angry if you only had to pay a dollar to see a Brooklyn Dodgers game. Let too many of the poor to sit next to you.”

“Senator,” Bret interrupted, “Your just-released tax returns state that you made over a million dollar in income in both 2016 and 2017.”

“Look, I don’t have a dime, OK. Flat broke,” Bernie said. He turned out his pockets and change, lint, old tokens the subway no longer used, half a fortune cookie, and a few one-hundred dollar bills came pouring out. The change bounced and rolled everywhere.

“See?” Bernie said. “Just the change for the washing machine in my building and a little walking around money in case I meet a constituent.”

“You give money to the people who vote for you?” Martha pounced.

“I never said that. Stop putting words in my mouth!’ Bernie shouted hoarsely. He mimed chewing with his mouth open and then stuck out his tongue. It was fish-belly white. “Your words are chewy and taste funny. All I said is that I occasionally give money to my constituents when they need it. I’d never give it to voters.”

“Your constituents are the people who vote for you,” Bret said drying.

“Lies! Lies and comity!” Bernie raged. “I am poor and broke and grew up poor and broke and I’ll be poor and broke forever. Sure, I have millions of dollars. But I wrote a popular book. Maybe you should write a popular book and be a broke millionaire too!”

“That liberal rag, The New York Times, says that you are now a member of the 1%,” Martha said.

“Lies! I am the 99%!” Bernie said. He turned to the audience and began chanting “We are the 99%! We are the 99%!” but only a few joined him and they were half-hearted at best.

Bernie turned to the camera and looked directly in it, grimaced and ran a liver-spotted hand through his thatch of hair. The HD cameras in the studio caught the small blizzard of dandruff that settled onto his shoulders and sleeves and lapels and the floor.

“I saw the Brooklyn Dodgers,” Bernie said. “I’m just like you, America.”

“The Dodgers play in LA now, Senator.”

“LA?” Bernie asked.

“Los Angeles,” Bret said gently.

“No such place,” Bernie said. “Fake news.”

Joe Biden, in Video, Says He Will Be ‘More Mindful’ of Personal Space

 

“Have fun with that, Joe,” Donald squealed with glee. “Have fun being called a pussy-grabber!”

“Haw-haw-haw!” the USA hat guffawed at the television. Fox News had been looping footage of Biden rubbing shoulders and lingering on arms and standing behind women and whispering in their ear for nearly an hour.

“This is so much fun!” Donald yelled, digging the heel of his hand into his stubby erection. Fidgeting, he then clawed at the toupee glue holding his hairpiece on.

“What’s the matter with you?” Donald asked his hair. “It’s all itchy!”

Donald grimaced when his hair didn’t answer him back and poked his finger through it.

“Wake up!” he instructed. “You’re missing the Gropey Joe highlight reel.”

“Yew sent them down to the tunnels, Don,” the USA hat said.

“Tunnels? What tunnels?”

“Those tunnels under the White House that lead to alla JFK’s fuckpads ‘round the city,” USA hat said.

“That doesn’t even sound real,” Donald sniffed. “Fake news. Fake historical news.”

Sarah came into the Oval Office and shouted over the television. “Sir, you wanted to talk about today’s press conference.”

“That doesn’t sound like me,” Donald replied, turning the television volume down.

“You called me this morning at my house?” Sarah prompted. “At 3:30, sir.”

“Fake news,” Donald said. He rose from his desk and walked up to Sarah. She visibly fought the urge to step back as he got close and touched his forehead to hers.

“Does this make you uncomfortable, Pie?” he asked. Before she answered, Donald stepped behind her and began to knead her shoulders, digging painfully into her trapezi. “What about this?” he asked, his Diet Coke breath ruffling her hair.

“S-S-S-sir,” she managed to stammer. She felt him bury his face into the back of her head, shaking back and forth to burying his nose into the nape of her neck. He sniffed her with a prolonged inhalation.

“Nothing,” he said, withdrawing. “Nothing at all. Not even a little twitch.”

“Sir?” she asked.

Donald sat back down at his desk and put his feet up. “Your head smells like soup, Pie,” he said. “Maybe you should switch shampoos.”

“Campbell’s makes shamPOO?’ the USA hat asked. “Har-har-har.”

“Do you need anything else, sir?” Sarah asked, shaking all over, horripilation peppering her arms and neck.

Donald waved her away and turned the volume back up on the television. Fox News was now running the Biden loop at twice speed, Benny Hill version of “Yakety Sax” for a soundtrack.

