John Bolton’s mustache undulated menacingly.

“I thought I’d find you faggots in here!” he said. John Bolton’s leg kicked the Oval Office door closed behind him. His eyebrows scurried back and forth on his brow.

“Hey, John,” Donald said weakly.

“John’s not here, tubby,” the mustache said. “You’re dealing with me now.” Bolton’s body lurched forward a step. They could see his glazed-over eyes and slack jaw that wasn’t moving.

“What the fuck is going on?” the hair demanded.

“I’ll tell you what’s going on, you dick wig. I’m moving in, I’m taking over, I am going to whip this queer pit into fucking shape!”

“You serve at the pleasure of the President!” the hat spat.

“Anyone making limited strikes in Syria is no President, you junkie scum.” Bolton’s body lurched forward again, his eyebrows vertical over his dead eyes. “We’ve got to bomb them into submission. Blood! Fire! I want the smell of crisp skin wafting over all Mohammedan lands!” the mustache roared.

“Donald! Up!” the hat commanded and Donald picked up the hat and squashed it down over the hair.

“Hey! Watch it!” the hair protested.

“Oh, shut up,” the hat replied.

“War! I want war! I hunger for it!” Bolton’s mustache raved. John Bolton’s hand reached into the pocket of his seersucker suit and pulled out an enormous dead rat.

“What the fuck?” Donald and his hair said simultaneously.

Bolton’s hand held the rat up to the mustache and thick grey fibers sank into the flesh. The rat’s hide began to ripple and bubble.

Donald opened a desk drawer and vomited into it loudly and closed it back.

“Oh, God,” the hair moaned when the eyebrows inched down Bolton’s face to feed as well. After a few more seconds, Bolton’s hand opened and the empty skin of the rat fell to the floor.

“War, fucksticks. I want war. War is the only clean thing left,” the mustache said. “And FLOTUS hat. Bring me FLOTUS hat. She won’t survive my mustache ride.” The bloody eyebrows returned to their perch on Bolton’s brow and the mustache-ridden body turned and walked stiffly from the room.

“Holy shit!” the hair exclaimed. “Why the fuck did you hire that guy?”

“Me?” the hat asked. “I didn’t hire him.”

“Don’t look at me,” Donald whimpered. “I thought it was one of you guys.”


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