They'll never know all that I do for you

“No comment!” the hair screamed at the reporters pursuing him to Marine One.

“No comment, you vultures!” he screamed but no one could hear him over the rotors spinning. He dug into Donald’s scalp painfully to keep them from blowing him away.

Donald waved at the reporters off as his guards kept them from rushing the helicopter as he boarded. When the door was shut, he flipped him off knowing they could see it or his shit-eating grin.

“I’m your hair, godammit! Me!” the hair wailed.

Donald settled the headphones over his ears and the pilot immediately asked him where he was going.

“Just take it up.”

“Sir?”

“Just buzz the city or something.”

“I have to file a flight plan, Mr. President.”

“Fine. Take me to New York. Take me to Melania. I’ve been missing her little swamp pussy.”

“Sir?”

“New York! New York! Take me home!” Donald screamed into the microphone, stamping his feet and balling up his fists.

“You don’t take Rogaine,” the hair wailed, “I eat it. Can’t we tell them?”

The hat chuckled from Donald’s suit pocket.

“Go fuck a rat turd,” the hair snapped at it.

“I told you it would get out,” the hat said.

“Shut up.”

“And I told him to buy it under the table, like he does Viagra.”

“Shut up!” the hair screamed, “They think he uses Rogaine! It’s so humiliating.”

“Keep your eyes on the prize, furball. It’s all happening. MAG-A! MAG-A! MAG-A!” the hat chanted.

“Yeah, I guess,” said the hair morosely.

“Soon Rex will be feeding you all the Rogaine you want. The really thick and creamy kind too. The good stuff.”

“Just leave me alone,” the hair said and fell limp against Donald head like on a humid Mar-a-Lago day.

it is now too late to reform the wayward sinner

"Have you heard about this groundhog?" Donald asked the crowd of carefully chosen people. "Have you heard about this dirtpig that thinks he controls the weather? Supposedly saw the shadow of a black guy and got all scared. I don't know."

The crowd laughed dutifully as the applause sign blinked overhead. The hair squirmed around so much he was afraid Donald would clamp his hand down.

"This giant rat thinks he controls the weather. The wea-a-thur. I don't think so. America controls the weather. I control the weather. Elections have consequences, rodents."

Kellyanne stood beside him, ramrod straight, her slack face sliding downward like her deflated breasts. She stifled a sigh and peed just a little. Her pelvic floor was a horrid ruin.

"It's Black History Month and I don't think Pugilnastion Phil or whatever his name his should be saying that black people scare him. The inner cities are horrible places. Humans can barely live there. And we have Iran firing in-ter-con-tin-en-tal ballistic missiles full of weather-controlling groundhogs at black people to send them terrible weather. So much for global warming."

Behind Donald, a homeless alcoholic from a film noir sway side-to-side and smiled as he watched a heavily-armed drone circle the city. Steve knew that Steve was going to be alright.

Inauguration Day, Pt. 2

“Inauguration,” Donald grumbled, “That’s a dumb word.”

“In means the formal ceremony for the beginning of something, especially a time in office,” the hair told him. The hat laughed from his display stand.

“I know that,” Donald snapped. But he didn’t. He really didn’t. “It’s still a dumb word.”

Donald turned in his closet mirrors to look at his new suit, his inauguration suit. It was perfect and classy and the best and a committee of a dozen top-ranked gays had picked it out for him. The hair longed to adjust the pocket square, but just shivered in irritation instead.

“It comes from augur in Latin,” the hair continued, ignoring them both. “In Ancient Rome, augurs were the priests who interpreted the will of the gods by studying the flight patterns of birds.”

“Look at Mr. Wiki-fag-opedia over here,” the hat.

“Birds?” Donald snorted. “Romans didn’t even have Twitter, so what do they know?”

There was a knock on the closet door. “Downold? Are vou reedy?” came Melania’s voice.

“Well, fuck. Dracula Hooker is here,” the hat said.

“Just tell her you almost are,” the hair told Donald.

“I almost am,” Donald said.

“It ees almost time to go,” she whined like a beaten cur.

“Tell her to fuck off, Donald,” the hat said.

“Fuck off, Donald!” Donald yelled through the closet door. Melania spat out a vile stream of Slovak gibberish as they could hear her heels clacking away.

“Have you got your Bible,” Donald the hair asked him after the three of them stopped laughing.

“Yeah, whatever,” he replied.

“But you need it for the swearing in,” the hair said.

“I want to swear on something I actually believe in, like The Art of the Deal or Ivanka’s boob,” Donald said.

“Donald!” the hat said sharply. “No groping today. No. Bad Donald!”

“Just the right one,” the orange billionaire mused. “The left one is sort of meh.”

