Saturday, Canada, Air Force One

“There’s nothing to be nervous about, Donald,” the hat said from his suit pocket. “The meeting with Kim will be tremendous.”

“I’m not nervous. How dare you suggest I’m nervous. I am never nervous. I am cool. Collected. Calm. Other words that start with ’c.’ Be quiet or I’ll put you in the baggage hold,” Donald savagely whispered.

The hair massaged Donald’s temples gently. “Do it. Put him in the baggage hold,” he said, the words resonating in Donald’s skull like the far-off explosion.

“Both of you need to shut up,” Donald said as he mounted the moving stairs. He paused at the top a waved back to the G7 protesters that followed him from the summit. They booed.

“Justin fans,” the hat sniffed. “What it is with Canada and faggots named Justin?”

The Secret Service inside the cockpit door nodded as they walked onto the plane. “Skyscraper is on the plane,” he said into his wrist. “He has Wig One and MAGA Prime. Wheels up in twenty.”

“WIG ONE?” the hair screeched. “I’m not a fucking WIG!”

The hat chuckled darkly.

 

Friday Night, Pyongyang, North Korea

Un surveyed the dark skyline of his capital city from his Presidential suite. He was waiting for his barber to climb the twenty floors to his rooms. The elevator was broken again. The mules just kept dying.

“Are you worried about meeting him?” his trilby asked.

“Of course, not. He has played right into my hands,” Un replied. He lifted his pudgy hands in the gloom and squeezed them together painfully.

“This is what I am going to meet him in,” Un said and twirled before his hat, the awkward coat-dress straining to hold back his stomach.

“Very regal,” the hat said.

“And it doesn’t make me look fat?” Un asked, twisting to show the trilby his fattened ass. He was wearing three pairs of Spanx smuggled in through his contacts in the Japanese government.

“Not at all. You look trim. Athletic. The very picture of a modern Asian man,” the hat said.

Un clapped his hands together and squealed with delight.

“And the dreams?” the hat asked. “Are you still having the dreams?”

A crease formed between Un’s brows and his expression darkened, like a toddler thwarted.

“Un?” the hat prodded. “The dreams?”

Un blushed and brushed his hand over his erection.

“The dreams don’t matter.”

 

Saturday, Pacific Ocean, Air Force One

“They’re saying we snubbed Justin,” the hair said, flipping through the news channels.

“I’d like to snub him in the taint,” the hat said. “I’d like to grow legs, grow feet, huge feet, put on a pair of huge boots and snub him right in the taint until his taint faints.”

“He’s a smug little bastard, all right,” the hair said. “Let’s tell Sean to run another story about him being gay.”

“I’ll call him right now.”

“What time is it there?” the hair asked.

“Who gives a fuck. We call and that little shit answers or we release the photos.”

Donald snored loudly in the chair behind them. He choked and stopped breathing and woke up enough to mumble, “Kim is also a girl’s name,” and smiled to himself.

 

Saturday Night, or Sunday Morning, or maybe Monday, Singapore

Rumpled and gassy, Donald was wrestled into a new suit while Air Force One sat on the tarmac and pushed through the door into the humid Singapore night.

“What fucking time is it?” the hair asked, barely holding on to Donald’s head.

“Beats the fuck outta of me,” the hat muttered.

“I’m hungry. Does this shithole country even have McDonald’s? Why is so dark? I need an ocean of Diet Coke,” Donald grumbled. The protocol droid prodded him toward the delegation there to meet him.

“Yes, hello, hello,” Donald said, thoroughly bored. He shook hands with one tiny person after another.

“Yes, historic meeting, honored to be here, lovely country, I guess, it is the middle of the night after all, blah, blah.’ He grinned toothily and stumbled into his limo.

“I need to go back to sleep,” Donald said. He pulled out his phone and started scrolling through Twitter.

“Fucking Jimmy Fallon,” Donald said. He lifted a leg and farted lustily. He pulled MAGA Prime from his suit coat and tossed him on the seat beside him.

“Jesus Fucking Christ, Donald,” the hat groused. “It’s like your ass is where eggs go to die.”

“Thank God I’m up here,” the hat said.

“Shut up. I’m the President of the United States and I fart wherever and whenever I feel like it. It’s in the goddamn Constitution.”

“Uh,” the hair said.

“I said to shut it, mister,” Donald said. “Where the hell are we? I thought we were flying to Singapore.”

“This is Singapore, Donald,” the hat said.

“If this is Singapore,” Donald asked, “then why does everyone look Chinese?”

