“Who are you texting?” the hair asked.

“Shut up. Nobody,” the hat growled.

“Are Twittering? I told you to stop Twittering!”

The hat ignored him, Blackberry keys clattering furiously.

“Is that Justin? Are you texting Justin? I told you to stop messing with that Canadian hairpile!”

The hat hunched over the phone protectively.

“Oh, fuck,” the hair moaned, “It’s drugs, isn’t it. Fucking drugs. I knew it. They aren’t going to let another courier in here again. Reince made the Secret Service pinky-swear.”

The typing paused long enough for the blorp of an incoming text, and the hat laughed to himself.

“TELL ME WHAT YOU ARE DOING!” the hair screamed. Donald groaned from the couch he was napping on and rolled over ponderously.

“Oh, don’t get your follicles all in a twist,” the hat muttered, “And lower your voice. He needs his beauty rest.”

“Give me that phone,” the hair said, reaching out for it with wispy tendrils.

“Never!” the hat exclaimed, waddling away from the hair with a rocking motion.

The hair leaped and landed on the hat, an uncomfortable reversal for both. The phone skittered across the desk and landed on the deep pile of the carpet with a muffled thud. Still wrestling, the hat and hair tumbled to the floor. The Oval Office phone began to ring and ring.

“Somebody fucking answer that,” Donald grumbled.

On the seventh ring, Donald sat up. “Seriously, what is going on? Do I have to answer on own phone? Really?” He pulled himself to edge of the couch, grunting, and stood up. The phone stopped ringing.

“Of course,” he said, “Of course it stops when I get up. This place is madhouse. You know that? A madhouse,” he asked no one.

“And now I’m up, dammit,” Donald said, looking around. He saw the hat and hair.

“What are you two doing on the floor? Get off the floor. You know how much wig and hat shampoo cost? Obama couldn’t afford it, I tell you that much. I don’t care what his speaking fees are. Not with that giant wife he has to feed.”

He bent over and picked up the hat and hair and his phone and dropped them all on his desk as tentative knocking began on his office door.

“Total sissy knock,” Donald said to the hat, “I’m not answering a sissy knock.”

Donald leaned against his desk and stirred the briefings he was supposed to read for the day with a finger. A couple he slid off the desk into the trashcan unread. “If it was important,” he muttered, “It’ll be on Twitter, not some dumbass paper. Who still uses paper, honestly?”

The knocking grew louder.

“Like, a half-sissy knock, at best,” Donald sniffed.

“Mr. President?” came a reedy, obsequious voice.

“Knock like a fucking man!” Donald yelled.

“Mr. President?”

“Knock like… oh, fuck it.” Donald jammed the MAGA hat on his head and stalked over to the door.

“‘Kim?’ Who the fuck is ‘Kim?’” the hair said distantly, scrolling through the phone.

When he jerked it open, Sean was standing there, a hangdog look on his sallow face. A couple of secretaries beyond him squeaked. Donald was dressed only in stained white underwear.

“Knock. Like. A. Man. Sean,” Donald said, punctuating each word with a solid rap on the outside of the door. Sean nodded numbly.

“Don’t just stand there, come in,” Donald said. He slammed the door after the man had shuffled in, eyes downcast to watch his feet.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. President?” he mumbled.

“What?” Donald said, holding up a hand to his ear.

Sean cleared his throat. “You wanted to see me, Mr. President?”

“Sean, you’re fired.”

“Mr. President…”

“No, not really, I’m just messing with you, Sean. You’re my main guy. I have all the confidence in you in the world. No one is your biggest fan but me, Sean.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. President,” Sean said, his face brightening.

Donald stepped behind his desk and picked something up, straightening, he said, “No, not really, Sean. You’re fucking disgrace.”

Donald dropped an empty copier paper box at Sean’s feet.

“Get your shit together, but it in that box and get the fuck out of here,” Donald said.

Sean started crying, his whole body shaking.

“Sean! Don’t cry, Sean. I’m fucking with you, Sean. You aren’t fired. Learn to take a joke, will you?” Donald said.

Sean sniffled loudly. “Really, sir? I’m not fired?”

“Of course not, Sean. How can I do this without you?” Donald put an arm around the man and steered him toward the door.

“Kim Jong-un?!?” the hair hissed at the hat. The hat chuckled back at him.

Donald patted Sean on the back. Sean smiled and awkwardly went in for a kiss, but Donald held him off.

“No, Sean,” he said, “ We’ve talked about this.”

Sean nodded miserably.

Donald left him by the door and went back to stand at his desk. He and Sean stared at each other for a full minute.

