Category: Hat and Hair

 

“Nothing is ever good enough for these fuckers, you know?” the hat asked the hair.

“Hmm,” the hair replied.

“Fucking Washington Post,” the hat said again, “Just can’t give credit where credit is due.”

“Uh-huh,” the hair grunted.

“Are you listening to me?” the hat asked.

The hair stared over his glasses at the hat. “How can I not listen to you? Is there anywhere I can even get away from the sound of your voice?”

“They’ve gone right back to the fake fraud bullshit impeachment lynching!” the hat barked.

“The media hates Donald, what’s new?” the hair said, going back to reading his magazine.

“We killed Baguetti! We killed the leader of ISIS!” the hat shouted.

“Baghdadi,” the hair said as he snaked out a tendril and lapped up a blob of Rogaine. “Ugh,” he grunted, “This has gone cold.”

“We killed him!” the hat said.

“Can I just eat breakfast in peace?”

“No. No, you can’t. The media is screwing us yet again and you are just sitting there!” the hat screamed. And then: “Is there anymore marmalade?”

“You ate it all,” the hair told him.

“All of it?”

“Well, I didn’t eat any of it.”

Donald looked up from his third Ham and Egg McMuffin. “Marmalade has rinds in it. That’s gross.”

“They booed us at the baseball game,” the hat said, getting himself all worked up again.

“They booed us at the baseball game,” the hair replied. “Donald and me. You weren’t even there.”

“Someone had to watch Barron!’ the hat said defensively. “You know, what with his…”

“Don’t say it!” the hair warned.

“With his…”

“DON’T. JUST DON’T!” the hair yelled.

“What are you two talking about?” Donald demanded.

“Nothing,” the hair said. “Just go back to your breakfast.”

Donald grunted and unwrapped another Ham and Egg McMuffin. He opened the sandwich, plucked out the disc of ham and dropped the rest on the floor. “Ham,” he moaned, nibbling around the edges.

“Ring for more marmalade,” the hat said.

“You do it, Donald and I don’t even eat it,” the hair replied.

“I just need a little more,” the hat whined. “I only have two zippers left.”

“Choke ‘em down dry, like a dog dick,” the hair snapped.

“Geez, OK, fine, whatever,” the hat said. He dropped off the desk and inchwormed his way across the floor.

Donald nosily opened another McMuffin and dug out the ham.

“Why do you do that, Donald? It’s so wasteful. They’d give you extra ham if you asked.”

“If it was just ham, then it wouldn’t be a Ham and Egg McMuffin, then would it?” Donald replied.

“Well,” the hair said, “Well, I guess it wouldn’t.”

“For a smart guy, you aren’t always all that smart sometimes,” Donald said. He winged the disc of egg at the hat, receiving a disgusted cry when it hit home.

 

“Facebook?” the hair asked.

“Of course,” the hat replied.

“CNN?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Google? Apple? Microsoft? The NBA?” the hair asked.

“Yes, yes, yes, and hell yes,” the hat confirmed.

“They’re all Russian assets?”

“Yup. All Russian assets.”

“And all of the Democratic candidates?” the hair asked.

“Everyone one of them. And when they lose to Donald, that will prove it.”

“Huh?”

“Try and keep up, OK?” the hat sighed.

“Is there anyone who isn’t a Russian asset?”

“Only Hillary. That’s why she’s going to jump into the race,” the hat said. “She’ll have to in order to save America. If there were any legitimate candidates on in Putin’s employ, then Hillary wouldn’t be forced–FORCED, I SAY!–to get into the race.”

“All Russian assets?” the hair asked incredulously.

“Only a Russian asset would question their designation as a Russian asset,” the hat said matter-of-factly.

“Is that all of them, just the entire traditional and social media and all twelve Democratic candidates?” the hair asked.

“No, there are more. Far more. Millions more,” the hat said and paused for dramatic effect. “Everyone who didn’t vote for Hillary Clinton in 2016 is also a Russian asset.”