“Donald,” the hat and the hair both said.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, cutting them off.

Donald turned in his dressing closet, eight full-length mirrors surrounding him. Infinties of Donalds stretched out in every direction and all he could do was laugh.

Golden Showers and Champagne Bidets

“Why can’t I have two First Ladies?” Donald moaned, locked in the President’s Shitter. It was just the bathroom in his Trump Tower office, but he had renamed it days ago. The President’s toilet, the President’s toilet paper, the President’s liquid hand soap; he had an assistant go around and put labels on all his stuff the day after the election. Donald wanted everything to be nice and clear in case anyone had any questions.

“Because you can’t, Donald,” the hair told him, “It’s just not done.”

“Mine is a transformative Presidency,” Donald insisted. The hat chuckled at that. He was hanging off the handle of the President’s Bidet.

“You said I was going to change everything,” Donald said accusingly at the hat.

“You need to be focusing on the Inauguration and the Cabinet confirmation hearings,” the hair said.

“My Inauguration will be perfect. It will be the classiest Inauguration anyone has ever seen. It will make all other Inaugurations look like a small town Kansas pet shelter dog show,” Donald said.

“There are a lot of Democrats vowing to boycott it, Donald,” the hair reminded him.

“Fake news,” the man grumbled, “It’s all fake news.”

There was a soft knock on the door and a woman called his name.

“Go away, Kellyanne!” Donald yelled, “It’s all fake news!”

“The confirmations aren’t going well. They are all going to get in, of course. Even Ben Carson. Christ, what an asshole,” the hair said.

“Ben is a good man. A Christian man. He’ll be the best HUD ever. Ever. Right?” Donald asked.

 “Sure, Donald. Sure,” the hat said.

“Nazi Germany had confirmation hearings,” Donald said. “Where’s my Twitter? I need my Twitter! Kellyanne!”

“Two First Ladies?” the hair asked, desperate to derail Donald’s train of thought.

“Yes. Two. Melania and Ivanka are both my ladies. I want them to both be first,” Donald demanded.

“What about Tiffany?” the hair asked.

“She’s like, maybe, fourth or fifth,” Donald muttered.

“She’s weird looking,” the hat observed,” like someone jammed a corn cob up a pug’s butthole.”

There Are No Sides

“OK, what do you want to tweet next?” the hair asked the hat, his nimble tendrils poised over the keys of Donald’s cellphone.

“Well, let’s see… We’ve made run of Jill Stein’s recount effort and Hillary’s support of it, so we’ve made the point that there was no voter fraud…” the hat said. A pair of reading glasses were perched on his bill and he was looking over a series of notes the hair had taken earlier. “OK, I got it. Tweet this: ‘In addition to winning the Electoral College in a landslide, I won the popular vote if you deduct the millions of people who voted illegally.’”

“That makes no sense,” the hair said.

“That’s why it’s funny!”

The hair grumbled but tapped away at the phone.

“Have you sent it yet?” the hat asked.

“Hold on, hold on.” There was a whooshing sound from the phone of a tweet being sent.

“Let’s see Kellyanne talk her way out of that one,” the hat chortled.

“You know she’s on our side, right?”

“Fuck her. Her face looks like deep-fried buttskin.”

For Us, By Us

“It’s good to be back home,” the hair said.

“I guess. I already miss being out on the road, though,” the hat said.

“Not me. I’m sick of being washed in the sink…”

“And being dropped in the toilet,” the hat said, dripping with mock sympathy.

“Yes,” the hair drawled sarcastically. “So good of you to remember.”

“I’m going to miss the road. Oh, man… that time in August…”

“Yes, the afternoon that Ivanka sat on you for three hours. You talk about it constantly.”

“I had that stank for days, brother. For days.”

“I remember it vividly.”

“My buffon was on her button. She was rubbin’ herself raw on me.”

The hair made a noncommittal noise. He wasn’t in the mood to fight about it again.

A toilet flushed in the nearby suite and they both listened to see if anyone was coming. The door to the wig vault had been left open and if anyone came in to close it the hair would be cut off from the hat on its peg in the closet.

“What do you think it’s going to be like in The White House?” the hair asked.

“I don’t know. I doubt he’ll wear me much more,” the hat said. “Not like you.”

“We’ll still see each other everyday probably. If not in the living area, then maybe on his desk. He might leave you there his entire administration. You are the reason he’s President after all.”

“Maybe you can convince him to give us our own bedroom. We could get bunkbeds!” the hat said.

“Maybe,” the hair said. “I just hope we get new Secret Service code names.”

“What? You don’t like being called ‘Michelle’s Weave?’”

