“Have you ever seen blood-soaked sand?” John Bolton’s mustache asked suddenly. “The center, where it has soaked in deepest, is the darkest red, nearly black. On the edges, it can be almost purple. It’s quite beautiful.”
“Yeah, that’s not creepy or anything,” the hair said from atop Donald’s head.
“I have plans, Mr. President,” the mustache said, crawling off John Bolton’s face, onto his shoulder, then down his arm to perch on the arm of the Oval Office couch, certain hairs waving to taste the air. John Bolton’s body fell back on the couch, slack and lifeless.
“You have plans?” the hat asked from the Resolute desk, protectively covering the Diet Coke button.
“Plans are being made,” the mustache corrected himself defensively. “Contingency plans. For Iran.”
“120,000 soldiers to counter Iran?” the hair asked.
“Do we even have that many soldiers?” the hat asked.
“Where would he house them? How much would it cost? How likely is it that Iran is going to do anything?” the hair asked John Bolton’s mustache.
“Soldiers want to fight,” the mustache insisted.
“Is that really the point?” the hair asked.
“I want to talk to the President,” the mustache said hotly.
“Donald is busy,” the hat said.
“Very busy,” the hair said from atop Donald’s head.
“He just sitting there,” the exasperated mustache squeaked.
“He’s tweeting about tariffs,” the hat said.
“Twitter,” the mustache said with disgust.
Donald farted and the scent of Egg McMuffin filled the office.
“War is the health of the state!” the mustache screamed. “I want to pump some fucking iron!”
“We need that money for the wall,” the hat said calmly. “We are being invaded right now, right here and you want to go fight some ragheads half a world away.”
“We need those troops,” the hair said.
“For the southern border,” the hat said.
“No obstruction,” Donald muttered, still staring at his phone. “Exonerated.”
“We might have to deploy them if the election next year gets out of hand,” the hat said.
“But Iran is trying to get nuclear weapons!” the mustache wailed.
“Let them,” the hat said coldly.
“The first time they use one, the whole country becomes a glass parking lot,” the hair said.
“But we don’t have to let them!” the mustache said. “We invade now! Pre-emptive war has never failed to make things better!”
“Wall,” Donald muttered.
“OK, OK, you heard the man,” the hair said.
“Get on your golem and go,” the hat said.
“War! War! War!” the bushy mustache repeated, wriggling in agitation.
“As much as we enjoy violence, we’re really more into sex around here,” the hat said.
“No grope,” Donald said. “Biden grope. Donny no grope.”
“Tariffs, Donald,” the hair said, undulating to perform a scalp massage.
“Tough on China, tough on stains,” Donald agreed.