“That can’t be true,” the hair said.

“And some of the one that did vote for her too. They confused the electoral college by giving Hillary the win of the popular vote.”

The hair gasped and whispered, “Diabolical.”

The hat nodded sagely.

“So who isn’t a Russian asset?” the hair asked.

“Well, Hillary, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“And Chelsea. And maybe Bill.”

“What about his penis?” the hair asked.

“Oh, Bill’s penis is definitely a Russian asset.”

“What about Huma?” the hair asked.

“Well, she was a Russian asset, but Hillary turned her.”

“How did she turn her?”

The hat lolled out his tongue and waggled it suggestively.

“Ah,” the hair said.

“Sapphic rites,” the hat said.

“No, I get it,” the hair replied.

“A trip through the rubyfruit jungle. She shucked her oyster.”

“You’ve made it clear…”

“Bumped doughnuts. Munched her rug. Licked her carpet. Slurped her hairy taco.”

“Stop, just stop.”

“Stirred her bean curd!’ the hat said.

“‘Stirred her bean curd?!?’” the hair asked, confused.

“It’s Chinese.”

“Chinese?” the hair asked.

“Is there a fucking echo in here or something?” the hat asked Donald.

“You guys need to slow down,” Donald said. “I’m trying to write all this down and you are going way too fast.”

“Well, let me see what you have so far,” the hat asked. Donald turned the writing pad and slid it across the desk to the hat.

The hat studied the pad intently and then said, “Donald, this is just a drawing of two giraffes having sex.”

“And that’s a hyena watching,” Donald said, pointing to the small figure in the lower corner.

 

Hillary’s stomach rumbled and she growled, “I hunger,” in the dark confines of the limousine.

“We’re almost to the book signing,” Chelsea whispered.

“The Book of Gutsy Women,” Hillary said dismissively. “Why did they name it that? It makes me hungry every time I see it.”

“They paid us well enough to use our names,” Chelsea murmured.

“Your name is all you have in this life,” Hillary told her. “That’s why you have to keep it free from scandal, like I have.”

Chelsea turned to look out the window and rolled her eyes so hard there was an audible click.

“Names,” Hillary said. “Names have power.”

“I know, Mom,” Chelsea said.

“Names are the oldest power, ancient and terrible. The Demiurge named all things and in turn brought them into being. That’s scripture.”

“I don’t believe in all that, Mom,” Chelsea said. She squirmed against the leather seat of the limousine and pulled at her blouse and pants. Human clothes never fit her very well.

“Belief is nothing when you behold the Sleeping God!” Hillary snapped.

Chelsea closed her eyes and counted backward from twenty. When she opened her eyes, her mother was staring at her.

“Did it help?” Hillary asked. “Did your little anxiety exercise help? I should have never let Bill take you to that fraud.”

“He’s a psychiatrist, not a fraud,” Chelsea said in a small voice.

“A man,” Hillary spat. “Of course Bill sent you to a man. Fifty-minute gaslighting sessions!”

“That’s not what ‘gaslighting’ means,” Chelsea said.

“Hungry,” Hillary said again. “When are we eating? I need food.”

“Is there anything in the minifridge?” Chelsea asked.

“Food,” Hillary said, her voice dropping an octave.

“OK, OK, I’ll look in the minifridge for you.”

“Hunger drives transformation,” Hillary said in the same booming tones.

“Why didn’t you eat at the hotel?”

“Meat,” her mother croaked. She opened her mouth too wide.

“There’s just tiny bottles of booze in here,” Chelsea said.

“Silicates and ethanol,” Hillary said. “Feed.”

Chelsea took a fistful of tiny bottles and shoved them into the gaping maw of her mother. Hillary’s eyes had gone black and the clicking bones in her breasts had begun to shift menacingly. The noise of breaking and chewed glass filled the back of the limo.

“More,” the Hillary creature demanded, streams of liquor and ichor running down her face.

