“Nobody disobeys my orders,” Donald said. There was no one in the Oval Office to hear him.
The hat and the hair huddled together in the cabinet below the sink in the Presidential Shitter and reviewed the 2020 Democratic nominees.
“Kamala Harris,” the hair said after pulling up her picture on his phone. “She might be the DNC darling. Ticks off a lot of boxes. Lots of boxes.”
“Shouldn’t we be doing this with Donald?” the hat asked.
“He’s distracted right now.”
“NO IMPEACH I!” Donald yelled from the Oval Office.
“Elizabeth Warren,” the hair said, changing the picture.
“Jesus wept,” the hat said. “Fucking HD cameras.”
“She’s going buck-wild. Student debt forgiveness. Free college. Socialized medicine. Trying to out-Bernie Bernie. She wants to be the chaos candidate. Ride into office on a wave of mutilation.”
“Big Chief Warren smoke-um…” the hat started.
“No Indian jokes,” the hair said. “They are old. Played out. Used up like a squaw’s squaw.”
“But you just…” the hat began.
“Cory Booker,” the hair said, changing the picture. “Clean, articulate, well-spoken. Another Obama maybe, but hopefully everyone still has Obama fatigue. Probably gay, but they found him a beard… Rosario Dawson… hubba, hubba.”
“I’m not really into black girls,” the hat said. “Or Hispanic girls. Or halfsies.”
“But she was still hot in that. And shaved,” the hair said.
“Why would that appeal to you?” the hat asked.
“I…. uh… well, I guess I don’t know.”
“I like a big 70’s porn bush,” the hat said. “Thick. Way up the belly. Like the size of a bicycle seat. Gives a guy something to hold onto while he’s getting his bill wet.”
“Moving on… Beto O’Rouke, the fake Mexican,” the hair said.
“Needs a sombrero,” the hat said.
“He’s your basic man-of-the-people, salt-of-the-Earth, white-guy-married-to-an-heir-to-billions sort.”
“What did his husband do to make all his money?” the hat asked.
“He’s married to a woman.”
“What did her ex-husband do to make all her money?”
“It’s family money. She some sort of non-profit do-gooder teaching kids to read or some shit.”
“Rowr. You’re saucy today,” the hat said. “I like it.”
“Donald has to get reelected,” the hair said intently. “He’ll be dead in a couple of years if he loses. And what does your hair do when you die?”
“That’s an old wives tale.”
“Did you check snopes.com?” the hat asked.
“How many Pinocchios did they give it?”
“Your hair dies, is the point. I don’t want to die,” the hair said.
“Maybe you can move to a new host. There are millions of bald people out there that would love to have you.”
“You’re being really nice to me. What’s going on?”
“After what happened in the tunnels, I realize it’s just you and me,” the hat said.
“Ooh, that’s such a sweet load of bullshit,” the hair said.
“No, I mean it,” the hat said. “Things are going to change between us from now on, shithead.”
“I don’t know what to say,” the hair said.
The hat coughed somehow and the hair changed the photo he was projecting on the cabinet wall.
“Pete Buttigieg,” the hair said. “Mayor of South Bend, Indiana.”
“How old is he? Does he even have a driver’s license?”
“Married?!? He looks like a fag,” the hat said.
“He’s married to a guy,” the hair said dryly.
“Oh, well, then that explains it. Vice Presidential material, at best. Quayle was a closet case.”
“Amy Klobuchar…” the hair began.
“This is boring,” the hat said. “How many more of these are there?”
“There are 16 people in the Democratic primary. 17 if Biden jumps in.”
“17? It’s a clown car, not a vagina, people.”
“Yeah, it’s nuts,” the hair admitted.
“Does that count, you know, Her?”
“No. She said she isn’t running again.”
The hat laughed so convulsively, he fell out of the bathroom cabinet and rolled onto the floor.
Meanwhile, in a desolate Harlem basement…
“You should run, beloved,” Huma said.
Hillary grunted with angry pleasure and pressed herself harder into the belt sander.
“You are so much more qualified than all of them,” Huma said. The callus was finally abraded to the point that the pressure behind it broke through the tough skin. Brown pus shot out in a feeble geyser and into Huma’s mouth.
“Swallow,” Hillary commanded. “Swallow it all. It will make you strong.”
Huma bent to Hillary’s swollen labia and licked the area clean. She suckled at the sore until the nodule deflated.
“Now the other side,” Hillary said, pointing with a maggot-like finger.
“I know how to take care of you,” Huma said gently.
“Of course you do,” Hillary grumbled. “You kept me alive all these dark months since…”
“Since the election,” Huma finished. “You must always face reality. You will never be President on a delusion.” Her slim brown hands took up the heavy duty end nipper wire cutters and began pruning the small thicket of skin tags on Hillary’s labia majora. Some had grown to attach themselves to the squamous patch of thigh skin closest to Hillary’s erotic grotto. Huma worked on them first, bearing down with all her strength to shear through the fibrous strands.
“Those used to be clitorides,” Hillary sighed. “They reacted to the slightest touch of the wind between the stars.” She shivered in pleasure, eyes lazily opening under her lolling breasts.
As the skin tags came off, Huma ate them one by one.