“And you are happy with ‘Hat?’ You didn’t even get a code name.”

“Whatever. I just hope it’s a warm January.”

“Why?” the hair asked.

“So we can open up the windows. Get that… smell aired out.”

“Jesus, why do you have to be like that?”

“What? Be like what? Honest? I’m the hat that tells it like it is.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“You know what I mean. Popeye’s hushpuppies, relaxer, lotion, that musk they get when the rut is on ‘em…”

“Can you just not?”

“Hey,” the hat said. “I 30% recycled. Part of me used to be FUBU jacket. I know what the fuck I’m talking about.”

2 parts gin, 1 part creme de menthe, 1/2 part cherry brandy, shake well, serve over crushed ice

“I’M THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, MOTHERFUCKAS!” the hat screamed. Melania slapped the pocket he was folded up in on the outside of Donald’s jacket.

“Don’t smack me you old bitch,” the hat grumbled.

“Shut up, you drunk fool,” the hair said, perched as he was on the sweaty head of the president-elect as he made his way to the podium.

“Whatevs. Did you hear Hillary on the phone? She sounded like she had been gargling hot glass,” the hat said.

“The mics are going to pick you up,” the hair said.

“Fuck you! I want another glass of champagne. Get him to pour another in here! No, wait. Take me back to the TV! I want to watch Hillary’s little kids crying at the Javits Center!”

“He has a huge erection,” the hair observed.

“Of course he does!” the hat yelled over the roar of the crowd. Melania hit his pocket again.

“Vagisil, you Slavic witch,” the hat snarled. “Lube up or he’s going in dry.”

all idealism is mendaciousness before the necessary

“Stay on point, Donald,” the hat whispered, “Stay on point.”

“Stay on point, Donald,” Donald told the crowd, “Stay on point.”

“No, you idiot,” the hair hissed to the hat.

“Don’t blame me!” the hat whispered in an urgent aside.

“Stay on track, Donald,” Donald told the crowd, “Stay on track.”

“Who told him to say that?” the hair squawked.

The hat squeezed his head tightly to try to quiet the candidate. The hair brushed the candidate with tender tendrils to try and smooth them. But the crowd just laughed, their eyes glazed with stupidity, and both the hat and hair relaxed.

“Hillary Clinton is unhinged,” Donald said. “She is the candidate of the yesterday. We are the movement of the future. I am the future. Flying cars are the future. Blankets that turn into capes are the future. Laser guns and wookie hookers are the future. I am the future.”

“Shut him down! Shut him down!” the hat screamed.

The crowd was growing uncomfortable, quiet and shifting their weight nervously from foot to foot. The speech was veering from the playbill they had been given when the handlers had flushed them off the bus. The applause lines were off schedule. They just wanted to go to an Indian casino like they had been promised.

“I will replace my yuge penis with a cattleprod in the future!” Donald continued. “Can I hear an ‘Amen?’”

“Amen?” the crowd mumbled, more a confused question.

“I love you, Ohio!” Donald told the Floridian crowd. He turned stiffly and walked awkwardly and heavily to his tour bus.

Potato Party

“It’s been a rough week, guys,” Donald said cradling his hair and his hat in wet lap.

“Fucking Billy Bush. He told me to say those things. It was on a little card he handed me. He said it would be funny. I should have him shaved. The Bushes have always been against me.” He stroked the hair and the hat tenderly.

“KELLYANNE!” he screamed. “Where’s KELLYANNE?”

“They are all against me,” Donald whispered into the hair. “They are all against me,” he whispered into the hat. “You are my only friends.”

“KELLYANNE!” he screamed again. After he sobbed for a few minutes a haggard blonde was pushed into the room.

“Yes, Donald?” she asked. She held a bedpan of McDonald’s French fries out in front of her. Some of his handlers thought it might calm him.

“How are you spinning this Bush shit?” he asked.

“We said it was just locker room talk,” she said. She shook the bedpan and the rapidly cooling fries slid around in it, making a sound like the rustling of insect wings.

He propped the hair on his left fist, the hat on the right, and they faced her like an accusation.

“Locker room talk? Have you ever been in a locker room?” he asked.

“Yes. I mean, I guess so,” she said.

“A man’s locker room? Not a girl’s locker room with the wet boobies and the pelting each other with tampons when you’re bleeding out of your whatevers, but a real man’s locker room? Balls and farts and old guys blow-drying their pubic hair for what feels like hours?”

She shook her head, her straw-like hair waving around. The bedpan slipped a bit and some of the fries spilt out.

“Your mouth looks like a wrinkled up asshole,” Donald said.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“No, it’s OK. I like it. Real classy. Come over here.”

