“See now that I looks tasty,” Donald murmured to his reflection in the floor-length mirror. Hankering, gross, mystical, nude, he touched himself like Walt Whitman. “I is,” he grunted. “I is,” he grunted, ejaculated. The hat laughed; the hair screamed. Shrill jazz played in a nearby room, saxophone farting like a barge. Donald collapsed.

“My star,” Donald moaned. “Don’t take my star.”

“We won’t let them,” the hat said, perched on bust of Caesar.

“We won’t let them,” the hair said, rustling on his head like dry grass.

The record in the other room started over again, squealing and bleating and blat, blat, blatting, the lowing of lost cattle.

“What is love?” Donald asked from the floor.

“It’s, uh, a feeling, Donald.” the hair said. “A closeness you have with other people.”

“Love is sixteen milligrams of Dilaudid,” the hat said, his tongue thick with memory.

“A nameless whore,” Donald said, curling into a foetal ball. “A nameless whore you don’t have to pay.”

A trumpet, a trumpet, a trumpet screeching out.

“My star,” Donald moaned. “Don’t take my star.”

An enormous shadow passed by outside, darkening the room briefly. The hair shivered. Birds beat frantic wings against the window sill. The glass shattered and a dry wind poured in.

“Donald!” the hair shouted as the gale whip him around. “Donald, where are we going?”

“The press briefing room,” the hat said.

The record stopped, the wind stopped, and Donald held his breath in the oppressive silence.

“What is hell?” Donald whispered.

“Hell is the impossibility of reason,” the hat intoned.

“That’s from Platoon, asshole,” the hair said.

“Fine,” the hat snapped, “Then you tell the man what hell is.”

“Hell is a golf resort in New Jersey,” the hair said dolefully.

An animal keening rolled out over the resort, filing the greens and sand traps, the clubhouse and the 19th hole. There was nothing but holes now.