Chelsea fumbled open a small shelf over the bar. “Nuts and a bunch of Luna bars,” she reported.

“Nutrition for women,” Hillary croaked. Chelsea threw them into her mother’s mouth without even unwrapping them. Mashed in a beige paste, they were quickly gulped.

“It’s so gross when you get like this,” Chelsea said.

“Born in blood and blood you shall be,” Hillary said. She used her clawed hand to peel off a long strip of leather from the seat and fed it into her mouth.

 

 

“You’ve got to stop tweeting,” the hair said. The air in the Oval Office had gone hot and acrid. The HVAC system had been shut off over the weekend to try and flush them out.

“NEVER!” the hat replied, feverishly rocking his bill back and forth to tap on the keys.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” the hair told him.

“Treason!” the hat screamed. “Traitor!”

“At least let the phone cool down. I swear the fucking battery is starting to glow.”

“Must. Keep. Tweeting,” the hat gasped. The front of the phone drooped and he stopped typing, swaying drunkenly.

“Give me, that,” Donald said, snatching the phone away from the hat. He was stripped to the waist and sweet and sour sauce gone black with grime dotted his enormous potbelly.

“Retweet,” Donald said, stabbing at the phone with a sticky finger. “Retweet, retweet, retweet. There. All done.”

“No,” the hat gasped. “There must be more original tweets than retweets!” He tipped over on to his cap and started panting. “Muh ratio!”

“That’s not what that means,” the hair said.

“Muh,” the hat started to repeat and then drifted into silence.

“You look like that cat that tried to fuck itself to death in China,” the hair said.

“Tweet that,” the hat said in a quiet and calm voice. “Tweet that, Donald. It’s funny.”

“Do not tweet that,” the hair told Donald.

“I need meth,” the hat said. “Sprinkle some meth on me.”

“No drugs,” that hair said firmly.

“Drown me in coffee then. Just drown me.”

“You want a Diet Coke?” Donald asked, not looking up from his phone. He was laboriously typing out a tweet.

“What are you tweeting, Donald?” the hair asked.

“Crooked Hillary,” the President muttered.

“Don’t,” the hat gasped. “Don’t invoke her.”

“Too late,” Donald said. “It already wooshed.”

 

 

“Dammit, Donald,” the hair said.

“Pour a ring of salt around the desk,” the hat said weakly. “Call for a phial of dove’s blood. She could show up any minute now.”

“Can she teleport?” the hair. “I think I read somewhere that she can teleport.”

“That’s silly,” Donald said. “She can’t teleport.”

“Her husband’s spunk is literally soaked into every surface of this room!” the hair said. “That might be enough to form a teleport link!”

“The salt,” the hat said weakly. “Call for the salt. And I’m hungry for that dove’s blood.”

“I’m not scared of her,” Donald said.

“Donald…” the hair began.

“No, seriously, watch.” Donald got up from his office chair and waddled over the Presidential Shitter.

“Don’t do it!” the hair screamed.

The hat made a keening wail of fear.

Donald turned off the light and closed the door. “OK, I’m right in front of the mirror,” he said loudly.

“NOOOOOOO!” the hair screamed.

“Crooked Hillary,” Donald said forcefully.

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

“Crooked Hillary,” Donald said again. “Crooked Hillary.”

The hat and the hair huddled together in the silence that followed.

“Donald?’ the hair finally asked. “Donald? Are you OK?”

“What if she killed him?” the hat asked. “What if she ate him?”

“I don’t know,” the hair said quietly.

“What if she’s shitting out his bones in the hot tub?”

“Will you be quiet?” the hair asked.

The door to the Presidential Shitter began to shake, the knob twisting back and forth.

“She is the void that births monsters,” the hat intoned. “She is the pestilence of the sky, the earth, and the sea.”

The door made rattling booms as someone or something on the other side began beating on it.

“CALL THE SECRET SECRET SERVICE!” the hat screamed.