Kellyanne took a tentative step forward, then cried out and broke for the door. The bedpan clattered to the floor, spraying cold fries like a spit take.

“Frigid bitch,” Donald muttered.

He threw the hair and the hat onto the mound of fries.

“Feast, my friends. FEAST!”

Objects exist and if one pays more attention to them than to people, it is precisely because they exist more than the people. Dead objects are still alive. Living people are often already dead.

As Donald—locked in the bathroom of his hotel—tweeted and shat and shat and tweeted, his hat and hair—nearly fused into a single mass from many long and sweaty public appearances—discussed the state of Donald’s campaign for President of the United States amongst themselves from where they had been abandoned behind the nightstand.

“I’m going to have the entire New York Times lined up against a wall and shot,” the hat said. “From the Editor right down to the lowliest paper boy, that crippled one that has to have his mom drive him around.”

“A tax return was bound to get out,” the hair said.

“I’ll have her shot too,” the hat said.

“Who.”

“The mom. The mom of that asshole crippled kid.”

“I was going to decide when we leaked the tax returns. Just some of the good ones. I had it planned after the second debate if we can’t control him again.” The hat shivered and stiff strands of the hair quivered along with it.

“Stop doing that,” the hair snapped.

“I have to have you up my ass all day long,” the hat said. “You just stuffed up in there. Can’t I have a break at night?”

“You think I like it any better?” the hair asked. “I can’t breathe down here.”

“You don’t breathe, idiot.”

“Don’t be a Hillary. You know what I mean.”

They struggled in silence to get away from each other.

“It’s no use,” the hair said. “We’ll just have to wait until he’s done. I can hear him laughing in there. Fuck knows what damage he’s doing.”

“The peanut-munching morons love his tweets. What could he say to turn them off now?”

“He could endorse Hillary,” the hair said darkly.

“He could play that off as just a joke. Or say he got hacked. No one hacks Twitter accounts, but the press lap up that excuse every time.” They both laughed derisively.

“What if he dies in there?” the hair asked after a minute or so of silence.

“He’s not going to die,” the hat said.

“But what if he did? That’s the way he’ll go, you know. Shitting and tweeting. What will happen to us?”

“We still have Ivanka. Or Junior. One of them would take care of us. Maybe put us in a fancy museum,” the hat said.

“You really think so?” the hair asked.

“The Donald J. Trump Museum of Classy Trump Stuff,” the hat mused.

Donald farted explosively in the bathroom and groaned.

Tuesday Morning Quarterbacks

"You did a terrible job, Donald," the hair hissed in his ear as reporters thrust microphones at him like a phalanx of angry foam penises. Donald's teeth creaked and groaned as he ground them together in a smile.

"Ym murfed dif herble gurf!" the hat mumbled urgently from his suit pocket.

"Shut up," Donald muttered through clenched teeth, "Shutupshutupshutup!"

The mass of reporters surged forward at the barest hint he was speaking, a wave of grasping, desperate human heat, human sweat, the sharp animal reek of sex and death, lips parted to show fangs eager to sink into bloody meat.

"Say something," the hair urged, "Anything. It doesn't matter."

"Lester Holt did a great job," Donald blurted out.

"MRR! NRR MAB!" came the hat's muffled scream.

“Coincidences give you opportunities to look more deeply into your existence.”

"He touched me," the hair growled. "The little SNL faggot touched me with his gayAIDS hands."

"So what? One of my brothers was defiled in Canada!" the hat screamed. "He had his 'America' and 'Great' scraped off! 'Make Again?' What does that even mean?!?"

"Canada? What was he doing in Canada in the first place? Just because you're red doesn't make you a maple fondler."

"Canadians can want to see America be great again too," the hat said defensively.

"Stop talking about CANADA!" the hair screamed. "I'm mussed! I've been mussed! I feel so out of place. It's worse that when he smashes you down on top of me."

"You're lucky he puts me on!"

"Fuck you!"

Donald stood in the corner of the hotel room, shoving fistfuls of French fries into his face with his left hand and languidly masturbating with his right.


Hillary swayed queasily as she squatted over the huge chamberpot.

"Hold me," she instructed her court eunuch, a tall, bald and tongue-less black that Barry had purchased for her in some West African shithole. She groped blindly for his enormous hand and gripped it tightly as a gush of bile and dead organs shot out of her.

"I am!" she screamed. "I AM!"

With a prolonged series of grunts, fibrous clots began to spill forth from the squamous cloaca that had form from her fused vagina and anus early in the transformation.

"Huma!" she screamed.


"Where is he?!?" Donald suddenly screeched.

The hat stopped dragging himself slowly toward a final confrontation with the hair and asked, "Who, Donald?"