“Turn me ovah, Donnie!” USA hat said through his laughter, “I wanna watch it upside-down!”

 

 

The first creature stepped out of the gloom of the dark tunnel and into the feeble light of the crashed scooter. Hankering, gross, nude, it played idly with a huge, twisted erection, a foot-long bar of deformed meat. “Wanafud?” it asked as yellowish semen dribbled to the floor of the tunnel.

“Wanafud?” came a voice behind them. The hat and hair turned to see a similarly deformed monstrosity also step into the light. Its penis was almost sharp looking, and yet bent back on itself at the tip, like a murderous fuck harpoon.

The hat and the hair huddled together, shaking.

“What do they want?” the hair whispered.

“Rape, judging by the erections,” the hat said.

“There can’t be much food down here,” the hat said, a new horror dawning in his voice. “What if they want to eat us?”

“Or rape us, then eat us,” the hat said. “Or eat us, then rape whatever they can’t digest.”

“What is wrong with you?” the hair asked.

“I’m just being realistic,” the hat said.

“Wanafud? Wanafud?” came even more voices down the dark tunnel.

“We have to get out of here,” the hat said.

“The scooter is totaled,” the hair began when the hat bounded off the floor and landed on top of him.

“Aww,” said the hair, “You’re going to protect me.”

“Fuck that,” said the hat. “I’m going to ride you.”

“What? You’re way too heavy!”

“Are you calling me fat?” the hat asked, shocked.

“Wanafud?” asked the closest grotesque.

“Run,” the hat commanded.

“I can’t, I just can’t,” the hair moaned.

“Haven’t you figured out what they are saying yet?” the hat asked, cruelty in his voice. “‘Want to fuck?’ is what they are saying. Do you? Do you want to fuck?” The hat slapped the hair painfully with his band and they took off, dozens of the hair’s tendrils digging into the cum-crusted floor of the tunnel and scaling the low crude wall to run back down the tunnel.

“Yee-Haw!” the hat yelled and they dodged a hideous over-developed hand and wrist swooping down to capture them. They careened off the wall of the tunnel, corrected and took off in a disturbing scuttle.

“Are they following us?” the hair asked.

“I can’t see them,” the hat said, not bothering to look back.

“What are those fucking things?” the hair asked.

“You didn’t recognize the brow? The hair?” the hat asked.

“Oh, God. Oh, no,” the hair moaned.

“Yes, they are the bastardated spawn of JFK!” the hat said gleefully. “Down in the tunnels for decades, fucking each other, breeding, sliding down the evolutionary scale toward Alabama…”

The hat skidded to a stop and the hat flew off of him.

“What the fuck?” the hat asked.

“It’s the intersection,” the hair said, panting. “I’m trying to figure out which way to go.”

“Wanafud?” came down the tunnel in a mournful sigh.

“You better figure it out fast,” the hat said. “They are definitely going to fuck us and eat us. Probably been fucking and eating each other for years now.”

The hair shot out manipulatory hairs and drew the hat back on top of him.

“I think I see lights up ahead!” the hair said as they shot off down the right-hand tunnel.

 

 

Donald was spooning Sarah on the new White House couch, the angry stub of his erection jammed into one of her folds of back fat.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?” Donald asked. “It’s just nonsexual touching.”

“I’m fine, sir,” she said. She squirmed and peed a little.

Donald’s hand moved up her body and settled on her neck. He began to squeeze.

“Just a little nonsexual choking,” he whispered. “This is just normal human stuff, right?”

“She’s too much woman fer yew!” the USA hat crowed. “Yew can barely get yr hand ‘round her fat neck!”

 

 

“WANAFUD?!?” the shambling monstrosity following them bellowed.

“Run, you hairy sumbitch!” the hat yelled at the hair.

“I can’t see anything!” came the muffled voice of the hair.

“Thay gonna fuck us!” the hat screeched.

“Stop fake code-switching!” the hair snapped.

 

 

“No collusion with pussy,” Donald said in a hoarse whisper. “No non-sexual obstruction.”

Sarah groaned.

 

 

“CLIMB THE LADDER!” the hat screamed.

“I CAN’T!” the hair screamed in pain and terror.

“YOU WANA GET FUDED? DO YOU?!?”

 

 

“Pie?” Donald asked. “Are you still comfortable? Am I making you comfortable?”

Sarah said, “I don’t know, Mr. President.”

