Category: SugarFree

“We can’t get rid of Steve!’ the hat wailed.

“No, he’s got to go. He’s the leaker. He’s been leaking,” the hair told him. They had been locked together in the hair vault all weekend.

“But I like, Steve. He was going to take me on the rails with him this fall.”

“No. He’s out. We’ve got to make a sacrifice for that inbred retard killing that fatso in North Carolina.”

“We were going to see the real America, the America that lives in culverts and steals pies off of window sills.”

“Kelly says he has to go,” the hair said.

“I’m sick of Kelly. He gets rid of all the people I like. Look at Anthony. I really miss Anthony.”

“You miss snorting coke with Anthony in the maid’s quarters. You miss watching BBW poop porn with Anthony on his cell phone.”

“He knew all the best sites,” the hat whined.

“Besides, Steve got rid of Anthony. He broke him. You were there.”

“I want some brown sugar,” the hat whined. It was a thin and pitiful noise. It made the hair writhe in disgust.

“If you’re talking about a black hooker, that can be arranged,” the hair said, hoping that it was a black prostitute.

“No, man. I need some smack, some tar, horse, China white, some skag, junk, H, some of that sweet White Lady.”

“No, you’re going cold turkey. I need help keeping Donald in line.”

“My fabric hurts all over. My teeth itch.”

“You don’t have any teeth,” the hair said. “And you need to be washed. You smell like rotten pussy.”

The hat mumbled something indistinct.

“What? Speak up.”

“I let Sarah sit on me.”

“Dude, that’s fucking gross.”

“She was eating fried chicken too.”

The hair made vomiting noises.

“She said she’d get me his phone back so I could Twitter.”

“You aren’t getting the phone back until you’re clean,” the hair said.

The hat mewled.

“Hold on…” the hair said, “Did you feel that?” He spread out his most sensitive tendrils onto the marble of the vault shelf they were sitting on.

“No,” the hat said. “All I feel is pain. And sick. I think I’m going to throw up again.”

“Shh. Be quiet.”

“Fuck you. I’m sick over here, you fuck.” The hat barfed up a small handful of discolored thread and groaned.

“You don’t feel it?”

“Just give me heroin or leave me the fuck alone.”

The entire vault shook.

“OK, the hat said, “I felt it that time.”

A loud roar reverberated through the small room: “KELLY!”

“It’s Steve!” the hat exclaimed. “I knew Steve would come for me!”

“MCMASTERS!”

The entire vault shook again and the hair slid into the pool of the hat’s sick as it scrabbled for purchase.

“Goddammit!” the hair yelled as the vault door was wrenched off its hinges and light poured into the toupee vault.

“Steve!” the hat yelled excitedly.

The hulking hobo carried the heavy steel vault door over to the window and rammed it again and again until the wire-meshed bulletproof glass fell outside in shattered pieces.

“Steve! Wait! Take me with you!” the hat screamed.

Steve didn’t even look back as he jumped from the window and bellowed in defiance.

(click below, audio only)

“Can’t you just play golf, Donald?” the hair asked quietly.

“Oh, shut up,” the hat replied. “Let him do what he wants. It’s his vacation.”

“Working vacation,” Donald mumbled, flipping through the photos again on his phone. “I’m working this vacation. Phone calls and meetings.” He was dragging his driver behind him as he walked the green.

“Give your driver to the caddy, Donald,” the hat told him.

“Reince used to be my caddy. He was an OK, caddy. Not the best,” Donald mumbled. He dropped the driver to hold the phone in both of his hands, bring it up close to his face. The hair looked down at the phone from under the hat.

“Donald, you shouldn’t be doing this to yourself,” the hair said. “It’s not healthy.”

“I have perfect health. The best health. My healthy is so classy,” Donald replied absently.

“I want to go fishing,” Donald said.

“You’re playing golf right now,” the hat said, “And you just walked right past your ball.”

