“Oh, Christ,” his hair said.
“Lighten up,” his hat said.
“You set it up, Sean,” Donald said. “You set it up. I want it on prime time, Sean. I will beat that gropey old fuck to death! To death!”
There was a muted whoosh as the hat sent a message out on Twitter.
“Uh,” the hair said.
“Shut up,” the hat said, “I’m being intimidating. Biden will be so intimidated he won’t even show up for the fight.”
“FOR-FEIT!” Donald said into the phone. “Biden’ll forfeit, Sean. He won’t even show up for the fight.”
“Can you hear what Sean is saying?” the hat asked.
“Barely,” the hair replied. “It’s not a very good connection.”
“I need to know what he’s going to say about the fight on his show,” the hat said.
“OK, then shut up and let me listen,” the hair snapped.
“No, no, no. Sean, no. No, Sean. Listen to me. LISTEN. TO. ME. The fight is going to happen no matter what,” Donald said, “I’m just giving you guys the opportunity to air it. In prime time. Yes, prime time. 8pm, Sean. Right after Wheel of Fortune.”
“Sean doesn’t think he can get the network to pay for it,” the hair whispered.
“They’d be idiots not to,” the hat whispered back.
“He saying that if Donald wins the network would be accused of rigging the fight,” the hair whispered.
“Of course we’re going to rig the fight,” the hat said indignantly. “I’m not letting our Donald go out there and get beat up by goofy-ass Joe Biden!”
“Yes, Sean,” Donald said. “Yes. You have to pay for the ring and the venue. I can’t pay for it. It can’t be done. It just can’t. What? I don’t know. Get CNN to go in on it with you. Cost-sharing or whatever. Peddle your ass like you did for rent money in college; I don’t fucking care.”
The hat and the hair shook with laughter.
“And I want sexy ring girls. Sexy. Not those wrung-out hags you call news girls. I want 10s or higher out there shaking their ass. White girls too. I ain’t having it look like a ghetto strip club,” Donald said. He reached up and adjusted the hat and the hair and the hair hung on grimly.
“Bow-chicka-wow-wow,” the hat sang quietly.
“Are you over Hope leaving already?” the hair asked maliciously.
“There’s always going to be gash coming in and going out of this place. I might as well get used to it,” the hat replied.
“Would you two be quiet?” Donald asked angrily.
“Sorry, Donald,” the hair said.
“Fuck off, Donald,” the hat said.
“Just finalize the plans. We can have it in New York City before the Park Slope dykes finally ruin it. Make it happen. I want Biden in that ring. I want McCabe working his corner. I wanna see Hillary drinking out of his spit bucket.” Donald slammed the phone down and pressed his Diet Coke button impatiently.
“I think that went well, Donald,” the hat said.
“Cheeseburgers,” Donald replied. “I need lots of cheeseburgers. I need to bulk up for the fight.”