“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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