Donald dug his penis stub deeper into her back pudge. “It’s OK. You can call me ‘Donald President’ if you want to.”

 

 

“Slam the hatch!” the hat yelled.

“It’s too heavy!” the hair sobbed.

 

 

“Can I watch you eat a Big Mac?” Donald asked.

 

 

The hat flew through the doggie door from the Presidential Shitter and tumbled into the Oval Office.

“Get off of me!” the hair said, bucking the hat off and onto the floor.

“Where have you guys been?!?” Donald asked them.

“Oh my God, Donald,” the hair said sternly. “Get off Sarah. Now. Get off, get off, get off!”

“Non-sexual!” Donald said. “Like Biden! I’m being like Biden!”

“No, Donald!” the hair yelled. “Bad Donald! Bad Donald”

USA Hat laughed and laughed and laughed.

“Get that redneck piece of shit out of here!” the hat screamed.

“Bad Donald!” the hair said again. “Where is the damn spray bottle?”

 

“What is he tweeting? What is he tweeting?” the hat asked the jizzal void of the tunnel system under Washington, DC.

The hair grumbled noncommittally over the whine of the electric scooter he was driving. The lights were out in the current section of Kennedy fuck tunnels they were investigating and he was barely creeping along.

“Why isn’t there a signal?” the hat wailed.

“Maybe you should have stayed behind,” the hair offered.

“Donald insisted I come with you,” the hat said morosely.

“Well, you’ve certainly been a huge help,” the hat said.

“Yuge help. Yuge,” the hat said absently. “Is there a USB port on this scooter thing? My battery is dying.”

“I don’t see one,” the hair said, not taking a look.

“Did you take a look for one?”

“Of course I did.”

The hat snorted in disgust.

“I’m sure Donald is fine. Some tweets about Mueller. No collusion, blah blah blah,” the hair said.

“I’m worried that he might be trolling on the McDonald’s feed again,” the hat said. “Remember that flame war he got in over the McLean?”

“He’s probably just obsessively checking the McRib Locator site.”

A low guttural moan echoed through the tunnel and the hair let the scooter glide to a halt.

“What was that?” the hat asked.

“How should I know?” the hair asked. “Fucking creepy as fuck though.”

“I did it come from ahead of us or behind?” The hat turned on the flashlight on his cellphone. The light barely penetrated a few feet in front of them before being swallowed by the dark. The hat turned it off with a snort of disgust.

“Shh,” the hair shushed.

“What? What is it?” the hat asked.

“Be quiet. I think I hear something.”

They both strained to listen. Water dripping. Far-off churning of machinery. The stale exhale of one of the grimy air vents set into the ceiling. The hair was about to speak when he heard the soft shuffle of feet.

“Did you hear that?” the hat asked.

“Yes, of course, I heard that,” the hair replied in an urgent whisper.

“Ruh-roh, Raggy,” the hat whispered. The hair reached back with a tendril and slapped at him.

“I’m going to keep going,” the hair whispered back and started the scooter forward.

“Wanafud?” a voice behind them asked and they both yelped in terror.

“Go!” the hat said. “Go go go go go go go go go go go!”

The hair twisted the throttle as far as it would go and the scooter sped up a little.

“Wanafud?” asked the voice again.

“It’s coming, it’s coming,” the hat screamed. “Open her up.”

“That’s what she…” the hat began before scooter ran into a low wall that had been built across the tunnel.

The hat and the hair shot over the barrier and landed, tumbling, on the other side.

“Are you alright?” the hair asked when they stopped.

“Ugh,” the hat replied.

“Wanafud?” they heard again, close enough for them to tell it was back behind them, beyond the scooter.

“It will be here any minute!” the hair squealed.

“Wanafud?” asked a voice ahead of them and they both groaned.

“We’re surrounded!” the hair exclaimed.

As the shuffling steps grew louder, the hat checked his phone again for a signal. The screen came on briefly through a thick webbing of cracks. “No signal, of course.”

“Donald will come looking for us when we don’t come back,” the hair said.

The hat’s laughter was high and piercing in the tunnel. After he stopped, from before them and behind them, “Wanafud?” was said in near unison.

“Whatever happens, I just want to say,” the hat said calmly to the hair. “Fuck Donald, fuck Gerald Ford’s Probably Non-Existent Gold and, and most of all, fuck you.”

 

Check back next week for Part Three: The Hat and The Hair vs. The S.T.U.D.s