 

Monday Afternoon, Air China, Somewhere over the South China Sea

Un fumbled in the airplane bathroom for his penis, reaching deep in his gunt for the elusive erotic eel. The plane lurched and he lost it again among his protolabial folds.

“What the fuck is that?” his hat asked.

“Evasive maneuvers,” Un grunted. “To fool missiles.”

“OK,” the hat said noncommittally.

“I have many enemies,” Un said proudly. “I am going to execute many more generals in the coming weeks.”

“Good for you.”

“And the South Koreans all hate me. They hate me with their cell phones and their night-time young-oriented romantic drama TV programs and their working toilets.”

The plane lurched again and their own toilet gurgled ominously.

“Most of all,” Kim said, puffing out his chest, “They hate me with their lavish, wasteful buffets.”

“There it is,” the hat said.

Un’s erect penis poked out like the leathery head of a frightened terrapin.

 

Tuesday Morning, Shangri La Hotel, Singapore

“Un went clubbing last night,” the hat said, reading Twitter.

“Of course he did,” the hair replied. “While we sat in this fleabag hotel and listened to Tubby snore and fart and sleep-eat Big Macs.”

Donald shout-sang over the sounds of his shower, “I’m walking on sunshine, oh-whoa, and don’t it feel good!”

“Hurry up in there!’ the hair shouted.

“He didn’t even wake up for a Singapore piss hooker,” the hat said glumly.

“They could have never gotten one up here,” the hair said.

“The Secret Service can do it if they wanted to,” the hat said. “If there is one thing that Secret Service excels at, it’s hookers.”

“Yeah, I guess,” the hair replied.

“I bet they have good piss hookers too. Singapore is very clean,” the hat said. “Singapore piss is probably better for you than Oaxacan tap-water.”

“ALL RIGHT, NOW!”

“Donald!” the hair called, “Hurry up, we have to got get on a boat!”

“A boat?” Donald asked, confused. He shut the shower off. “A boat?”

“We are going out to an island for the summit.”

“This is an island. Singapore is an island already,” Donald said.

“A different island, Donald,” the hat said. “The summit is on a different island.”

“I don’t like boats,” Donald said. “They sink. They sink in the water.”

“I’m sure the boat is very safe, Donald,” the hair said soothingly.

“NO BOATS!” Donald roared. He stomped out of the bathroom, wet, nude, bald, gross and swaying.

“There’s a monorail,” the hat said, looking up from Donald’s phone. “Or we could just drive there.”

“You can’t drive to an island, you idiot,” Donald sneered.

“The monorail it is,” the hair said.

“I told you: NO BOATS!” Donald shouted.

 

Tuesday Morning, Sentosa Island

“There’s no need to be nervous,” his hat said. Un dropped the newspaper he had rolled and unrolled compulsively, mindless, and finally twisted into a tight spiral until it creaked like an old hinge in his fat hands.

“He is so tall. I will look like a fat midget next to him. I should have worn the shoes. The big shoes,” Un said miserably.

“If the reporters had gotten pictures of those, they would have never stopped making fun of you,” the hat said.

“I would have had them all put to death, even the foreign devils. Vlad will give me all the polonium I want. Vlad is my friend.”

“They say Vlad is Donald’s friend as well,” the hat said in almost a whisper.

“Nuh-uh!” Un said and pushed the hat off the divan. “Vlad said I was his best friend. We got tattoos together. He even let me lick his before he put it on!”

 

Tuesday, Setosa Island

Donald was just a few feet away. Un pushed down the sudden urge to wipe his sweaty hands on his coat-dress. His penis struggled treacherously against the stranglehold of the Spanx. He grinned widely and talked toward Donald.

Donald tried to ignore the erection that his pants slid across sinuously with every step. He smiled and lifted his hand.

Right before they touched, a tiny spark of electricity jumped out to join their hands. They looked into each other’s eyes and the smiles fell away. They knew each other’s dreams. And that they were about to become real.

 

 

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Meanwhile, Back in North America

Nancy, Chuck, Anderson, Dianne, George, Barry, and Michelle all kneel in a semi-circle around the young man.

“Brave,” Nancy mutters.

“So brave,” Chuck replies.

“Resist,” Dianne hisses. The word makes its way through all the rest of their clenched teeth.

Barry rises and holds up a biodegradable butter knife and proclaims: “THE TWINK IN THE NORTH!”

The rest of them rise as well and hold up their own dull knives and hoarsely yell at Justin: “THE TWINK IN THE NORTH!”