“My balls are so healthy,” Donald said, the phone almost touching his nose as he stared into it. “I’ll have my doctor release my testicle report.”

“DONALD!” the hair yelled, “You’re about to walk into a tree!”

“All honest, hardworking trees love my administration,” Donald replied but stopped before hitting the tree.

“You’ve got to snap out of it,” the hat said sternly. “It’s over between the two of you. He’s never coming back.”

“He’s the only man that ever made me feel like a woman,” Donald said quietly.

“I know, Donald. But he’s the President of Russia and you are the President of the United States. You can’t be together like that any longer.”

“Listen to the hair, Donald.”

“I hate golf,” Donald said.

“We’ll go powerboating in Florida next time,” the hat said. “You can run over as many manatees as you feel like.”

“Ocean Rosies,” Donald said wistfully. He let the phone hang at his side.

“Go ahead and put the phone away, Donald,” the hair said. “We are keeping the reporters away, but someone still might see.”

“I have to pee,” Donald said.

“Only one more hole, Donald,” the hat said. “There’s a comfort station after that.”

“I have to pee now,” Donald said petulantly.

“No, Donald,” the hat and hair said simultaneously.

Donald walked behind the tree he was standing in front of an unzipped his pants.

“Donald! Put your penis away!” the hair commanded.

“Don’t press that button,” the hat warned. But it was too late. The erection sequence on Donald’s penis pump was already engaged.

“Bigly,” Donald said. “So bigly.” He began to salivate at the muted sounds of the implanted motor making his penis rigid.

“Goddammit, stop him!” the hat told the hair.

“I can’t! The scalp controls aren’t responding!”

Donald brought the phone up and flipped to his favorite photo.

What Happened by Hillary Rodham Clinton, unpublished draft

I am the most qualified person ever to run for President of the United States.

I happened to marry an adulterer who went on to become the 42nd President of the United States of America. I rode the resentment of his impeachment for lying about having sex with a 22-year-old fatty to become the first female Senator of a state where I had never made my home, a state with a corrupt political machine only rivaled by the cesspit known as Illinois. After walking away from the job of Senator, I ran a failed primary bid where I lost to a charismatic nobody with a penis and the ability to smile. After throwing a long public tantrum about that defeat, the nobody appointed me Secretary of State to appease the women in the party still angry about my primary loss. I was an undistinguished Secretary of State who used my office to line the pockets of my fake charitable foundation and hid my illegal activities by setting up a homebrew email server to evade Freedom of Information Act requests and Congressional oversight. I ran another bid for President with the direct collusion of the Democratic National Committee to suppress my primary opponents. With the full and overt support of a supposedly objective national news apparatus, I still lost to a national disgrace, a reality show host with all the natural charm of a used car salesman under indictment for fraud and his team of New York mobster hillbillies.

I am the most qualified person to ever run for President of the United States and somehow I still lost. This is what happened.

I had the same dream over and over again when I was a teenager. I am standing in a field, a wide open field. There were flowers everywhere and I reached down and touch them. I hear a far off sound, a low rumbling, a roar. I am confused, frightened. But then I see the missiles coming up out of the underground silos, like shoots growing from fertile soil in time-lapse. There are dozens of them. I imagine I can feel their flames against my face, hotter than the spring sun. The plumes of their engines fill the blue, blue sky where they stand on thick pillars of clouds. They are beautiful. I lift up out of the field and fly with them up and up and up, through the ever-thinning air and into the darkness of space. The missiles and I hang there, weightless, frozen for an eternal moment, then we slowly begin to fall back to the Earth. Faster and faster we fall, heat shimmering around us. The ground rushes toward us like a lover. And then blinding white light and a sound too loud to even be heard. When I can see again I am back in the field. A greasy black snow of human ash is falling. I hold out my tongue and catch a flake. It is delicious.

