“I’m not fat, I’m not fat, I’m the healthiest man alive,” Donald said, nude, on top of his desk, squatting, sweating, wild-eyed. “ALIVE!” he screamed and ate another hydroxychloroquine tablet.

“Stop, Donald, just stop,” the hat cried from the settee. “You’re taking too many!”

“NEVER!” Donald said defiantly.

“Fat?” the hair asked weakly, draped over the hat’s bill, thinning, greying, coughing piteously.

“Pelosi called him fat,” the hat whispered. “Morbidly obese.”

“Aw, fuck,” the hair said limply.

“I heard that!” Donald said. He struggled awkwardly to stand and then began bouncing his happy Buddha belly up and down, the overhang slapping against his gunt.

“Jesus! Oh, Jesus!” the hat said. “Where is there a God to forbid such things?”

Donald stopped suddenly, vomited over the side of the desk, and then fell off.

“Ah, ha! Nausea!” the hat said. “One of the more common side effects is nausea!” He used his bill to tap the laptop in front of him awake. The hair groaned in pain.

“Listen to this, Donald,” the hat said.

“Is he even awake?” the hair asked.

“Nausea, stomach cramps, and diarrhea,” the hat read from the screen. “Altered eye pigmentation, acne, anemia, bleaching of hair.”

“Bleaching of hair?” the hair asked.

“Blisters in mouth and eyes, blood disorders, convulsions, vision difficulties, diminished reflexes, emotional changes… Emotional changes, Donald. Did you hear that?” the hat demanded.

Donald and the hair both grunted.

“Excessive coloring of the skin,” the hat continued. “You already have this one!”

“Hearing loss,” the hat continued.

“‘What?” Donald demanded from the floor.

“Hives, itching, liver problems or liver failure, loss of hair,” the hat went on. “Loss of hair, Donald! LOSS OF HAIR! Your killing your hair!” the hat said loudly.

“Me, I’m your hair, Donald,” the hair said weakly.

“Muscle paralysis, weakness or atrophy, nightmares, psoriasis, reading difficulties, tinnitus, skin inflammation and scaling, skin rash, vertigo, weight loss, and occasionally urinary incontinence,” the hat finished.

“Definitely the last one,” Donald said from behind the desk. He rolled over onto his back, ponderous and slow.

“These pills taste terrible,” Donald said.

“Did you just take another one?” the hat asked.

“I’m never going to die,” Donald mumbled, then had several long bouts of dry-heaving.

“We have to get him to stop,” the hair said.

“You just stay strong for me,” the hat told the hair. “You’ve got to stay strong!”

“I feel like I have a swimming pool in my ass,” Donald said. “Can I have a Diet Coke?”

“Is it to wash down another one of those pills?” the hat asked.

“No,” Donald replied unconvincingly.

“Then, no… no more Diet Coke for you,” the hat said.

“There’s a sink in the Shitter,” Donald said, trying to backstroke through the carpet.

“Tap water? You? Go ahead. I’d LOVE to see it,” the hat said and laughed.

Donald stopped wriggling on the floor. “I have the itching and the reading difficulties,” Donald said. “But at least no Chinese Virus.”

“You’ve already had it, like, nine times, Donald,” the hat said. “Our future selves keep coming back and curing you!”

“There is no such thing as the future,” Donald said hollowly.

“That last set of us,” the hair whispered. “I think they were gay for each other.”

“Oh, no,” the hat said. “One hundred percent gay for each other. But that timeline is gone. Gone, gone, gone.”

The hat, cradling his friend, looked to heaven and saw only the water stains on the ceiling.