“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.