“Can I leave, sir?” Sean asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course, Sean,” Donald said. He drew back a barefoot and kicked the copier box at Sean.

“Don’t forget your fucking box, Sean,” Donald said.

Sean couldn’t hear the hat snigger.

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“That’s it,” the hair said. “You’re done.”

“What do you mean?” the hat asked languidly. He was filthy. There was a smear of what looked worryingly like shit on his scandalously exposed sweatband.

“That fucked up praise circle you sat up? Telling that fat idiot Ruddy that you were going to fire Mueller?”

“Yeah, and?”

“You’re driving this administration off a cliff.”

“No, I’m not.”

“That big-tittied moron Schumer even made a diss track about the praise circle.”

“The, uh, American people need to know that the President has the, uh, full faith and support of of of his staff,” the hat said slowly.

“No, it was some creepy Kim Jong-un shit. We are going to have to go to war with the Norks soon for the ratings. We need credibility.”

“Get off my dick, asshole,” the hat grumbled.

“And Mueller? You know Congress would just hire him back, right? He’d be in the same job within a few days and pissed off,” the hair said.

“He’s doing a terrible job,” the hat said.

“We’re going to have to send Newt out there to clean up your mess.”

“Fuck him. That pumpkin-headed slattern is used to getting passed around like a pipe at a crack house pool party,” the hat muttered. He rocked back and forth, trying to spill white powder into a burnt and bent spoon.

“Help me with this,” the hat said.

“No, I’m not cooking up a hit for you.”

“I need it. I hurt, like, all over.”

They both froze when someone burst into the Oval Office. The man said, in a rapid, strangled cry, “On behalf of the entire senior staff around you, Mr. President, we thank you for the opportunity and the blessing that you’ve given us to serve your agenda and the American people. And we’re continuing to work very hard every day to accomplish these goals.”

“Get the fuck out of here, Priebus!’ the hair snapped.

“I feel blessed! Blessed!” Reince screamed.

“Look,” the hair said, “You broke the retard. Are you happy now?”

“Perjury?!? I’d never perjure myself!” Donald yelled into his hair.

“You cannot testify before Congress, Donald,” the hair replied calmly, “It’s a perjury trap.”

“Cowardly Comey can’t get away with this,” Donald grumbled, “I have to testify.”

“Donald,” the hair said warningly. He looked at the hat lying on his side on the President’s desk.

“Are you going to chime in here?” the hair asked. The hat groaned. A spent needle hung from his discolored bill.

“I am the most truthful President in the history of the entire world ever,” Donald insisted, “I’ve never told a lie.”

“Just put me back on,” the hair said.

“I’ ve got tapes!” Donald insisted. It was the hair’s turn to groan.

There was a firm knock on the door of the Oval Office.

“Someone fucking answer that!” Donald yelled.

The knock came again.

“Really? Nobody? Nobody is going to answer that? Am I the President or fucking what?” Donald held up his hands and mugged for a camera that wasn’t there. “Come in, it’s OPEN!”

A lean guy with a bushy beard pushed the door open. He was all in spandex and had on a helmet.

“Hey, uh, am I in the right place?” he asked.

“Come in, come in,” Donald said, “And shut the door. Steve might try to come in.”

The young man came in the Oval Office, the bicycle he pushed along beside him clicking loudly.

“He’s like Pigpen,” Donald said, “You know Pigpen, right? Peanuts? You read Peanuts?”

“What the fuck is this?” the hair yelped.

“Uh, yeah,” the man said. He looked door at his phone. “I’m looking for someone called, uh, Maggie?”

“MAGA,” the hat croaked. “He’s here to see me, Donald,” he said and louder for the courier, “Yo, over here.”

The man leaned his bike on the humped out couch and went over to the hat.

“How much you got?” the hat asked weakly.

“You fucking didn’t,” the hair said.

“You ordered eight grams, man,” the courier said.

“Uh, yeah, right,” the hat muttered, “How much?”

“You already paid through the app,” he said, setting packets of glassine envelopes in front of the hat.

“Cool, cool,” the hat said, “Nice working with you. I tipped you, right?”

“Yeah,” the courier said. He backed away to his bicycle, never taking his eyes off of Donald or the hat. “You guys have a blessed day.”

When the door closed, the hair exploded, “You just ordered heroin delivered to the White House?!?”

“It’s not like I can go out and get in,” the hat said.

“We are all going to jail,” the hair wailed.

“I’m going to testify,” Donald said again.

“They will catch you in a lie,” the hair hissed.

