Maybe now you see why we need each other so much...

“Why did you say those mean things about Carly, Donald?” his hair asked in a whisper. They were right outside and Donald’s hair was afraid they it would be overheard.

“I didn’t say anything about her looks, I was just talking about her looks. You of all my friends should know this!” Donald replied in his own urgent whisper.

“Lay off him, hair,” Donald’s hat said. “He’s doing the best he can.” Donald’s hat was on a chair next to  the chamber. It had plans for America and no stupid hair was going to stand in its way.

“Fuck off, hat.”

“No, you fuck off!” the hat screamed. It was yelling, raging, shivering. It hated the hair so much.

“I never said nothing bad about Carly. I love Carly. I love the mutilated ruin of her diseased tits!” Donald screamed at them both. Tears were streaming down his face.

“Calm down, Donald. They’ll hear you,” his hair hissed.

“I don’t care,” Donald sobbed. “Meliana doesn’t love me anymore. Dumb bleeding cunt. Why doesn’t she love me?”

“She’s 44, Donald,” the hat said. “It’s time to dump her and get a new model.”

“Don’t listen to him, Donald,” the hair said. “She still has a few more years left in her.”

“You’re sticking it in something born in the 1970s, Donald,” the hat said. “Don’t you want some young tail? At least some 80s quim, juicy and tender?”

Donald smiled. “Ivanka was born in the 80s…”

Donald’s hair and his hat both sighed heavily.

“You want to take it this time?” the hat asked.

“I fucking hate you so much,” the hair replied.

“Donald,” the hair began. “We’ve talked about this before…”

The hat and the hair both fell silent when the doors to the chamber opened. A technician peered through the fogged glass of the revival chamber.

“Señor Trump?” he asked. “Do you need something? I heard you talking, but the microphones could not pick it up.”

“Go away,” Donald said, and he began to gently fondle himself.

"Terrible experiences make one wonder whether he who experiences them is not something terrible."

“What’s bred in the bone comes out in the flesh,” she whispered. The sickly smell of corrupted meat was the only perfume she ever wore and it raced from his nose straight to his penis on a wave of blood. His erection sprang into her hand with an audible slap and she clamped down on it with a hideous grip.

“You’re weak, Joe,” she whispered, raspy and hoarse. “Everyone knows it. Spineless like your father; meek like your mother. You were created by cowardice and a coward you are.” She squeezed the blood from his penis and glanced down to watch it rush back in after she released it. “This is all you’ve ever been good for, a cheap fuck in a train toilet.”

“That that that’s not true,” he stuttered. He licked at the slack skin of her neck as she forced the blood out his erection again. She wadded his penis up like a FOIA request and bore down. It felt like his scrotum would burst.

“You can’t run,” she said, the puckered asshole of her mouth barely moving.

“P-p-p-lease,” he whined, he whimpered, he said in a wet sob. She was crushing his penis into his body. She caught up his balls in her other hand and caressed them into one large bruise.

“You won’t run,” she said. “I’ll tear it off and fuck you with it. I’ll deglove it and use the skin as a condom when I fuck Bernie. I’ll suck the maggots from the wound and spit them in your mouth. You won’t run.” She dug her thumbnail into the underside of his penis, feeling the tendons under the skin. Joe moaned in terror and pleasure. “You won’t run. You won’t run. You won’t run.”

When he fainted, she squatted to urinate on him.