“What do you mean, ‘I have to stay here?’” the hat asked. It was humid in the Buenos Aires hotel room and his seams seemed bloated and tight.

“You have to stay in the hotel room,” Donald told his hat.

“But you’re taking him!” the hat wailed. The hair turned around a couple of times on Donald’s head and then settled in his usual spot.

“I can’t go all bald,” Donald said.

“He can’t go all bald,” the hair said.

“Put me in your suit pocket at least!” the hat pleaded.

“Secret meetings,” Donald said.

“Secret,” the hair agreed. “They check us for listening devices.”

“I’m not a listening device,” the hat said.

“But what if they confiscate you?” Donald asked. He drained the can of Diet Coke he was holding and dropped it on the floor.

“Maybe we should take him along,” the hair said contemplatively.

Donald crossed to his hotel minifridge and got out another can.

“Do they have Diet Coke in China?” Donald asked.

“Of course they do,” the hair said.

“Probably made out of fish or some shit,” the hat grumbled.

“If I ever go to China, I’m definitely bringing my own Diet Coke,” Donald said. He slipped the new can into his jacket pocket and walked to the door of the hotel room.

“Are you really leaving me here?” the hat asked.

Donald placed the TV remote on the bed beside the hat and said, “Just watch some TV, we’ll be back before you know it.” He donned his Tariff Man cape and stalked from the room, his hair cackling.


Meanwhile, somewhere in Buenos Aires traffic…

Jinping pulled the hat out of his coat pocket on his way to the summit meeting. “Speak to me,” he said, staring into the mirrored glass of the limo partition. “Speak to me.” The hat that read MAKE CHINA GREAT SOME MORE said nothing.


“TAR-IFF MAAAAN!” Donald declared as he leaped into the meeting room. The other G20 leaders stared at him, stunned into silence.

“Why isn’t anyone else wearing a cape?” he quietly asked his hair.

The hair said nothing, just waved a grim tendril at John Bolton’s mustache.