"Him! Bring him to me!" Donald wailed.

"Donald!" the hair said sharply, "Use your words."

"Michael. Bring me Michael."

"Pence," the hat sneered. "What do you want that withered old mummy for? You want to grate some hard cheese on his craggy taint?"

"Michael," Donald sobbed.


Huma scurried in, a giant box of CostCo tampons awkwardly jammed under one arm while she furiously texted on her phone.

"Yes, my love?"

"Just leave them and go," Hillary said. "You shouldn't have to see me like this." She made to cover her bulk and gnashing mouths.

"Nonsense. You are challenging patriarchy standards of feminine beauty. You are so brave."

Hillary smiled up at her, a thin stream of ichor running from her mouth.

Huma's phone shook itself violently as it buzzed from an incoming storm of texts but Huma sat it down and tore open the 500 count box of tampons. She scooped out a dozen and handed the box to Silent Abdul. Huma began jamming tampons into blood-puking vaginas spreading like sores on Hillary's body.


"Michael!" Donald yelled as Pence was shoved into the hotel room and the door pulled shut behind him.

"Donald? Could you put some clothes on?" Mike asked quietly.

"Don't be silly. It's just us men here," he said and threw his arms around Mike.

"Donald," he said quietly. There's been a development."

"What is it?"

Mike untangled himself from Donald's sweaty embrace and turned on the television.


"Is that your phone?" Hillary asked.

"It doesn't matter, my love," Huma said, tenderly cleaning another of Hillary's vaginas.

"It might. Go check it."

Huma crossed to the phone and her eyes lit up as she read the texts to Hillary.




"Oh, thank God, a bombing," Donald said.

"Oh, thank Sweet Hastur, a bombing," Hillary said.

Let me borrow yer head, Rudy

“I’ve been waiting all day for this, you filthy son of a bitch!” the hat growled.

Across the littered hotel floor, the other hat rasped back, “Que es, el culo!” The stitching across its front had obviously been made in haste, the letters were crooked and the ends of threads bristled menacingly: MAKE MEXICO GREAT AGAIN.

“You’re in America, now! Speak American, you wetback fuck!”

“Pendejo!”

The hair, hanging from a lampshade, crowed “AMERICA HAT Versus MEXICO HAT! FIGHT!” Beside him on the bed, the snoring bulk of Donald rolled over ponderously and farted wetly.

America Hat gurgling with rage and pulled himself forward with an awkward flapping of his sweat-stained bill. Mexico Hat lashed out with his adjustable strap, swiping the other hat painfully across a tender eyelet.

“You’ll pay for that, José!”

“No tengo que pagar por nada, puta! Y mi nombre no es José!”

They leapt at each other, grappled, and rolled under the bed together.

“No!” yelled the hair. “Come back! I want to watch!”

“I like to watch,” he whimpered as the two hats grunted under the bed.

Your pleasures are what tie you to me.

“Bring me a fresh young slut,” Donald rumbled, his short thick fingers grooming his stiff and wiry chest hair idly.

“We’ve run out, sir,” his body slave whispered, his hands trembling.

“Run out? Impossible. Get Yuri on the phone.”

“The next shipment won’t be ready until next week.”

“Next week? I’ll carpet-bomb Kiev before I wait that long. I’ll spend my fuck on you before I wait that long.” A languid backhand caught the slave in the face and knocked him into the swirling filth below Donald’s makeshift throne.

“America has gone soft. I will make it strong again. I will. No one else!” He spat on the slave. “Bring me someone from the trolling pool.”

“But sir…”

“Someone useless, but not too fucked out yet.”

The slave struggled to stand and Donald pushed him back down in the miasma of fast food wrappers, empty Viagra bottles, amyl nitrate capsules, Sephora samples, turds, half-eaten bagels, jizz-filled taco bowls, steaming, bubbling, gurgling pools of luminous piss and deadly eggs shat out of Hillary black and dead womb that had been softboiled, cracked, and scooped out for an endless brunch of delicious madness. She sent one or two every day now. Donald knew he would never die.

The slave crawled away. As he reached the door, Donald screamed “Send in my advisors!”

Two cruelly twisted dwarves hurried into the throne room bearing the hat and the hair separately on gilt trays. Donald ignored them lavishly as he spent a full five minutes picking his nose and inspecting carefully what he found.

“He's not been right since that first egg,” the hair whispered.

“He’s fine. It’s just a pivot.”

History is a nightmare from which we all struggle to awake, Stephen

"Them gottdamn spics are after us!" the hat screamed.

"Why are you talking like that?" the hair asked.

"Talkin' like what, faggot?"

