Category: SugarFree

“What are Trump’s plans?

“Who were Trump’s contacts in the Russian government?”

“Who hacked Podesta?”

“Deep dish or thin crust?”

They shined bright lights down on the hat and played “You Can Call Me Al” at ear-ripping volume for an hour to soften him up, before dousing him with a bucket of icy water. When he serenely floated off the table on the wave of water, he was tackled and beaten for trying to escape. The hat suffered all this with a stoic grace and only a slight rumpling.

They sent in a good cop/bad cop pair. The bad cop talked about the hat getting raped in prison. The good cop that offered the hat a cigarette and a bottle of water. The hat ignored the threats and the small kindnesses. The bad cop slammed his hand down on the table. The good cop slapped the cigarette away and dumped the water on the floor. Curse words drifted into the room over a crackling intercom.

“Drown it in a filthy toilet.”

“Hook it up to a car battery.”

“Does it have testicles? I have pliers! Freeze it. Burn it. Bring in acid.”

“Nothing disfiguring!”

A drooling retard from Forestry was brought in and the hat was roughly jammed on his misshapen head over and over again, his elastic band stretched to the breaking point, his most intimate concavity repeatedly violated. And still the hat gathered his scraps of remaining dignity and sat on the table where they placed him, mute and inscrutable.

The hat was thrown into a filthy breakroom microwave and warned he would receive a lethal dose of radiation if he didn’t talk. The hat was shown a twenty-minute industrial films of hats being fed into a shredder, a horror film of ripped bills and hanging entrails of brim and visor. The hat was kicked for thirty minutes by men with clean shoes and warped minds, who made jokes about the hat shitting out his splintered bones over the next week.

“What if it is just a hat?”

“Impossible.”

“We have to consider it.”

“Impossible!”

The hat was given an intrabillious injection, scopolamine and cocaine, and subjected to strobe lights and a soundtrack of Donald’s voice a twice-speed playback, a fake speech by Donald cobbled together from audio clips, Donald’s voice denounced the hat in stilted dialogue, Donald’s voice said the hat was nothing, nothing but a hat, only a hat. The hat remained loyal and silent.

After six hours of interrogation, THE DEEP STATE had gotten nothing from MAGA Prime. Agent DEEP COVER was called in and given the hat.

“Return MAGA Prime to the vault. Trump can never know it was missing,” the Grand Vizier ordered.

As Agent DEEP COVER opened the vault, she saw that the hair, still clumpy with pink paint, was on the floor. She hadn’t told them about her act of vandalism. She picked up the hair and studied at the paint. Trump would know that someone had been in the vault, that his security had been compromised. Her mission was over. She would have to leave the White House, under the usual cloud of disgrace, and hope that she could disappear.

She unwrapped the hat and sat it on its little throne and put the hair back on its gold bust and closed the vault behind her.

“Speak to me, man,” the hair said quietly, “What happened?”

“They… did things.”

“What sort of things?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I tried to come for you,” the hair said, “The vault door…”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I’ve almost broken the paint down.”

“Good,” the hat said, “I just want to go to sleep.”

But in the cold pre-dawn hours that followed, the hat couldn’t sleep and the hair heard him weeping.

Agent DEEP COVER closed the door behind her with a soft click and approached the toupee vault in stockinged feet. She shook a small aerosol can and sprayed it in the air in front of her, revealing a tangle of laser beams. She contorted her body to duck between them, spraying periodically to keep them visible. When she finally made it to the vault, she pulled out her phone.

“Door,” she texted. There was a rushing sound in her ears as she waited. She didn’t understand why they didn’t send the code of the vault earlier.

“Door,” she texted again. She waved a small ultraviolet flashlight over the keypad. Only a few keys were smeared with greasy fingerprints. She snorted in disgust.

“Door,” she texted again. She counted silently in her head. After nine seconds, her phone vibrated.

“36-24-36,” they finally answered.

“Goddammit,” she muttered. She punched in Donald’s childish code and the vault shuddered and began to open.

In the soft, buttery glow of recessed lights, MAGA Prime sat on his tiny throne Donald had built for him.

“Holy fucking shit, who the fuck is that?” the hat squealed.

“How the fuck should I know?” the hair snapped.

Agent DEEP COVER grabbed MAGA Prime and stuffed him into a thick plastic envelope.

“Help!” he screamed, “Secret Service! Donald! Dracula Hooker!”