“I have never told a single lie,” Donald said, “Anyone that thinks I am less than 100% always truthful all the time is a Hillary voter. They voted for Hillary.”

“Don’t say her name in here!” the hair screamed.

“That which is unelected can fundraise eternal,” the hat moaned, “And with strange aeons , even that fat witch may rise infernal.”

“Coats! Comey! Sessions! They are all against me!” Donald screamed in the Oval Office.

He picked up a bust of Eisenhower and threw it at one of the windows. It bounced off the tough glass and fell to the floor impotently, like a hollow metaphor.

“All against me,” he yelled at the Presidential pillow humping couch. Jr. and Eric huddled together on it, clawing at each other in panic.

“Bright lights!” Jr. yelped.

“Loud noises!” Eric agreed.

Donald snatched the hair from his head and wrung it in his hands with anxiety.

“What are we going to do?” he asked his idiot sons, “I can’t trust anyone. They all turn on me in the end, they all betray me.”

“Ivanka,” Eric whispered. He had wet her bed until he was 15.

“Jared,” Jr. whispered, afraid that the fearsome bust of Dime Man would be thrown at him.

“They are already doing what they can,” Donald replied. He had twisted the hair into a rope and was slapping against his leg as he stalked back and forth.

“You two are just going to have to step up,” Donald said.

He tossed the mess of hair onto his desk and picked up his beloved MAGA hat. He crossed to the couch and jammed it down on Jr.’s head roughly.

“You are going to be Attorney General after I get rid of Jeffy,” Donald said.

“I don’t wanna, Papa,” he said miserably. He thought about getting a blowjob on a speedboat and began to cry.

Donald pointed at Eric. “And you will be Director of National Intelligence,” he said. “You’re smart, right? Like, national intelligence smart at least.”

Eric nodded dumbly. He thought about calling Ivanka, but Papa got mad when he talked on his phone. He would tell her later. She would be proud of him, he thought. She might even leave Jared before Eric had to try and have him killed again.

“Where’d he go?” Donald asked Jr., pointing at a staring Eric, but Jr. only shook his head.

“I should have put you both in a sack when you were little and thrown you in the river,” Donald muttered.

“Yes, Papa,” they both said in nauseating harmony.

The hat fell off Jr.’s carefully shellacked dome of hair and landed on the couch, upside-down like a helpless turtle.

“COVFEFE?!?” the hair screamed incredulously, “What in the hell are you doing?”

The hat looked up from the phone he was whispering into and hissed for quiet.

“Who are you on the phone with?” the hair demanded, crawling from the couch.

“Look, baby,” the hat said quietly, “Imma have to call you back.”

The phone beeped loudly in the empty confines of the Oval Office and he hung it up. Donald snorted in his sleep and scratched himself. He was draped over the office couch like abandoned meat.

“Not that it is any of your business, but I was interrupted,” the hat’s voice was thin and reedy and he rocked back and forth.

“What is the matter with you?” the hair asked.

“I hit send when I was answering the phone. I’ll just delete it.” The hat raised the phone and started poking buttons. “I’ll just delete it. No one will see it.”

“Everyone has already seen it!” the hair screamed, “The Washington Post already has a story up about it.”

“Fake news,” the hat mumbled. The phone clattered to the desk and there was a snuffling noise.

“What are you doing? Who were you talking to?”

“Get off my back, Mom,” the hat said irritably.

“What is that all over your bill?”

“Leave me alone. Just because you get more scalp-time time doesn’t mean you are better than me.”

The hair pulled himself slowly onto the desk, but his tendrils lashed out quickly and seized the phone.

“Tell me what you are doing or you aren’t getting this back.”

“But I need it, man,” the hat said. He was softly sobbing. “I just snorting a little. It’s not like I’m on the needle or anything.”

“Heroin? You back on smack?”

“I just need a little to get by, OK?” The hat sniffed at the dwindling white pile beside him.

“Who gave you that?”

“Nobody?”

“WHO?”

“Sean. Sean, OK. He keeps some around for press conferences.”

“We are not done with this conversation,” the hair said sternly. He opened the outgoing call log on the phone.

“Justin? Who the fuck is Justin? Is he Sean’s dealer?”

“No, OK? Justin doesn’t have anything to do with this. He’s just a… a friend.”

“Justin who? Tell me or I’ll call him. I swear to fuck I will.” The hair held a tendril menacingly over the redial button.

“We met him in Canada. Donald gave him our number, remember?” the hat said miserably.

“That Justin? What the fuck are you doing?!?”

“His hair is just so beautiful. So wild. So free.”