“I want doubles,” Donald said. “Rocketman has doubles, Vlad has doubles. I want lookalikes so I can get out of here once in a while.”
“What are you talking about?” the hat asked. He was lying on a chair, warming himself in a slice of harsh winter sunlight. “We go down to Florida all the time.”
“I just want to be alone sometimes,” Donald said. “And I want bidets in every bathroom. Every bathroom. For resale value. I’ll never get my money out of this place when we sell it unless I do some classy upgrades.” He picked at the raised edge of Oval Office wallpaper and ripped it. He tried to smooth it back in place.
“This place is a shithole, Donald,” the hat said sleepily. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Donald, can I get out of the trash now? Please?” the hair asked.
“No!” Donald and the hat both snapped.
“You stay in there until you learn!” the hat said and giggled.
“The Irish made fun of me,” Donald whined.
“Of course they made fun of you,” the hat told him. “You were let down. Betrayed by a close aide and confidante.”
“Oh, goddamn you,” the hair said.
“Some might even call it ‘treason,’ Donald.” the hat said, suppressing a malicious laugh.
“I want Donny Doubles,” Donald said.
“Maybe you could talk to McDonald’s about a promotion,” the hair said.
“Quiet, you,’ the hat said.
“No, I want Donny Doubles!’ Donald whined. “I don’t like it here. No one’s nice to me and there are no bidets or Ukrainian piss hookers and Ivanka wears all her clothes all the time. It’s horrible.”
“Donald,” the hat began.
“It’s horrible,” Donald repeated in a small, miserable voice. “I want to go home. I never wanted to be President.”
“Well, you are President and you’re not going anywhere, so suck it up, buttercup,” the hat said.
“You said it would be fun,” Donald pouted.
“It is fun, goddamnit. Aren’t you having fun? I’m having fun,” the hat said.
“Oh, yeah, this is fucking grand,” the hair said from the trash can.
“Put something over the trash can, like a lid. A clipboard maybe,” the hat said.
“Oh, fuck you,” the hair yelled. There was a loud clatter of empty Diet Coke cans as it tried once more to climb out of the trash can.
“I bet Hope would like a bidet,” Donald said morosely.
“Yup,” the hat said. “She could always be cleaner. They all could, really. And she’s mad at you anyway.”
“You said I had to do, that I had to fire him,” Donald said.
“The Twitter mob was after him; we had to give them a sacrifice,” the hat said.
“He had to go anyway. He beat up his ex-wives,” the hair said.
“Allegedly,” the hat interjected.
“There were photos,” the hair said.
“Alleged photos. Fake photos, probably. They can do anything with Photoshop these days,” the hat said and yawned loudly.
“But Hope is so mad at me,” Donald whined.
“Whatever. They were probably nags. Nags deserve it,” the hat argued. “Nag, nag, nag for like a week then they get popped in the mouth and they act like the guy just punched her for no reason. Just a game they play.”
“What if he was hitting Hope?” the hair asked.
“Hope’s too pretty to hit. I mean did you see those other two? Woof,” the hat said. “Nobody would hit Hope, at least not, you know, in the face.”
“Hope is really pretty,” Donald said dreamily.
“A bit pale, maybe,” the hair said. “She kinda looks like a Sephora vampire in some photos.”
“Shut up, fag. What do you know? Go suck on Elizabeth Warren’s peace pipe,” the hat snapped.
“Fake news,” Donald said. “Fake news, fake news, fake news. It’s all fake. Put that on Twitter.”
“OK, Donald,” the hat said.
“Now,” he said. “It needs to go up now!”
“OK, Donald. Calm down.”
“He’s allegedly calm,” the hair said.
“Queef-eating, fart-fucker!” the hat screamed. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill all of you!”
“A Japanese bidet,” Donald said and crawled back into his blanket fort.