“Put my friend down, bitch!” the hair said, rising up menacingly on enraged tendrils.

Agent DEEP COVER ignored the hair and slipped the thick envelope into a large interior pocket of her jacket. The hair could hear the hat still raving, even through the thick plastic, “I’m going to die in here! I can’t breathe! I’m going to kill you all!”

“I’ll get help,” the hair screamed, “Just hold on.”

Agent DEEP COVER took out another small aerosol can and sprayed a thick blob of pink spray-paint on the hair. Smiling to herself, she closed the vault door back but left it unlocked to avoid rearming the lasers.

Walking briskly, but not so fast as to trigger suspicion, she made her way to the basement of the White House, and into the old Cold War bunker system. THE DEEP STATE had built the bunker system and made themselves hidden spaces within for their own dark purposes.

Agent DEEP COVER passed through rings and rings of security until finally she brought out the struggling hat and sat it before the heads of THE DEEP STATE.

“Gentleman…” she said, “MAGA Prime.”

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU TWEET?!?” the hair demanded as the ponderous door of the White House toupee vault finally closed, magnetic bolts firing home loudly.

“His phone was just lying around,” the hat said smugly.

“So you just tweet whatever?” the hair asked.

“Obama tapped our phones,” the hat said, “I know it happened. Jeff knows it happened. I just told the truth.”

“The truth? There’s no evidence that Obama ordered a wiretap!” the hair exclaimed.

“Evidence? Who fucking cares about evidence? Look at how they are scrambling. They pulled Clapper out of his iron lung to deny it. Clapper! He lied to Congress and they think he’s still a credible source.”

“What happens when they find out Obama never ordered a wiretap?”

“They can’t prove he didn’t do something! Did you drink some bad shampoo? Did your IQ suddenly drop? I can say anything I want!” the hat screamed.

The hair sighed loudly and in the quiet that followed, Donald’s collection of ties rustled behind them.

“What was that?” the hair asked.

“It’s probably nothing,” the hat replied, “Don’t be so paranoid.”

“I think someone’s out there…” the hair whispered.

“We are in the toupee vault in the White House. This is the most secure location in the entire world.”

The bolts fired themselves back into the wall like a series of rifleshots and the vault door began to open.

Miles beneath the surface of the Earth, THE DEEP STATE made their plans.

“We could kidnap Ivanka, shave her all over and feed her pork,” E14 suggested.

“No. We must tap his phone!’ A47 said. “What is he writing on his Blackberry? The world must know!”

“We already tap his phone. Trump Tweets and looks at pictures of a fried chicken,” B38 moaned. He needed to go to the bathroom very badly. He had spent time gossiping around eleven different water coolers that morning.

“He must have PORN!” G63 screamed from across the vast and dimly lit table. “Muslim porn? Spic porn? Some sort of porn?!?”

“Nothing we can find. We know the campaign flew in hookers during the election, but there’s no video, no audio, and all the girls have disappeared.” A3 said. He was the highest ranking member of THE DEEP STATE present and he struggled to control the others.

“PORN!” G63 screamed again from behind his mask. He pulled it away from his face and flapped it a bit to get some air moving. It was hot miles beneath the surface of the Earth and the HVAC system kept crapping out on them.

A figure in a disturbingly realistic Elizabeth Warren mask stood and shuffled paper into their microphone until the room was hushed.

“Hello, members of THE DEEP STATE,” the figure began, its voice high and pinched, the tone hectoring and unpleasant. “I want to talk to you about our common enemy.”

Murmurs went around the table and grew louder.

The Warren figure gestured and a picture of The Hat came up on a screen that hung over the center of the table.

“MAGA Prime,” the figure said, lips pursed and face pained like it had half a lemon in its ass.

The murmurs and unrest grew until A3 was forced to cry out, “Who are you? What is your designation?”

“What do you mean?” it said. “I have no designation.”

All the members assembled there, the many-tentacled arms of THE DEEP STATE screeched in hate and fear.

“HOW DID YOU GET IN HERE?” A3 demanded, drowning out all the rest.

“Indian stealth, of course,” Elizabeth said, shocked that she should have to explain.

“Guards! Seize her!”

“Now just you wait a minute, buster…” she started.

“SILENCE!” A3 thundered. “Politicians like you come and go. We are THE DEEP STATE! We are forever!”

“Wait! We can work together,” she said as the guards dragged her away.

“NEVER!” they all said as one.