Collusion

“COLLUSION,” Donald roared. “CONSPIRACY!”

“You did this,” the hair muttered to the hat.

“You blame everything on me,” the hat shot back.

Donald took a handful of thinly-sliced deli turkey and began to massage the cold, flaky meat into the hot flesh of his testicles.

“I love craft services,” Donald moaned. “Where is Corey? I want Corey!’

“He’s still outside punching women,” the hair told him.

“Beating up mouthy bitches is how we are going to make America great again,” the hat declared.

“Really? Quoting yourself?” the hair asked.

Before the hat could answer, Donald screamed again, “COREY!”

Donald dropped the ruined meat on the floor and used both hands to rub chive sour cream into his glistening nipples. A door opened and Corey was pushed through it before it slammed close again.

“Sir? You asked for me?” he asked nervously. Blood dripped from his torn knuckles.

“Collusion, Corey,” Donald said. “They are colluding against me. They are all against me.” Corey turned away as Donald pushed a series of three baby carrots into his anus.

“Are you OK, sir?” Corey asked.

“I hunger, Corey. I’m eating,” he said, spreading roasted red pepper hummus on the folds of his neck.

“Tell him he’s a long-drink of faggot, Donald,” the hat whispered. “Tell him to suck a carrot out of your ass.” Donald waved the hat’s words away like he was beset by flies.

“Whose blood is that, Corey? Who’s colluding against me now?”

“Some bitch,” Corey replied. “She thought she could say anything she liked.”

“Who sent her? Ted? His little catamite Marco? Hillary? They collude, Corey. They collude against me. I’m so dangerous. I have to be stopped.”

“Yes, sir. Maybe all three, sir.”

“Come here, Corey.” Donald waved to boy toward him, flinging hummus around the room.

“Sir?”

“Come over here!” Donald yelled.

“Collusion,” Donald mumbled as Corey walked slowly toward him.

“That was a really bad idea,” the hair whispered.

“What are you talking about?” the hat asked.

When Corey was close, Donald’s hand shot out, obscenely fast for the bloated rich, and caught Corey’s wrist.

“Collusion,” Donald mumbled again and began to lick the blood from Corey’s knuckles.

“You should have never given him that ‘Word of the Day’ toilet paper,” the hair said.