“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.