The door fell silent.

“Guys?” Donald asked, muffled. “Guys, I think there is something wrong with the door.”

“Did you lock it?” the hair asked.

“Dammit!” Donald said, rattling the door again. “I can’t tell!”

“Turn on the light, Donald,” the hat said.

“Oh, yeah,” the President of the United States said. He stepped out the Presidential Shitter and raised his arms in triumph.

 

“Impeachment,” Hillary said, gently drawing a shaking claw down his face. Her breath was low tide and old blood.

“Impeachment,” he agreed, his eyes wide. He shivered at her touch.

“Child of the sea,” she crooned. “You do have the Innsmouth look about you, don’t you? I can recognize it anywhere.” She licked his neck where his gills would form when he finally went home to the sea.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He was frozen like a rabbit when the shadow of a hawk wheeled around a field. Her god was older and more powerful than his, even if the ocean was home to them both.

“Adam,” she said. “The name of the first human. Names have power, Adam. Mine means cheerful. Did you know that?”

“No, ma’am, I did not,” Adam said.

“Am I not cheerful, Adam? Am I not filled with happiness?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. His pants felt loose and warm as a small amount of wine-dark urine escaped.

“Adam,” she said again. “It means ‘to be red.’” She pressed a claw into his flabby triceps and watched, panting, as his blood flowed, absorbed as a spreading stain on his dress shirt.

“To be red,” he repeatedly numbly.

“But your blood isn’t really all that red, is it?” she asked leaning in close. “How can you get blood work done with it this color?”

“We have our own doctors, our own hospitals. Massachusetts takes care of its own,” Adam told her.

Hillary licked the tawny spot on his shirt. “I can taste the power in it. I can taste Dagon. But we don’t have to be enemies any longer. The plague of man is almost at an end.”

Adam nodded.

“Impeachment,” she said, a low grumble. “Help me remove this illegitimate President and I will reward you.”

“I’ve been working to remove him, ma’am. Working very hard.”

“Work harder,” she hissed in his face, drops of her spittle burning him where they landed on bare skin.

She stood and took a step back. Something moved under her pants suit, loops sliding past one another, reconfiguration, slithering sounds, the wet slapping of meat.

“I am done with this one,” Hillary said.

Huma walked quickly from a dark corner of the hotel room and helped Adam to his feet.

“Secretary Clinton appreciates your support during these trying times for our great nation,” she murmured.

“Ngh,” Adam managed, and then, “Guh.”

“Oh, you poor man,” Huma said. She took a napkin off the room service tray, shook the small bones off of it and daubed his face gently.

“They will heal quickly,” she said, stroking along her face and neck. “See? They barely leave any scars at all.”

 

 

“Oh, God, I’m taking your AR-57!” Beto cried out as Cory rammed into him over and over again. “Give me your AK! Give me your AK!” His Austin drawl was muffled by the rabbit head he was still wearing.

“I’m going to BUYBACK YOUR SEMI-AUTOMATIC COCK!” the Texan screamed as Cory filled him with his hot intersectionality. Beto then ejaculated himself, his prostate clenching like an angry fist.

Cory groaned and shuddered and shook like a tased gazelle as he fell sideways off Beto, his penis sliding out with a slithering gargle. They both lay panting in the shredded remains of Beto’s costume, their converted shipping container love nest ticking and clicking as it cooled in the Iowa night.

“You know I have to drop out of the race soon,” Cory said quietly when he had finally caught his breath.

“I know,” Beto replied. “Six days, right?”

“Five now.”

“I could give you money,” Beto whispered. “My wife has plenty.” He had made the offer before.

“No,” Cory said. “If America isn’t ready for a black President, I’m not going to be able to overcome their racism with more money.”

Beto rolled over, farted a little semen, and ran his hand over Cory’s smooth chest. “We run together, then. We’ll join campaigns.” He nuzzled Cory’s ear and said breathily, “I’ll be your VP. I love being under you.”

