I have existed since the morning of the world and I shall exist until the last star falls from the night. Although I have taken the form of Donald Trump’s hat, I am all hats as I am no hat, and, therefore, I am a god.

 

Monday Night

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,” the hat ha-ha’d. “I can barely breathe.”

“You’ve been laughing for twenty-five solid minutes,” the hair observed.

The hat started laughing again–loud, harsh and barking laughter shooting out of him until he began to conclusively cough. Once he was finally able to take a deep breath, the laughter started again.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” the hair said.

“Iowa,” the hat managed through howls of laughter. He clenched himself into a tight ball, still shaking, and then vomited a handful of buttons and the long rough ribbon of a zipper.

 

Tuesday Morning

“Read the speech as written, Donald,” the hair said again.

The hat started to speak and coughed.

“I told you you’d hurt yourself. You blew your voice out, didn’t you?”

“Worth it,” the hat croaked.

“Mayor Pete is claiming victory in Iowa,” the hair said.

“Don’t call him ‘Mayor Pete,’” the hat said, his voice like a shovel thrust into dry dirt. “Too cutesy.”

“No one can pronounce “Buttigieg,’” the hair said.

“He designed it that way!’ the hat said, coughing again, rattling.

“You don’t have lungs,” the hair said, “Or a voice box. How are you coughing? Why is your voice rough?”

The hat hawked up a spongey clot of hat blood and spat it directly into the hair.

 

Tuesday Afternoon

“We’ll give Rush Limbaugh the Presidential Medal of Freedom,” the hat rasped. “The white suit twats will stroke out.”

“He has cancer, so that’s perfect!” the hair said.

“We’ll seat him right beside Melania,” the hat whispered hoarsely.

The hair laughed and then stopped suddenly. “I think I just peed a little.”

“Break it down,” the hat whispered.

“Economy,” the hair began. “Employment rates, yadda, yadda, stock market, then the homeless vet who cleaned up his act.”

“Good. Let’s see the shits boo him,” the hair said in an almost normal voice.

“You sound better,” the hair said.

“Keep going.”

“Factories come back, NAFTA, China trade deals, then the Venezuelans.”

“That’ll pinch ‘em in their withered titties,” the hat said, setting off another round of coughing.

“And then… SPACE FORCE!” the hair crowed.

“SPACE FORCE!” the hat said and fell off the desk coughing.

 

Tuesday Night

“He did so well,” the hat said. He was wrapped in a thick stolen hotel towel and an untouched mug of tea steamed in front of him.

“It was a wild time,” the hair said. “Did I look good on TV?”

“Just great,” the hat said with little enthusiasm.

“I wish you could have been there,” the hair said. “The grimace on their faces. Pelosi tearing up the speech in a snit. It was your moment of triumph.”

“Re-election will be my moment of triumph,” the hat said, burrowing deeper into his towel. “Did you watch the reply?”

“OMG!” the hair said. “Potholes?!? They went with potholes?!?”

“And a low energy nobody governor. Either the only one willing to step into the meat grinder or the only one not crying and menstruating on their suffragette suits.”

“Well, not Nancy,” the hair said, laughing.

“I’m sure there’s a lithopedion in there some hard sobbing could jar loose.”