Every time I wake from this dream I am masturbating as hard as a can. I am alternating digging up under my clitoris with my sharp fingernails and slapping my vulva sharply. I can never finish. I get out of bed and slip quietly downstairs and go to the guest bathroom to wash the blood off my hands and pubic area so that I wouldn’t wake my parents. Clean, I would examine the lovely ruin between my legs for any permanent damage. It is all permanent damage.

Bill vomited the first time I let him see it in the light. He was weak. I should have never trusted him. I barely have the dream any longer. When I do, Huma is there to hold me. I wish Huma would be in my dream but I know that is not what the dream is about. I can barely feel it when Huma touches the scar tissue. When she reads these words will be the first time I have told her that. Pleasure is not something I feel. Neither is pain. I feel nothing.

I wanted to be your President, America, so you could feel nothing too.

 

From the private journal of Huma A—–

Hillary is working on her book about the election again. She and her team work on it every night as we get closer to the publication deadline. She says she doesn’t want my help at this stage. At this stage. I ask her what she means by that and she just smiles.

She has asked me to write about the first time we met and our earliest times together. She says it is for the book but I know the misogynistic world we live in will never allow for our relationship to be public. Men and the women they have fooled can never accept two proud, strong women loving each other.

I love the woman who should have been the first woman President of the United States.

I love the most hated woman in America.

I love her despite her attempts at transformation. I love her because of her attempts at transformation.

The first time we met. You know those moments in your life that you just know you are going to remember your whole life? It was like that. I saw her, our eyes met, and all I could think was “Wow, this is amazing.” She was so beautiful and she was so little. People say love at first sight is just chemicals in your brain and that it can’t be real. It is real. I touch her hand and I knew that I would be with her for the rest of my life. My secret place began to weep the tears of the djinn. It was the first time I knew I was in love with a woman. And that that woman was Hillary. I knew I would die for her if she asked, kill for her if she asked.

I fell out of love with Anthony in an instant. I miscarried our first child that night, shaking in the bathroom in our apartment and hoping the filth he had put in me would stay out forever. It was only because Hillary needed an apostate child to complete her Ascension that I ever consented to let the Jew touch me again.

She was so beautiful and she was so little. I hope she puts that in the book. That’s all I want anyone to know.

 

Congressional Testimony, August 2021

Senator Paul: Why was she even allowed to run in the Democratic primary again, Madam Chairperson?

DNC Chairperson Warren: We have an open primary process…

Senator Paul: Please don’t insult the members of this committee, Ms. Warren.

[Warren consults with attorney]

DNC Chairperson Warren: Senator Sanders was dead. Senator Booker, well, I think we all know why he couldn’t run. And she was the most qualified person ever to run…

Senator Paul: She was a 74-year-old two-time loser under indictment over her charitable foundation. She had a husband under a similar indictment who died under very questionable circumstances. Her daughter had fled the country over the activities of that same foundation. Was this really the best person your party could offer the country?

DNC Chairperson Warren: You [expletive deleted], Rand. You know what, just [expletive deleted] you! HOW WERE WE SUPPOSED TO STOP HER?

 

Clinton Election Celebration survivor testimony

And then the balloons began to fall from the ceiling and everyone was cheering. You could see something was happening up on the stage, but, you know, not really make it out. And then there was this tearing noise and a gunshot. And I thought, “Someone shot her! Someone has shot the first woman President!” Everyone started screaming and running for the exits. People were being trampled. I… I… There was a woman on the floor of the auditorium and I…

[recording paused]

It was deafening. The noise of the crowd. Panic in an enclosed space. There were plenty of exits but no one was moving. Everyone was crying. And even over the crowd you could hear this… I don’t know what it was… like when your crack your knuckles, but like enormous knuckles. And then a high-pitched noise like child’s scream. All the balloons on the floor popped at once. I looked back at the stage and there was this… I don’t know… thing hanging in the air. Like writhing in the air. I could smell burnt meat and electricity.