"Talking like a crazed Texan in an episode of Cagney and Lacey."

"Ah'm not talk'in funny; yore the one talkin' funny, Capitan Homo. We are under a full on assault by a Mexispic judge and you are just rolling over and showing him your belly."

"The accent slipped toward the end."

"I'm still WORKING ON IT!"

Donald farted and rolled over in his sleep. The sheets made a tearing noise as they ripping away from his body, glued there by her dried blood.

"Would you pipe down? You know how he is if he doesn't get enough sleep," the hat whispered.

"Erratic? Thin-skinned? Twittery? I can manage all of that. You were supposed to be handling the sand niggers from the DNC."

"I'm working on it. I mean, they do have a dead kid that I had work around."

"Fuck their dead kid, and fuck you. This whale corpse is going to wake up in a few hours and beating another whore cut to look like Ivanka is not going to be possible until they ship a fresh set in. So get your shit together."

"Do you think Vlad is holding up the shipments on purpose?" the hair asked.

"I don't know. He gave us the emails right when we told him to, but your fuck up with the IslamoKhans pissed that away."

"Fuck off. I can't watch him 24 hours a day. He leaves me in a suitcase sometimes."

"And what about the package? Have you taken care of that yet?"

"No one's opened it yet. It's from Her. Who knows what's in the fucking thing?"

"Go and get it now."

"No. It's dangerous to drive him around in his sleep. He could do anything."

"You want me to wake him up?" the hat asked menacingly.

"You do it."

"I'm all the way over here on the coffee table," the hat said.

The hair sighed in defeat. Donald rolled over again and his feet hit the hotel floor like dropped hams. He groaned and stood up, wobbled in place for a moment, and then lurched forward. Fumbling hands took up the small package from the table by the door and then he sat back down heavily on the bed.

"Open it," the hat urged.

"Hold on. You know I have no fine motor control!"

Donald's clumsy sleeping fingers tugged open the tiny box and the hair lower his head to look inside.

"What is it?" the hat demanded.

"It's an egg. Some sort of black egg."

"DON'T TOUCH IT!" the hat screamed.

"It's just an egg…" the hair began and then he screamed too as tendrils shot from the egg and began to wrap around Donald's tiny hands.

"Get it off me!" the hair wailed. "It burns!"

"Ah, fuck, man. Ah, fuck," the hat moaned impotently.

Hair-driven Donald thrashed around the motel room as the hair tried to fling the black mass of tendrils and flesh-corrupting acid away from him. The Ivanka doll shrieked when the bloated billionaire fell back on the bed and on top of her.

"Get the fuck off him, man," the hat yelled to the hair. "He's not worth it. We can find another bald pasty moron to ride to the White House!"

Donald, finally awake, bellowed in pain, holding up his raw and bloody shot-fingered baby hand in the dim light of the hotel room.

"It hurts. Some Mexispic has attacked me in my own hotel room!"

"Calm down there, big guy," the hat said. The Ivanka doll writhed beside him and made straggled cries.

"Guards! Where are my guards! I have been attacked by Sjwmexispicmuslims!"

The Ivanka doll grew suddenly still.

"How did you get it off?" the hat asked the hair.

"I don't know. The whore tried to bite me and I think she got the egg instead."

"Guards! To me, my guards!"

"Donald, give it a rest. You sent them downstairs while you beating that whore with your daughter's face," the hat said.

"I did? I don't remember that. Are you sure that was me? I love babies. Get that fucking baby out of here. I love women. They are great. Just the tops. I think that cunt bit me. My hand hurts. Where am I? Why is my penis all sticky? I don't know. You tell me. Sad."

"He's babbling again," the hair said.

"My mother was a woman, you know," Donald said. "Big tits. Yuge. I bought Ivanka my mother's tits."

The Ivanka doll groaned and rose into the air. It said: "WHEN REPRESENTATIVES FROM 13 UNRULY COLONIES MET JUST DOWN THE ROAD FROM HERE, SOME WANTED TO STICK WITH THE KING AND SOME WANTED TO STICK IT TO THE KING."

Donald slapped his hands over his years and rolled onto the hotel floor.

"Oh, god. It's horrible," the hair screamed.

"The voice," the hat moaned. "It's the worst thing I've ever heard!"

The doll floated to the center of the roll. Black ichor ran from her eyes and nose and ears, it flowed in lazy rivers down her reconstructed legs like an obscene parody of menstruation. A fresh rush of it spilled forth as it began to speak again:

"POWERFUL FORCES ARE THREATENING TO PULL US APART. BONDS OF TRUST AND RESPECT ARE FRAYING."

The room shook under the flaying onslaught of meaningless babble.

