“Oh, Jesus,” his hair whispered. He knew that if he flopped to the floor Donald would blame him. The hat chuckled darkly from where he was stuffed into Donald’s jacket pocket.
“Soft pedal that shit, Donald,” the hat said. “You don’t want to get the gashes all riled up. You know how they love their abortions.”
“We’ve got to put them in jail or what’s the point?” Donald muttered into his lapel.
“You can’t just say that,” the hair insisted. “You have to act all contrite, like the woman didn’t want to get an abortion, but like, hey, there was the clinic, so she just wandered in and it happened.”
“Fucking sluts,” Donald said.
“Hot mic, dammit. Hot mic!” the hat said. It began to hum loudly, hoping to drown Donald out.
“If that bitch Ivanka had gone through with it, I wouldn’t have Ivanka,” Donald whispered. “My dear Ivanka. She sent me pictures of her post-baby pussy. It’s a mess. A fucking mess.”
“We know, Donald. You showed us it over and over again,” the hair said.
“He’s coming back,” the hat said.
Chris walked back on set, still stuffing his shirt back into his pants. He wiped his hands dry on his suit jacket as he sat down.
“You OK?” Chris asked Donald. “You need anything?”
“No, I’m fine,” Donald said petulantly.
“You want me to go back to the abortion stuff? I was looking at Twitter while I was trying to take a piss and everybody is pissed about.”
“I said what I think. I’m not going to change my mind so there’s no point.”
“You sure you don’t want to do it now? Your team is just going to put out a press release tomorrow saying you didn’t really mean it.”
“Fuck off, Matthews. That’s never going to happen. I said what I meant and I mean what I say and I never retract or explain.”
The hair snorted loudly, despite its lack of a nose.
Chris squirmed in his seat. “Damn prostate. Not only can I not take a simple piss, it feels like I’m sitting on a goddamn apple.”
“Can we just get this over with?” Donald asked.