“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.”