The Serum

“I want to use the girl’s room. I like to hear them pee,” Donald whined.

“You can’t use the girl’s room. You’re a boy, Donald,” the hair said patiently. It massaged his head with tender tendrils.

“They hiss when they pee,” Donald whispered.

“Donald. Tighten up. We’re down in the national polls,” the hat barked. “You are running for President. I have plans for us.”

“That dude is going into the girl’s room,” Donald said, pointing at a hulking figure.

“Stop pointing, Donald. It’s not polite,” the hair said.

“That’s a transwoman,” the hat said.

“What the fuck is that?” Donald demanded.

“It’s a boy that turned himself into a girl,” the hair said.

“I can wear a dress. I like dresses sometimes,” Donald said. An aide was watching him whisper to himself. She went back to her Blackberry after a moment.

“It’s not just a man in a dress, Donald,” the hat said. “They have a surgery.”

“Not all of them,” the hair said.

“Shut up,” the hat said. “Don’t confuse him.”

“Surgery? What kind of surg… You mean they cut off their pee-pee and bubbles?!?”

The incessant clacking of tiny keyboards ceased when Donald began to yell. Donald’s body man prepared his tranquillizer gun.

“Donald! Quiet!” the hair hissed.

“I love my pee-pee!”

“Donald! For fuck’s sake!” the hat said.

Donald began to stroke his beloved member through his suit pants.

“We have to get him to call off the Town Hall,” the hair said to the hat.

“Oh, fuck. He just took it out. Look for cameras,” the hat said to the hair.

“I love my pee-pee,” Donald sobbed. A dart hit him in the left buttock and he sagged to the ground.

“Ah, shit. Now what are we going to do?” the hat moaned.

“Omega Protocol,” the hair said.

It thought, with all its coiffed might, at a nearby aide. The aide screamed and fell to the ground. She reached out to the body man, blood streaming from her eyes.

“He must go out. The serum. Give him the serum,” she said, her voice robotic and precise.

The body man nodded, produced a large syringe from his travel pack, and jammed it into Donald’s neck. Synthetic adrenalin, methamphetamine and the refined semen of a mighty stallion flowed into Donald’s bloodstream. His eyes snapped open.

“Will this work?” the hat asked the hair.

“I don’t know.”

“What if he goes out there and just spouts gibberish?”

“It’s MSNBC… who gives a fuck?”