Hope Hicks Left the White House. Now She Must Decide Whether to Talk to Congress.


“I have it on the goodest possible authority that Mayor Pete is a werepossum!” the hat said to the empty Oval Office.

“What?” the hair asked from the Presidential Shitter.

“What?” Donald asked from the Presidential Shitter.

“MAYOR PETE IS A WEREPOSSUM!” the hat screamed.

“He is not a werepossum,” the hair said, riding Donald back into the office.

“Werepossum!” the hat insisted.

“What’s a werepossum?” Donald asked.

“It doesn’t exist, Donald,” the hair said.

“It’s a man that turns into a possum during autoerotic asphyxiation,” the hat said.

“Sounds dangerous,” Donald said.

“Werepossums are a myth, Donald,” the hair said soothingly. “Mayor Pete is just a gay small-town mayor.”

“Gay werepossums are the most dangerous kind,” the hat said. “Tear your junk right off!”

“Sounds horrible,” Donald replied, his hands covering his crotch defensively.

“Stop scaring him,” the hair said.

“This is science, dammit! Science is supposed to be scary,” the hat snapped.

“Mishter President!’ a voice came from the secretarial pool outside the office.

“Ugh,” the hat muttered.

“This fucking clown,” the hair said into the musty plains of Donald’s scalp.

Rudy scuttled into the office as fast as his legs could carry him, the sharp tips gouging into the hardwood slats of the floor. He went into a tumble as he tried to stop himself on the Presidental Seal rug and rolled to a stop under the coffee table.

“Physical comedy!” he sang as he sprang out, landing on all his legs.

“Rudy!” Donald cried. “How’s the best lawyer in the whole wide world?”

The hat and the hair both softly groaned.

“Mishtar President! We have a grave emergency situation on our hands. I handled 9/11 and kept the country together.”

“What is it, Rudy?” Donald asked, painfully bending over to look him in the eyestalks. “What is it, old friend?”

“Congresh has delivered a subpoena to Hope Hicks!’ the mouthpiece said through his mouthparts.

“Hope? Not Hope, my beautiful Hope!” Donald wailed. He pulled at his filthy undershirt until it tore.

“Too much makeup,” the hat said.

“Hooker face,” the hair agreed.

“Shut up, both of you!” Donald shouted. “I won’t have you say anything bad about Hope!”

Rudy scuttled sideways away from Trump. “I… I… I just said she had been subpoenaed. I wasn’t implying it was her fault or anything.”

“We have to save her, Rudy,” Donald said desperately. “I have to keep her safe.”

“She can just ignore it like everyone else has, Donald,” the hat said.

“HOPE!” Donald screamed again.

The Secret Service agents on guard outside the Oval Office had learned long ago to ignore the strange sounds and shouts and concentrated on re-runs of The Office on their phones.

“Micheal cooked his foot!” one of them said and the other one nodded and laughed.