“'Anáil nathrach, ortha bháis bheatha, do thuar dhéanamh!” Donald shouted into the night-shrouded darkness of midnight.
“Reveal to me! Reveal!” he screamed while profanities and blasphemies swirled around him on the night-wind.
“Isn’t from Excalibur?” the hair whispered to the hat.
“Don’t break his concentration, you fool,” the hat whispered back.
They were both in places of honor on the wind-swept night altar, hastily constructed by Mexicans in the depths of the night-haunted wind woods of darkest Wisconsin. Their brown, broken bodies littered the ground and in the wind-flickered flames of a thousand candles their blood shined as black as their illegal hearts.
“REVEAL!” Donald screamed again as his hot semen splattered the forest floor, steam rising from where it fell. A low rumble of thunder rolled through the nightwind blown trees.
“Yes! Show me how to bring Cruz to his knees!” Donald cried.
The hair sniggered and the hat let out a quiet, embarrassed cough.
Donald turned to glare at them. “To his knees in defeat. Defeat. Not like some sex thing,” he told them.
“Sure, Donald,” the hair said. The hat was shaking with suppressed laughter.