"MAH TITTAYS!" Newt screamed as he rushed toward Chris. He dropped his sword as he lunged and the two of them landed on the dirt floor of the arena, moobs locked in slippery combat.
"You one of them boylovers?" Mike asked Mike as they circled one another. General Flynn laughed and fell forward on his sword, dead from a self-inflicted wound. The crowd cheered and gibbered.
"Good win, Pence," Trump said. "Solid victory. This makes you the leader." Pence roared and held his gauntleted hands in the air in triumph.
"He knows the other guys just killed himself, right? Like, he did nothing at all?" the hair asked.
"You just have to shit all over everything, don't you?" the hat shot back.
"He's running a victory lap around to fat guys struggled to slap each other to death with flab," the hair observed.
"And that's how we are going to make America great again," the hat said dreamily.
The grunting and farting of Newt and Chris filled the arena as Mike stopped gloating. Their labored breathing and half-muttered curses got louder as the crowd quieted.
"Look at them. So disgusting. Get up you two. Fight like men!" Donald yelled through the PA system.
"I like watching men!" Mike screamed. "Fighting. I like watching men fighting!" he corrected himself.
"Pence is so white he's hard to look at," the hat said.
"He looks like the ghost of a mummy that died a second time," the hair agreed.
"Wait, wait," Donald said. "Hold on. Stop fighting. We are suspending the selection process."
"No, the thigh-fuckers are mine! You said I could kill them! You said I could watch them die!" Mike screamed. His erection was bright purple.
"There's been a development," Donald said. "Some pry Moon Base and Governor Fatbridge apart."
"What's going on?" the hair asked.
"Goddamn terrorists," the hat said. "They stepped all over our big moment again."