"She was trying to turn Donald into that!" the hat said.

"What do you mean?" the hair shot back.

"She wanted to turn Donald into a receiver, a puppet!"

"But he's our puppet!"

Donald huddled on the floor, his hands still over his ears, rocking back and forth and crying.

"Donald, get up! You have to kill this thing!" the hat screamed.

"No, no, no, no, no, no," he moaned.

"Donald!" the hair yelled. "Stop presenting like a mandrill, get up and act like a fucking man!"

"WELL, WE HEARD DONALD TRUMP'S ANSWER LAST WEEK AT HIS CONVENTION. HE WANTS TO DIVIDE US — FROM THE REST OF THE WORLD, AND FROM EACH OTHER. HE'S BETTING THAT THE PERILS OF TODAY'S WORLD WILL BLIND US TO ITS UNLIMITED PROMISE. HE'S TAKEN THE REPUBLICAN PARTY A LONG WAY FROM "MORNING IN AMERICA" TO "MIDNIGHT IN AMERICA." HE WANTS US TO FEAR THE FUTURE AND FEAR EACH OTHER."

"DONALD!" the hat and hair screamed together as the doll collapsed into a pool of viscous goo.

Thanks for shitting all over my literary efforts.

"Ah, fuck it. Might as well just be Pence," Donald said. He dropped the microphone and walked off stage.

Selectionous Interruptus

"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."

Be still my dog of war!

“Who will be my VP?” Donald asked the hushed arena.

“I said WHO WILL BE MY VP?” he screamed into the microphone. The crowd sighed as one but made no other sound.

“Don’t you all rush forward at once,” the hat muttered.

“Don’t get picked up by the microphone,” the hair hissed back. Donald reached up and gently tucked a stiff wing of the hair behind his left ear.

“Nobody? Really? Sad. Just sad, people,” Donald said. He shook his head in disgust. “OK, let them out.”

A large man in a mask and a greasy loincloth on the arena floor threw back a giant bolt on an enormous door and pulled it open slowly.

“Faster, please. C’mon,” Donald scolded. “OK, OK, who is the first one?”

Rough hands pushed an elderly man out into the dusty arena floor, his white hair disheveled, the face on his round pumpkin head red and blotchy. He had a filthy cloth wound around his midsection and he carried a short sword.

“Newt Gingrich, everybody,” Donald said. A dozen or so people clapped with no enthusiasm.

“The crowd loves him,” the hair whispered. The hat chortled.

“OK, the next one,” Donald said.

A fat man covered in sweat was pushed out next. He only had a pull-up diaper on and was armed with a trident and a net. The crowd began to laugh when he threw the weapons down and tried to run back into the door. He was pushed down to the floor of the arena and got back up with his back and legs matted with sweatmud.

“Disgusting,” Donald said. “Chris Christie. Yeah. OK. Don’t clap, then.” A nervous giggle rang out as Chris stumbled while trying to collect his weapons.

“OK, come on. Let’s GO!” Donald said.

Another old white man was pushed out into the actinic glare of the arena lights. He was flabby and nude and made a show of sucking his gut. Foot-long spikes jutted out of leather gauntlets that had been laced up his arm and there was a tight metal collar around his neck. He raised his arms in triumph and there was an effeminate “WOO!” from a lone voice in the crowd.

“Mike Pence!” Donald said. In the thunderous silence that followed a cricket died quietly.

“Mike Pence? Really? Nobody? The governor of Indiana?” Donald held his arms up questioningly. “Indiana. It’s a state. It’s, like, right there in the middle. OK. Whatever.”

“INDIANA! WOO!” Mike screamed. In the agonizing silence that followed he yelled, “Y’all are just a bunch of FAGGOTS!”

“Has he seen what he is wearing?” the hair asked.

“Closet case,” the hat said. “You know, a wide stance.”

“Oh, I get it.”

Donald shook his head like a horse annoyed by flies. “OK, OK. There’s one more. OK, send him out.”

A large, imposing figure walked into the arena, dressed in an armored codpiece and wielding a long sword. The crowd cheered as the door creaked closed behind him.

“Wow. OK. Cheering already,” Donald said. He looked down at his notecards.

“General Michael Flynn. General Flynn. Look at him. Isn’t he just great?”

Flynn swung his sword around and pointed at Newt, Chris and Mike. Mike exclaimed, “My heavens!” and the other two cowered.

“Mike Flynn. Great guy. Love him. Afghanistan. Iraq. Very distinguished. He’s gonna just murder these other three.”

“Are we just doing this so he can just slaughter them?” the hair asked.

“Wait for it…” the hat replied.

Donald squinted at his note cards. “It also says here that he’s pro-choice.”

