“You can’t fire me!” John Bolton’s mustache roared.
“You’re out, Bolton!” the hair said, clipping his words. “You’re done, you’re through, you’ll never visit another barber in his town again, see?”
John Bolton’s mustache sputtered with rage.
“I’ll call the commissioner of the police!” the hair continued. “I’m a big man in this town; I have friends. Be outside the city limits by sundown or I’ll have you shaved down to nothing and dumped in the Potomac!”
John Bolton’s face turned red as his mustache quivered with rage. He had an obvious erection through the thin fabric of his gray suit.
“Are you OK?” the hat whispered to the hair. “Are you having a stroke?”
“I want your resignation on my desk by daybreak!” the hair thundered.
“You just told me to be out of town by nightfall,” John Bolton’s mustache said tightly.
“You’re fired! Fired, I say!” the hair yelled, splaying out from under the hat.
“Seriously, why are you talking like that?” the hat whispered.
“Because it’s funny, so pipe down rub-b-dub,” the hair whispered back.
“I’ll… I’ll… I’ll…,” John Bolton’s mustache began.
“You’ll what?” the hair asked coldly. “You live on the lip of a sad old joke. I’m on the head of the most powerful man in the world!” The hair revolved under the hat, a clear threat display.
Donald groaned, made a chewing motion with his mouth, and went back to snoring, slumped in his Oval Office chair, which was a very nice office chair indeed.
“I’ll bomb Iran even if I have to do it on my own!” John Bolton’s mustache said grandly.
The hair stopped revolving and he and the hat laughed so hard they nearly fell off of Donald’s head. John Bolton’s mustache withered under their disdain.
“You’ll end up a mullah’s merkin, you old fool,” the hat said.
“Resign or be fired,” the hair said. “You have until midnight to decide.”
John Bolton’s mustache made his body run from the Oval Office.
“Goddamn, that was satisfying,” the hair said.
“Like a big meal or taking a huge dump,” the hat said.
“The blood-drunk old creep made all us sentient hairs look bad,” the hair said.
Donald shifted in his sleep and grumbled, “Sarah.”
“You think he’s going to be mad you fired his National Security Advisor?” the hat asked.
“You’re assuming he’ll notice. Hell, fire off a few tweets for me and he’ll probably just think it was his idea all along.