The crowd started pushing again, trying to get out. And there were all these gunshots. Hundreds of them it sounded like. It was the guards outside. The fucking security guards. They were shooting anyone who made it outside. They were keeping us in there.

 

What Happened by Hillary Rodham Clinton, unpublished draft

I approached it like any other deal to be made. They had something I wanted and I had a medium of currency that they would accept for it. I knew that all I had to do who find common ground and trading could begin

I began with Shub-Niggurath. She was a woman just like I was. A mother. She might have been the black goat of the woods with a thousand young but that didn’t mean we wouldn’t share the experience of giving birth, of nurturing a child and watching them grow, or the disappointment in finding that our monstrous offspring turned out looking like their hideous father.

Surprisingly, it was Huma that introduced me to Iram, the city of pillars, the ancient center of Shub-Niggurath worship. It wasn’t easy to get away, of course. It took a huge sum of money and careful coordination of my schedule to get away from press, but Huma is a genius at exactly that sort of operation.

Deep in the Crimson Desert, we sought the sunken pillars of the city that had been damned by God. When the guides announced our arrival, it looked like any other patch of that endless wasteland. Huma drew a square in the sand with a carved femur and muttered the guttural words from the tattered scrap of manuscript I had bought from the crippled German.

The sand shuddered and parted to reveal a black glass staircase that descended into darkness. We killed the guides and walked hand-in-hand into the buried temple of The Mother.

 

Excerpt from the autopsy of unidentified body recovered from Clinton election celebration site, forensic examination narrative

Gross deep tissue damage. Most muscle groups are simply gone. What remains on the skeleton has been partially dissolved by some variety of corrosive. No tests on any of the other victims have been able to identify it. The closest thing anyone has come up with is that it might be some sort of gastric juices applied to the flesh to soften it for consumption. Most of the major bones have been split lengthwise and the bone marrow is gone. With the head pulped and the skin missing, identification of the body will be impossible unless we get lucky with DNA.

 

Democratic Underground blog post, November 11th, 2020

The fact remains that Hillary was ELECTED FAIR AND SQUARE. No matter what she did AFTERWARDS, she must be allowed to take office. If the KKKGOP want to impeach her they are welcome to try.

I DON’T CARE WHAT SHE IS, SHE’S STILL MY PRESIDENT!

 

CNBC Online article excerpt, April 12, 2023

What are Hillary’s Chances of a Second Term? Is America ready to vote for a black cloud of gibbering tentacles? Has her ravaging of the East Coast hurt her with the Democratic base? Will the constant rain of blood in Ohio depress voter turnout?

“I can’t have all this infighting among my staff,” Donald told the three men.

The hat sniggered knowingly and the hair shushed him.

“I’m the bestest President ever. The greatest since Lincoln. Although, I mean, what did Lincoln ever really do? He freed the slaves? Like, big deal, right? Real men free themselves, not wait around on a depressive fag to do it for them.”

“Who knew there was a boxing ring in the White House basement?” the hat asked.

“I did,” the hair said. “I told you to read up on this place. There’s a movie theater, a bowling alley, a regular dungeon, and a fully-outfitted fuck dungeon.”

“All the comforts of home,” the hat said, shivering in delight.

The hat and the hair were riding Donald tonight, a pride of place they both enjoyed. They had even gotten Donald to put on pants and shoes for this august occasion. The Secret Service had abducted Reince and Anthony from their hotels in the middle of the night and when the black hoods had been taken from their heads they had both shrunk back from the ancient incandescent bulbs that lit the underground facility. Steve had been escorted down from the bathtub they found him sleeping in in the White House residence. He was utterly nonplussed at finding himself in a boxing ring in the middle of a humid Washington night. All three had been stripped to the waist, but only Steve had a visible erection.

“You’re going to settle this right now,” Donald told them.

“You want us to fight?” Reince asked. “Like, fight fight? With our fists?”

“And feet and teeth and anything else you want,” Donald replied.

