“What the fuck it that?” the hair asked loudly.

“Gunfire,” Hope said as if she had heard the toupee.

“Gunfire?” Donald asked. “What about my Diet Coke?”

“Diet Coke?” the hat yelped. “There’s gunfire in the White House! Get me to my safe room!”

Donald stood up abruptly and his belly knocked Hope over. There was a sickening crunch as her head met the edge of the dresser and she fell to the floor insensate.

“Where’s my DIET COKE?!?” Donald bellowed, stepping over the supine Hope and opening the dressing room door.

“Donald! Come back!” the hair called after him.

The hat had moved to the edge of the desk they were on and was peering over the side. Hope’s skirt had been thrown up around her hips as she fell and her translucent La Perla underwear was on display.

“Hairless, dude,” the hat told the hair. “I think she’s lasered.”

“I find that offensive,” the hair said.

“You would.”

Donald shuffled back into the room, his socks leaving bloody marks on the white carpet. He had a full erection tenting his boxer shorts.

“There’s no Diet Coke out in the hall,” he said despondently.

“Where did that blood come from, Donald?” the hair demanded.

“Dead guy in the hall, totally Cokeless.”

“Donald,” the hair ordered, “Put me on.”

“Me too!” the hat said. “We have to go see what is going on.”

Donald laboriously stepped over the unconscious Hope again and took the hair off its mannequin head and settled it on his own. The hair sank tendrils into his scalp and arranged himself as best he could.

“Pick up the hat, Donald,” the hair told him.

“I don’t want to. I’m sleepy. I want a Diet Coke,” the elderly man complained.

“Fast food coma,” the hat diagnosed. “All that grease has hit his colon.”

“Donald!” the hair shouted, rocking back and forth on his head.

“You’re going to have to drive, dude,” the hat said. “He’s going to be out of it anytime now.”

“He’s so hard to puppet anymore,” the hair whined.

“Oh, shut up,” the hat said.

“It’s like driving a really old broken car with no brake, transmission, steering or wiper fluid. And the car is full of McDonald’s and gout.”

“Bitch and moan, bitch and moan. Pick me up so we can go check out the carnage.”

“Shouldn’t we get Donald to the safe room?” the hair asked.

“Later,” the hat said. “I’m sure it’s all over by now. We’ll just take a peek through one of the gallery windows.”

The hair put the hat on over himself with Donald’s hand and then bent over to strip off the bloody socks. “They feel really weird and gross,” the hair said, anticipating the hat’s question.

The hair moved Donald and the hat as quietly as he could through the darkened corridors of the residence. They found four dead Secret Service agents before they got to the small windows that looked down on the ballroom, all shot in the head from behind.

“This looks bad,” the hat whispered.

“If they got this far into the residence, why didn’t they find us?” the hair asked.

“I don’t know,” the hat answered. “I had never been in that room before. Maybe Hope just set it up or something.”

There was another burst of automatic fire and the hair threw the three of them back against a wall. He slid them toward the window and peeked over the sill.

“Duck down,” the hat hissed. “I can’t see anything.”

“Diet Coke,” Donald mumbled and began to snore.

The hair pushed Donald’s hand against the glass and the bottom swung outward like a transom. The guests in the ballroom were huddled together in a jumbled cluster in the center, mewling and crying, a ring of gunmen in ballcaps ringing them. A squat figure in a power suit and a ballcap waddled toward them, stepping over the bodies of dead Secret Service and DC Police.

“Oh, shit,” the hat began.

“Yeah, it’s her,” the hair said.

“Laydies and genhentleman. Laydies and genhentleman,” Angela said in her thick German accent. “Due to this administration’s legacy of greed around the globe, they are about to be taught a lesson in the real use of power. You will be witnesses.”

“Whut the fuck are you talkin’ ‘bout, you fat slut?” Jeff demanded, his little elf ears red with rage and shaking with fear.

Angela pointed at him and one of the gunmen stepped forward and hit him with the butt of his rifle. Jeff fell like an erection at Lilith Fair.

“Are there any further questions? No? I thought not,” Angela said crisply. When she turned to walk away the hat began to sputter in rage. Her ballcap read “MAKE GERMANY GREAT AGAIN.”

“Euro trash bitch!” the hat managed to spit out.

“Look,” the hair said. “They’re all wearing them.”

Around the arc of the circle of gunman facing them they could see MAKE FRANCE GREAT AGAIN and MAKE FLANDERS GREAT AGAIN and NETHERLANDS and SWEDEN and LUXEMBOURG.

“Most of those countries have never been great!” the hat gasped. “And what the fuck is a Flanders? Is that Simpsons reference?”

“Be quiet,” the hair whispered. “Footsteps. I think someone is coming.”

“Diet Coke,” Donald mumbled in his sleep.

A walkie-talkie crackled from around the corner and there was a burst of foreign gibberish. The hair got Donald down in a crouch as the person briefly answered and then proceeded around the corner. He was armed with a squat machine pistol and a MAKE BASQUE LEGIBLE AGAIN hat. The hair launched the elderly and overweight body from the shadows under the gallery windows and the four of them went down in a violent tangle of limbs and haberdashery. The hair pummeled the gunman with Donald’s sticky fists and shot tendrils into his eyes and ears and nostrils and mouth. MAGA prime bit into brim of BASQUE hat and stripped its adjustable band away savagely. Finally, in a titanic heave, the hair got Donald’s corpulent bulk on top of the gunman and crushed the life out of his body.

“Yeah, take that motherfucker!” the hat growled. “MAGA! MAGA! MAGA!”

Donald’s body was breathing heavily as the hair got him back to his feet.

“Take gun!” the hat said.

“I know that,” the hair replied.

“And the walkie-talkie!”

“I know that too,” the hair said testily. “I know what I’m doing. I killed the guy, after all.”

“Hey, I helped!”

“You molested a hat.”

“Did not!”

“I saw what you did with that adjustable band. Christ, you are a sick fuck, you know?”

“I was fighting for our lives!” the hat said indignantly.

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.”

The hair had Donald pick up the gun and tuck it into his boxer short waistband. It promptly slid down his gunt and fell out one of the legs and onto the floor.

“Maybe you better carry that,” the hat said dryly.

The walkie-talkie crackled again.

“Mikolaus?” the voice on the other end asked. “Mikolaus? Txostena.”

“Answer it,” the hat urged.

“I don’t know Basque. Do you know Basque?” the hair asked.

“A little.”

“Bullshit.”

“Just hold the button down, dingleberry.”

The hair had Donald hold the walkie up to the hat and pressed the talk button.

“Zein da neska prezioa?” the hat said and the hair had Donald let go of the button.

“Who is this?” the voice demanded. “Where is Mikolaus?”

“Button,” the hat ordered.

“Olly olly oxen free, cocksucker?” the hat half-asked.

“Oh, goddammit,” the hair moaned.