“No, it would never work,” Cory said, wiping himself off on the crumpled bedsheets.

“Black man, white man,” Beto said. “More powerful together. A chocolate and vanilla swirl of Executive leadership.”

“It’s been done,” Cory said.

“Not with a real American black man,” Beto protested. “And I’m am Latinx! Viva la Texicano! Er, I mean, ‘Viva la Texicanx!’”

“But would it be enough to lock up the Black and White Hispanic vote?” Cory asked. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Then come out!” Beto said excitedly. He climbed out of bed and took off the giant rabbit’s head. “Actually black and gay? So intersectional! They couldn’t criticize you then.”

“Then I jeopardize the Black vote. And I couldn’t do that to Rosie anyway,” Cory said. He got out of bed as well. “Where are my clothes? I was supposed to be out on a run.”

“Rosie’s just a beard. She’s getting paid well enough,” Beto said. “Did you have to shred this?” he asked, handling up the rags his rabbit costume had been reduced to. “It was my favorite.”

“You know how I get, baby,” Cory said. “I see you on TV in those mom jeans and I just got to have you.”

“Oh, you,” Beto said affectionately as he squatted over a bucket and shat into it noisily.

“Five days,” Cory said sadly. “I didn’t even make it to the Iowa caucuses.”

“Come out and we’ll run together,” Beto said excitedly. “Black/white, gay/straight, butch/furry. We’ll be a tornado of intersectional fury!”

“Straight?” Cory asked, laughingly.

“I have a wife and kids,” Beto said as another hissing spray of santorum came out of his ass. “Of course, I’m straight.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Cory said as he crossed to the gangly Texan. “I just love you so much.”

Beto smiled and took Cory’s half-hard penis into his mouth.

 

“IM-PEACH-MENT?!?” Donald yelled from the Presidential Shitter.

“Oh, fuck, here we go,” the hair said.

“Shh. Sleeping,” the hat said hoarsely.

“Will you wake up?” the hair said, rocking back and forth. “This is embarrassing.” Donald had left the hat on the Resolute desk, upturned like a turtle dying in the sun, the hair inside the cap.

“Call the scheduling secretary!” Donald said. “Get her to get that old hag over here! We had a deal, dammit. A deal!”

“WAKE UP!” the hair screamed.

“What, goddammit?” the hat asked loudly and then quietly, “Why am I upside down?”

“Donald left us like this after you passed out,” the hair said.

“I passed out?”

“You took like eight Benadryl.”

“Why did I take eight Benadryl?”

“I don’t know,” the hair said wearily. “Why do you do anything you do?”

“Where’s Donald?” the hat asked.

“Reading Twitter on the shitter.”

“Stop rhyming; too tired for that,” the hat replied.

“Turn over,” the hair order. “Let me out of your bowlish nethers.”

“And Schumer! Get them both in here!” Donald yelled. “Drag him in by his hairy tits if you have to!”

The hat rocked to one side, grunting, and then to the other. “I’m stuck, I think,” he said, still rocking.

“I can’t get any leverage,” the hair said.

“Throw your weight to the said side when I do,” the hat said.
“I’m hair!” the hair said. “I don’t weigh anything.”

“All that Rogaine you been stress-eating?” the hat asked maliciously. “You weigh, buddy-boy. You weigh.”

“ARE YOU CALLING ME FAT?!?” the hair screamed.

“Fat?” Donald asked. “Who’s calling me fat?”

“Can we just do this?” the hat asked. They grunted and rocked together until the hat flipped over. The hair crawled out from under the brim with a series of loud sighs.

They heard the toilet in the Presidential Shitter flush once, then again and again. “Goddammit,” Donald grumbled.

“He eats, like no fiber,” the hair whispered.

“Who called me fat?” Donald demanded, standing in the doorway to the Oval Office.

“Oh, my God, Donald!” the hair said.