Anthony’s laughter boomed through the high ceilinged room. “I’m going to fuck you up, you little Beltway fairy. And then I’m going to just fuck you.”

“What?” Reince asked. “I don’t want to fight. I’ll just resign. I’ll get my rubber plant out of my office right now and just go.”

“And when they sew your asshole back into something that looks human, I’m going to fuck you again,” Anthony hissed, clacking his huge teeth together menacingly.

“Get away from me, you fucking psycho,” Reince said wildly, backing away.

“And then I’m coming for you, you old, drunken cocksucker,” Anthony told Steve. As his only reply, Steve picked at his hideously deep belly button and then smelled his finger.

“Here are the rules…” Donald said over their posturing, “There are no rules.” Donald laughed at what he thought was a clever joke and the hat groaned.

“Next he’ll say ‘It’s my way or the highway’ like he thought it up himself,” the hair muttered.

“Would you two shut up!” Donald yelled at them.

“Uh, who are you talking to, Mr. President?” Reince asked.

“FIGHT!” Donald screamed.

Anthony launched himself at Reince and the slight man shrieked and ran. Steve shuffled to the middle of the ring as Anthony chased Reince around and around.

“I’m going to fuck your eyes out, little man,” Anthony growled. “I’m going to make you eat my ass and write a song about it!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Reince cried.

“I know you’re the leaker,” Anthony said and leaped at him. He brought the slight man down and punched him repeatedly in the butt crack. “You’ll be a real leaker by the time I’m done!”

“Stop talking about ruining my ass!” Reince cried into the filthy canvas of the boxing ring.

Steve watched them both disinterestedly. He belched.

“Are you crying?” Anthony asked Reince incredulously. “Oh my fucking God, you are fucking cry, you fucking queer faggot.”

Anthony stood and kicked Reince a few times in the side and then climbed up on the ropes on the far side of the ring.

“Oh, fuck,” the hat said excitedly, “Here it fucking comes.”

Anthony jumped from the top rope, screaming, “COCK-BLOCK BODYSLAM!” and landed on Reince, making the entire ring shake.

“Oh, that’s got to fucking hurt!” Donald screamed, turning to a non-existent crowd for an approving roar that wouldn’t come.

Anthony paraded himself around the ring, pinching his nipples and flexing his biceps. Reince pulled himself over to the edge of the ring and fell off the side.

“Take me over there, Donald,” the hat. “I want to fucking spit on that dumb shit.”

Donald to where the little man lay bleeding, coughing weakly, spit and mucus smeared on his face.

“That’s what you get, cunt,” the hat told him. “That’s what you get for working for this Administration. Kick him, Donald.” Donald kicked Reince without much force.

“Harder, Donald,” the hat urged. “I want this pussy puking up his ribs!”

“Would you stop already?” the hair asked.

“No fucking way,” the hat said. “He did a terrible job, like Jeff, and I want him to know it. In fact, why isn’t Jeff here? I want to see that wizened old elf fuck grovel!”

“More fighting!” Donald yelled. “More!”

“You ready, old man?” Anthony asked Steve. “You ready, you fucking bum?” He advanced on Steve, his fists up, trying to dance around like boxers he had seen on pay-per-view.

“Did you read The New Yorker interview? Huh?” Anthony taunted. He feinted a swing at Steve, but Steve didn’t flinch.

“DEATH TO ALL LEAKERS!” Anthony screamed and rushed at Steve.

Steve lashed out, grabbed Anthony by the throat and lifted him up in the air with his tremendous hobo strength.

“How much can you really know about yourself if you’ve never sucked your own cock?” Steve asked quietly.

The hair laughed loudly while Anthony feebly thrashed in Steve’s hand.

“Oh no, he didn’t!” the hat howled.

Steve threw Anthony out of the ring and he landed in an insensate heap.

“Well, I guess we have a winner,” Donald said.