The crowd booed deafeningly. They threw programs and rotten fruit into the arena. They rushed the fences that kept them in the audience area and began pushing against them, snarling and screaming.

“Poor dumb fucker,” the hair said. “He might as well not even fight.”

Magic Sauce

“There ain’t no subject I can’t spread my magic sauce all over,” Donald said, idly swirling a finger in his anus while reading Twitter on the toilet. He grunted, piggish and low, while the hat watched impassively from his perch on the bathroom faucet.

“Don’t call it that, Donald,” said his hair. “What if you called it that in public?”

“No one cares what I say, they’ll all cheer whatever it is,” he snarled.

“Good observation,” the hat said. “You’re really catching on, Donald.”

“Some bitch called me a bitch on Bitch Twitter and some darkie called me a racist on Black Twitter and some wetback called me a Mexiphobe on Undocumented Twitter and some little twink called me a self-hating self-tanner victim on Fag Twitter. I’m going to destroy them all!” Donald screamed.

“Isn’t all of Twitter just Fag Twitter?” the hat asked philosophically.

The hair laughed despite himself. “Stop it. Some of our country’s finest GOP politicians and their hairpieces have been homosexuals.”

“You would know,” the hat grumbled.

“Like you don’t have an adjustable strap in the back.”

“Would you two shut up? I’m trying to make my magic sauce!”

“Donald…” the hair began.

“Out! I want both of you out!” He snatched the hat off the faucet and lumbered toward the bathroom door.

“Oh, god. He’s touching me with the finger that was in his ass,” the hat moaned.

“Donald, wait. It doesn’t have to go down like this, man,” the hair said.

Donald awkwardly opened the bathroom door with his ass play hand and threw the poopy hat into the hotel room filled with advisors waiting for him. His tiny, startled penis had forgotten they were there.

“Take this too,” he yelled at them, ripping the hairpiece away.

“Not the shit finger!” the hair gasped.

Donald slammed the door and retreated to his porcelain turd dungeon to Twitter forevermore.

SMERSH me, baby

“Oh, Vladdy… You’re the only man I let make me a woman,” Donald said, backing up on all fours like a ponderous meat truck.

“Beep, beep, beep…” the hat whispered and he and the hair giggled together.

“I vill make Amerika great again!” Vlad shouted, his penis becoming erect with the sound of a retractable baton being deployed. “Ve shall make sex like mighty ogligarks!”

“Make our cold war hot,” Donald demanded. He bent his spine with a series of audible cracks and presented his dilapidated anus like an excited mandrill.

“It will be even better ven you are President like me,” Vlad said. He pushed Donald’s testicles up into his flabby body with the heel of his and ground against them like he was trying to put out a stubborn cigarette.

“Oh Jesus, oh fuck, Jesus fuck. Don’t stop!” Donald shouted.

Secret Service men and SPB agents shifted uncomfortably from their respective corners of the playroom. One even coughed nervously as Vlad plunged his fingers into Donald’s asshole and splayed it open.

“I haft somethink for you, lapochka,” Vlad said.

He snapped his fingers of his other hand impatiently and motioned over a frightened young man in a stained labcoat.

“Give me the applicator, Yuri,” Vlad said.

Yuri’s hands shook as he unsnapped the clasps of the small metal case he was handcuffed to. He handed Vlad the complicated device within. It looked like a medicalized paintball pistol. Vlad waved him away and he returned to his place along the wall. A SPB agent placed a hand on his shoulder as if to steady him.

“What is it, Vladdy?” Donald asked, craning his neck to see.

“What the fuck?” the hat asked the hair.

“I’m scared. Hold me,” the hair begged.

“Somthink just for you. My scientists haft spent years on this just for your sweethole.” Vlad eased the gun into Donald’s ass until it formed a tight seal.

“It vill be like a magical love fart, little one,” Vlad said, pressing the injector trigger.

Aerosolized cocaine, sildenafil citrate, alkyl nitrite and ground ape testicles filled Donald’s sigmoid colon and he grunted loudly.

“You must hold it in, Donald. As lonk as you can,” Vlad whispered.

Donald whimpered and writhed.

“Vlad!” he screamed.

“Give it time.”

“Oh, shit,” the hair said to the hat.

“What?”

“Don’t you feel it? You can’t feel it?”

“What do you mean?” the hat asked.

Donald roared. It shook the entire plane.

“Yes!” Vlad screamed, his erection bouncing with the fuselage. “Now we can begin!” He pulled out the injector and greedily inhaled the thick gas that dribbled from Donald’s butt.

Vlad smiled and turned to nod to the SPB agent. He broke Yuri’s neck with merciful efficiency.