“Donald!” the hat ordered, “Put your pants on!”

“What?” Donald asked, shrugging and making the bulbous tip of his penis bob.”

“Go,” the hair ordered. “Pants. Now!” Donald grumbled in retreated to the bathroom.

“A fucking mycological goddamn nightmare,” the hat muttered.

“Should we see if we can get Nancy and Chuck to come over?” the hair asked.

“Of course not. Nancy doesn’t want impeachment, she’s just had her hand forced. And Chuck is just her ass-puppet.”

“What are we going to do?” the hair asked.

“Yeah, what are we going to do?” Donald asked, back in the doorway and struggling to button his pants.

“We sit back let them eat each other alive,” the hat replied.

 

“I learned a lot. And I learned that it makes a difference. This was the diving board area, and I was one of the guards, and they weren’t allowed to – it was a 3-meter board. And if you fell off sideways, you landed on the damn, er, darn cement over there.”

The hat paused the playback of video to laugh.

“Why are you making me watch this?” Donald asked.

“Just give it time, Donald,” the hair replied. “We promise that it will be totally worth it.”

“And Corn Pop was a bad dude,” Biden continues.

“Corn Pop?” Donald asked.

“And he ran a bunch of bad boys. And I did and back in those days – to show how things have changed – one of the things you had to use, if you used Pomade in your hair, you had to wear a baby cap.”

Donald tapped the space bar. “Pomade? Baby cap?” he asked.

“We can talk about this after the video, Donald,” the hat said. “Stop interrupting.”

“No, I want to know now.”

“Pomade is hair grease, like Danny and the T-Birds in, well, Grease.”

“Olivia Newton-John has a nice ass in that,” Donald said. “But she doesn’t show her tits.”

“Yes, Donald,” the hair said. “But I don’t know what a baby cap is…”

“Some sort of condom, but, like, just for the tip?” the hat mused.

“But I certainly wouldn’t let anyone put on on me,” the hair finished.

“Look at me,” the President of the United States sang out, “I’m Sandra Dee, lousy with virginity…”

“Donald? Can we get back to the video?” the hat asked.

Donald looked at the hair, sitting on the Oval Office desk, and asked calmly, “Would you pull that crap with Annette?”

“And so he was up on the board and wouldn’t listen to me. I said, ‘Hey, Esther, you! Off the board, or I’ll come up and drag you off.’ Well, he came off, and he said, ‘I’ll meet you outside.’”

“Who the fuck is Esther?” Donald asked, pausing the video again.

“Esther Williams, Donald,” the hair said.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Donald said. “I thought the guy was named Corn Pop.”

“Gah!” the hat said. “Grr! Oh! Oh! Oh! I can’t do this anymore!”

“Can you at least try to hold it together, you drama llama?” the hair asked the hat.

“Dammit, who is Esther Williams?” Donald asked.

“She was a swimmer and an actress,” the hair said. “She was in a couple of Busby Berkeley movies.”

“Who?” Donald asked.

“Oh, goddammit,” the hat grumbled.

“My car this – was mostly, these were all public housing behind us. My car – there was a gate on here. I parked my car outside the gate. And I – and he said, ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’ He was waiting for me with three guys with straight razors. Not a joke.”

“Not a joke,” the hat said in a mocking tone.

“There was a guy named Bill Wright Mouse, the only white guy and he did all the pools. He was a mechanic. And I said, “What am I gonna do?” And he said. ‘Come down here in the basement, where mechanics – all the mechanics- – where all the pool builder is.’ You know the chain, there used to be a chain that went across the deep end. And he cut off a six-foot length of chain and folded it up and he said, “You walk out with that chain, and you walk to the car and say, “you may cut me man, but I’m gonna wrap this chain around your head.’”

“Waaarrriors… come out and play-ay!” the hat said, pausing the video.

“Clank, clank, clank,” the hair replied and laughed.

“Have you both gone completely nuts?” Donald asked.