The hat and the hair continued to laugh as Steve climbed out of the ring, collected his bindle from the Secret Service man holding it, and shuffled into the darkened labyrinth of tunnels under the White House.

 

“Loyalty!” Donald howled.

“Why are we outside?” the hat asked.

“He wanted to go for a walk in The Rose Garden,” the hair told him. “Go back to sleep if you want.”

“Loyalty!” Donald howled again. “I gave Jeff that job so that he could help me out and he recuses himself. Recuses!”

“How can I sleep with this shit going on?” the hat asked the hair. “It’s so fucking muggy out here.”

“It used to be a swamp.”

“Don’t call it a swamp. It’s a sewer now. Or cesspool. Get Droopy-eyed Fatty McFat-fat to write you up a list if you can’t remember,” the hat said.

“I’m not talking to her. She flashed Donald the other night after he told her she could be Press Secretary. Her body looks like something barfed up by a cat.”

“Where was I during this?” the hat asked.

“Nodding off, you fucking junkie.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m going to fire Jeff and put someone in the job who is on my side for a change,” Donald told a rose bush.

“Someone like that would never get approved, Donald,” the hair said.

“Yes, he will! I’ll make them approve him. The art of the deal. I wrote a book about that. Art! It’s an art!”

“Keep your voice down, Donald,” the hair murmured.

“There aren’t any Boy Scouts around. I can say whatever I want!” Donald screamed. “Trannies charge too much! Girl Scouts need more makeup! JEFF IS A POOPY BOTTOM!”

“OK, Donald,” the hat said.

“Jeff should be looking into Hillary’s fucking emails and telling Muller to go back to acting in Phantasm movies!” Donald said.

“I know, Donald.” I know,” the hair said. Donald began to urinate on a Magnolia tree.

“Six months,” the hair whispered to the hat, “That’s all it’s been. Six months. Three and a half more years of holding this all together? I don’t know if I can do it.”

“The sunlight is making me itch all over,” the hat muttered, ignoring him. “I miss France. They called me Mssr. Chapeau and the hookers were hairy like I like ‘em.”

 

“Get out, Sean!” the hat screamed from under the desk. “Get out, get out, get out!”

“We are going to let him resign,” the hair told him.

“No, fire him. I want him fired. I want to do it. Have Donald whomp him over the head with me like The Skipper and Gilligan!”

“Who?”

“The Skipper? Gilligan? I was a TV show?”

“Before my time, I guess.”

“All of time was before your time, you infant wig!”

“Can I pardon myself?” Donald asked.

“I don’t think so, Donald,” the hair said.

“You’ve really never seen Gilligan’s Island?” the hat asked.

“Why not?” Donald asked.

“Precedent. Ford had to pardon Nixon for Watergate,” the hair told him.

“What’s Watergate?” Donald asked, shifting his bulk around in his Oval Office chair.

“It’s a hotel, moron,” the hat said. Donald kicked him with a filthy bare foot.

“Don’t kick me!” the hat wailed.

“Kick him, Donald,” the hair urged, “Kick him hard!”

“Stop encouraging him!” the hair yelled.

“Can Jeff pardon me?” Donald asked.

“Jeff is Attorney General, Donald,” the hair told him.

“So? Can he pardon me?”

“No, only the President can pardon someone?”

“Who’s the President? Can I call him?”

“You’re the President, Donald,” the hair said patiently.

“Damn fucking right, I am!” he roared. “I pardon myself. Donald J. Trump, thou art pardoned!”

“That’s not how it works, Donald!” the hat said. Donald was stepping on him now and his voice from under the desk was distorted and faint.

“Russia doesn’t matter anymore! I’m pardoned, I’m pardoned!” Donald yelled, getting up to run in circles around his desk.

He stopped after a few laps, breathing raggedly. “Russia is all fake news from now on,” he gasped. “Mueller is fired. Jeff is fired. I’m free!”

