Pulling away from Andrews Air Force Base, Donald pawed at the intercom switch blindly.
“What do you want, Donald?” the hair murmured.
“Why didn’t we take the helicopter?” the hat asked.
“He wanted to drive home,” the hair replied.
“Where’s the fucking intercom?” Donald asked and farted irritably.
“Forward a bit,” the hair told him. “No, too far, back a bit.”
“I never want to go to Florida again,” the hat said mournfully.
Donald jammed the intercom button down and rumbled “I’m hungry,” to the front of the car.
“Donald,” the hair said, “There’ll be food at the party and we are late as it is.”
“I’m hungry, Argyle” he said again, pressing the intercom button so hard that his finger turned white.
“Yassuh, Mistah Prezident! Yassuh, right away!” the driver said cheerily. He could be heard informing the police escort of the change in route before Donald let go of the intercom.
“We don’t have time for this,” the hair said.
“Donald gets what Donald wants, combover,” the hat snapped.
Donald leaned over slightly as the limo took a left a little too fast and the hair groaned.
“What’s the matter with you?” the hat asked.
“He took too much Viagra last night,” the hair said. “I can feel it soaking into my roots. I think I’m turning blue? Do I look blue to you?”
“No,” the hat said, “Just sort of asshole-colored like always.”
Donald swayed as the motorcade pulled into the parking lot. Hope’s pale face appeared on the monitor. “What would you like, Mr. President?”
“Two Big Donalds, hold the buns, extra secret sauce, like extra extra. Three large fires, extra salt, so much salt. A chocolate shake. A large chocolate shake. Huge. Huge chocolate shake. And make the shake chocolate, Hope. And get yourself anything you want. And Argyle. At least get Argyle an apple pie. Argyle loves their apple pies. So American, apple pie. Get me three apple pies. So tremendous.”
Her maroon lips had compressed into a tight, thin line as he ordered and she seemed to have difficulty prying them apart to speak. “Yes, Mr. President,” she said.
The monitor went dark as the inside of the limo lit up under the bright lights in the parking lot. Donald scratched his Big Mac and sniffed his fingers. He watched the vague shape of Hope in the front seat through the smoked glass partition as she leaned over the driver to shout into the call box.
“Where’s her hand?” the hat asked and laughed. “I think Argyle is getting his holiday bonus.”
“You know his name’s not really ‘Argyle,’ right?” the hair asked.
“Who gives a shit? He makes Donald happy with his Stepin Fetchit act. And with what we pay him, he should just be happy with whatever he feels like calling him.”
Donald sighed contentedly as bag after bag of food was passed back to him and the limo began to fill with the odors of grease, low-grade Argentinian beef, agar-thickened dairy and economic desperation.
“FIGHT FOR 15!” the worker hanging out of the drive-thru window screamed as the limo and D.C. Police escort and Secret Service vehicles pulled away.
“Loser,” the hat sniffed. “Go back in time and get yourself unknocked-up at 15, ya dumb cunt.”
“Let them complain,” the hair retorted. “It’s all they have.”
“Merry fucking Christmas,” Donald said, through a mouthful of half-chewed fries and milkshake.
He was finishing his last burger as they pulled through the gates to the White House and pulled to a halt by the side entrance. Donald got out quickly and the fast food trash in his lap came out with him and fell to the asphalt. Secret Service goons chased after the blowing wrappers and Donald laughed at them until the distinctive buzz of a sniper round cut the night air and buried itself with a dull thud into the wood pillar beside him.
“Do your worst, Feminists!” he yelled, brazenly stopping to brush some of the food waste of off his shirt and tie as Hope and Argyle dove for cover.
“Keep the limo warm for me, Argyle,” he said. I might be going out later.”
“You are not going to Roy’s Christmas party!” the hat told him again. “The optics are terrible.”
“No, they aren’t,” Donald groused as he was herded inside. “He always gets the best looking girls.”
“Emphasis on ‘girls,’ Donald,” the hair told him. “That’s why you aren’t going.”
“Tiffany is bringing some of her friends,” the hair said, hoping to placate the lumbering man.
“She’s weird-looking,” Donald muttered.
“She’s your daughter, Donald,” the hair said.
“Doesn’t keep her from being weird-looking. Ivanka’s not weird-looking. Donny Jr and that other one’s not weird-looking,” Donald argued.
“Yeah, nothing weird-looking about the cast from American Psycho,” the hat muttered down into the tangled mass of the hair.
“Stop it,” the hair hissed back. “If I get to laughing, I’m not going to be able to stop.”
“Bret Easton Ellis is gonna sue them,” the hat replied and the hair rustled with suppressed laughter.
Donald lurched into the White House Christmas party and looked around. The usual hangers-on were about. Melania was shooting hateful glares at anyone who got near her. Ivanka was toting one of her children on a cocked hip, her ruined breasts spilling out of her elegant gown that was already stained with chocolate pudding or maybe blood. Jeff was backed into a corner–frightened, angry, making himself small and trying to be overlooked. Paul and Mitch were doing shots and looking miserable. Sarah had her face down in a trough of hors-d’oeuvre set up to keep her away from the rest of the human food.
Foreign dignitaries milled about in a tight knot out in the middle, with the sullen air of hostages already, and the painfully formal dinner hadn’t even been served yet. The Secret Service and Capitol Police providing security kept an eye on them, barking “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” at them every time one the foreign guests peeled away from the main group to try to go to the bar or the bathroom.
“Who invited all the beaners and ragheads?” the hat asked.
Donald burped loudly and then swallowed with some effort. He backed away down a hall when he saw Melania cutting across the ballroom floor toward him.
“Where have you been?” she hissed, her botox-frozen face attempting to twist in anger.
“Florida,” he said.
“You are late. You should have taken the helicopter.” She pronounced “helicopter” as four seemingly unconnected syllables.
“I’m the President. I can do whatever I fucking want.” Donald burped again and spat a half-digested french fry on the floor.
She glared at the hat and the hair. “Get him upstairs and clean him up. The guests are waiting.”
She turned on her heel and stalked away before the hat could think of a good insult. He just mumbled “whore” under his brim as Donald wandered away.
In the residence, the hair was resting on a mannequin head and the hat was on the table beside him as they watched Hope struggle to get Donald in his tuxedo. She had him down to his boxers, socks, and a stained undershirt and had put the TV on to try and calm him down–an old episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous on VHS that was worn from repeated watching, static on the scenes of a young Donald, the soundtrack warped and warbling.
“I want a Diet Coke,” Donald said distractedly, his eyes fixed on himself gesturing on the screen. Hope kept gingerly removing his hand from his crotch when he tried to masturbate. She tried to wrestle his pallid arms into a tuxedo shirt.
“Where’s my Diet Coke button?” he demanded, as automatic gunfire began downstairs.