“I told you we couldn’t trust that goddamn fedora!” John Bolton’s mustache bellowed, his follicles twining around each other in rage and disgust.

“I think it’s a trilby,” the hair said.

“What? What did you say to me?”

“Trilby. The Excellent Hat-Like Gentleman is a trilby, not a fedora,” the hair replied.

“I DON’T CARE WHAT KIND OF HAT IT IS!” the mustache roared.

“You would know it was a trilby if you watched the cartoon,” the hair continued.

With a tortured rip of new velcro and a spurt of blood, the mustache left John Bolton’s face and launched itself at the hair. They began to grapple on Donald’s head as Bolton’s body slid bonelessly to the floor.

“Dude,” the hair said, holding the mustache off, “I weigh, like, fifty times as much as you do.”

“Shut up and fight me, youngster! You can’t take me in a fair fight! I possess the conscious will to do harm! You’re just a toupee!”

“How fucking DARE you!” the hair screamed, his voice escalating up to dog whistle octaves.

The hat inch-wormed across the desk and nudged Donald’s arm. “Donald, wake up. Wake up. They are fighting on your head. Do something about it.” Donald grumbled in his sleep and batted the hat away.

“Jong-Un,” Donald said in his dream and stroked the taut, pudgy cheek of the boyish dictator.

“Donard,” the Supreme Leader whispered, stroking the dry yet yielding penis skin of the President’s stiffened badge of office.

“Only you understand me,” Donald said. “Only you understand the sort of pressures I am under.”

“Donard,” Jong-Un said. He gathered up the slack sock of Donald’s testicles and cradled them reverently. “Donard, Donard, only you can understand me.”

“I need you, Jong. I need you inside me. Fill me with peace. Douse me with denuclearization.”

The lights of Singapore spread out around them in all direction, infinite, a night city built just for them. Naval guns thundered in the distance, great gray metal penises spurting fire and seed into the sky. Jong dropped to his knees with a dull thud on the plush hotel carpet and took Donald’s soft tumescence into his mouth.

“Oh, Donald,” Donald moaned. “Oh, Donald!” He reached into the crystal goblet and shoveled another handful of Viagra into his face. Jong’s hands grasped both of Donald’s pallid buttocks and pulled him foward, ever forward, deeper, ever deeper into his mouth.

“Donald is going to!” Donald screamed. “Donald is going to!”

In the Oval Office, hat and mustache and hair failed to see the tears of ecstasy running down his face.