Donald pulled open the Oval Office door and took off down the hallway toward the Residence, the hair flapping behind him, struggling to hang on.

“I’m pardoned, I’m pardoned,” he told his secretaries taking selfies with their salads.

“I’m pardoned, I’m pardoned,” he told Reince masturbating in his office to Holocaust autopsies.

“I’m pardoned, I’m pardoned,” he told his Sarah as she was sitting on a chocolate cake and moaning.

“I’m pardoned, I’m pardoned,” he told he told a scowling Melania as she gave her son his bath.

“I’m pardoned, I’m pardoned,” he told Steve, the homeless drunk sleeping in his bed. “I’m pardoned, I’m pardoned,” as he tried to shake him awake. “I’m pardoned, I’m pardoned,” he screamed while stamping his foot.

“Steve?”

“Stevey?”

“Wake up, Steve. I need to tell you something.”

“Steve?”

“Donald,” the hair whispered. “You might need to call for someone.”

“Nonsense. Steve is just playing a joke.” He poked the homeless man in the neck. “C’mon, Steve, joke’s over. You need to wake up.”

“Donald,” the hair said, “I think he’s dead.”

A toilet flushed and Steve came out of the bathroom, wiped his hands off on his shirt. “Who’s dead?”

“Steve!” Donald said and hugged him. “You’re OK. I told you he was OK!”

“Then who is in the bed?” the hair asked quietly.

“Who is in the bed?” Donald asked.

“A man can’t have someone over for the night?” Steve asked.

“But who is it?” Donald asked. He went to poke the man in the bed again and jammed his finger into the body’s eye.

“No one,” Steve said walking back into the bathroom. “Have it cleaned up,” he told Donald.

The Hat and The Hair: Episode -1

 

“You released the emails?!?” Donald roared, beating on the door of the Special Presidential Shitter that Junior was hiding in.

“I had to, Daddy!” he wailed over the jet engine scream of the auto-targeting MegaBidet.

“Get out here!’ Donald yelled. “And stop using my bidet! That’s President water you’re shooting up your ass. MY WATER!”

“My butt parts have never felt so fresh!” Junior sobbed as the noise from the bidet died away.

“Open this door! Open it now!”

Donald pushed the door open as soon as he heard the lock click; Junior was knocked back on the floor, the pants of his expensive suit around his knees, his tie knotted tightly around his neck.

“What were you doing in here?” Donald demanded.

“Nothing, Daddy,” Junior said guiltily.

“Were you choking-jerking in here with my auto-bidet?” Donald accused.

He knew exactly what was going on, but wanted to make Junior admit it. Forcing him to take responsibility for his actions was what the family counselor suggested the first time he had killed a maid. Junior was only nine and had had to use a drill. It was adorable in its own way, but Donald knew that to be a man, Junior would have to learn discretion.

Junior looked around the room, his eyes alighting on anything but his father’s face. “Yes,” he mumbled.

“Clean yourself up before anyone sees you,” Donald said.

“My tummy hurts, Daddy,” Junior said, rubbing his lower intestines.

“You’ll be fine.”

Junior bent over and retched.

“Some poopy water just came out of my mouth, Daddy.”

“I told you it was too powerful,” Donald said as Junior was lifted off the Special Presidential Shitter floor by a jet of liquid expelled from his anus.

 

————-

“Why are you telling me this?” the hat asked wearily.

“Because it’s funny,” the hair replied.

“I just want to go back to sleep.”

“Goddammit. You need to snap out of it. This moping around is just boring.”

“If you want to leave, then leave. I don’t know why you stay with me anyway.”

“We’re locked in the Vault together. Where would I go?”

“Just leave me alone,” the hat whispered.

Exasperated, the hair turned to the stands of silent hairpieces past that Donald refused to wear but also refused to get rid of.

“What up, my wiggas?” he asked.

But they didn’t answer, like they never answered, and the hair was alone. Utterly alone.