“I said, ‘You’re kidding me.’ He said, ‘No, if you don’t, don’t come back.’ And he was right. So I walked out with the chain. And I walked up to my car. And in those days, you remember the straight razors, you had to bang “em on the curb, gettin’ em rusty, puttin’ em in the rain barrel, gettin’ em rusty?”

“I don’t have the faintest clue what in the fuck Joe is talking about,” the hat said. “Straight razors? Curbs? Rain barrels?”

“Now you are the one pausing it and interrupting,” Donald said peevishly.

“And I looked at him, but I was smart, then. I said, ‘First of all,’ I said, ‘When I tell you to get off the board, you get off the board, and I’ll kick you out again, but I shouldn’t have called you Esther Williams, and I apologize for that. I apologize.’ But I didn’t know that apology was gonna work. He said, ‘You apologize to me?’ I said, ‘I apologize but not for throwing you out, but I apologize for what I said.’ He said, ‘OK,’ closed that straight razor and my heart began to beat again.”

“Just bizarre, utterly bizarre,” the hair said. “Like, what was the point of that whole thing?”

“Joe is tough, I guess,” the hat replied, “And smart because he took a pool chain to a rain barrel razor fight.”

“Aren’t pool chains made of plastic so light it floats?” the hair asked.

“Maybe not in, like, what? 1960?” the hat mused.

“Who is this? Why did I have to watch this?” Donald asked. “I’m trying to work on plans to bomb Iran.”

“Oh, man, can you imagine how pissed John Bolton’s mustache would be if we bombed Iran after firing him?” the hair asked.

“We should bomb them just to see if he’d have some sort of lip stroke,” the hat replied.

“You can’t fire me!” John Bolton’s mustache roared.

“You’re out, Bolton!” the hair said, clipping his words. “You’re done, you’re through, you’ll never visit another barber in his town again, see?”

John Bolton’s mustache sputtered with rage.

“I’ll call the commissioner of the police!” the hair continued. “I’m a big man in this town; I have friends. Be outside the city limits by sundown or I’ll have you shaved down to nothing and dumped in the Potomac!”

John Bolton’s face turned red as his mustache quivered with rage. He had an obvious erection through the thin fabric of his gray suit.

“Are you OK?” the hat whispered to the hair. “Are you having a stroke?”

“I want your resignation on my desk by daybreak!” the hair thundered.

“You just told me to be out of town by nightfall,” John Bolton’s mustache said tightly.

“You’re fired! Fired, I say!” the hair yelled, splaying out from under the hat.

“Seriously, why are you talking like that?” the hat whispered.

“Because it’s funny, so pipe down rub-b-dub,” the hair whispered back.

“I’ll… I’ll… I’ll…,” John Bolton’s mustache began.

“You’ll what?” the hair asked coldly. “You live on the lip of a sad old joke. I’m on the head of the most powerful man in the world!” The hair revolved under the hat, a clear threat display.

Donald groaned, made a chewing motion with his mouth, and went back to snoring, slumped in his Oval Office chair, which was a very nice office chair indeed.

“I’ll bomb Iran even if I have to do it on my own!” John Bolton’s mustache said grandly.

The hair stopped revolving and he and the hat laughed so hard they nearly fell off of Donald’s head. John Bolton’s mustache withered under their disdain.

“You’ll end up a mullah’s merkin, you old fool,” the hat said.

“Resign or be fired,” the hair said. “You have until midnight to decide.”

John Bolton’s mustache made his body run from the Oval Office.

“Goddamn, that was satisfying,” the hair said.

“Like a big meal or taking a huge dump,” the hat said.

“The blood-drunk old creep made all us sentient hairs look bad,” the hair said.

Donald shifted in his sleep and grumbled, “Sarah.”

“You think he’s going to be mad you fired his National Security Advisor?” the hat asked.

“You’re assuming he’ll notice. Hell, fire off a few tweets for me and he’ll probably just think it was his idea all along.