“Yeah, Post Office, take it. Uh, yeah, take it. Tell me how big it is, yeah,” the hat growled, hunched over the postal worker hat, rocking back and forth and grunting. The hat let out a strangled cry, high-pitched, strained, and fell over sideways onto the Oval Office desk, panting, coughing, one eye-shot through with rivulets of blood.

“Are you done raping that hat?” the hair asked, perched on the distant peak of Donald’s head.

“I’m not raping it,” the hat said between deep breaths, “It’s just a hat.”

“You’re just a hat,” the hair said.

“Fuck you,” the hat said, righting himself. “I am the hat, the King of Hats, the GOD OF HATS!” He started coughing again and spat a button over the edge of the desk. “That,” he said, waving his adjustment strap dismissively, “Is just a hat.”

“Yes, truly, your Majesty,” the hair said dryly.

“Stop fighting!” Donald said. “I can barely hear myself think!”

“We are what you think, Donald,” the hair said.

“I’m just fucking the Post Office like you asked,” the hat said, pouting.

“The Post Office,” Donald said, clenching his face like a fist.

“I hate the Post Office,” the hat said.

“Unions, they are all in the bag for the, the, the other guy,” Donald said.

“Joe Biden,” the hair supplied.

“Sleepy, Gropey, Addled, Drowsy, Handsey, Sniffy, and Humpey Joe,” Donald said.

“I think those are the Seven Dwarves, Donald,” the hat said.

“They said some bad things about you at the Democratic Convention,” the hair said.

“Democratic Zoom Meeting,” the hat muttered.

“What? Who? Who said bad things about me?” Donald picked up his iPhone and poked at the screen until the Twitter app opened.

“Well, Bernie Sanders…”

“Bernie Sanders,” Donald said, sneering. “Grumpy, Dopey, Doc, Happy, Bashful, Sneezy, and Sleepy Bernie Sanders.”

“OK,” the hat said, “Those are definitely the Seven Dwarves.”

“And Michelle Obama said some really nasty things,” the hair said.

An alarm began to whoop, whoop, whoop at ear-splitting volume, and red lights started to pulse from the corners of the room. A speaker crackled and screeched with feedback. “LOCKDOWN. THE WHITE HOUSE IS ON LOCKDOWN. SHELTER IN PLACE. SHELTER IN PLACE.”

Secret Service agents burst into the Oval Office. The lead tackled Donald from his office chair and starfished over his body. The rest formed a tight circle around Donald, guns drawn, facing outward. The alarm continued to blare.

“IT’S ANTIFA!” the hat screamed, “THE SOYBOIS ARE HERE!”

“MR. PRESIDENT!” the agent on top of him screamed, “THERE IS A WOOKIE INCURSION! STAY DOWN!”

“I just said her name!’ the hair screamed.

“I just said her name!” Donald screamed.

“Get off me, you idiot!” the hat screamed. He was being ground into the carpet by the agent’s knee.

“CLEAR! CLEAR! CLEAR!” an agent yelled into his wrist, and the alarm began to wind down. They helped Donald into his chair, put the hair back on his head and the hat back on his desk.

“Out! All of you out!’ Donald said. The red lights went dark and the agents filed out.

“I just said her name,” the hair said defensively.

“Over six hundred Americans die every year in Wookie maulings,” the hat said. “We can’t be too careful.”

Donald pushed himself out of his chair, straightened his tie, and tucked his shirt back into his underwear. “You ever see a Wookie climb a tree?” he asked, poking his fingers into the hair.

“Wookies kill more people every year than wizards and lichs combined,” the hat said, shaking himself back and forth slowly.

“OK, back to the DNC Convention…” the hair began.

“No, the Post Office first,” Donald said.

“Yes, the Post Office,” the hat agreed. “You ever been mailed anywhere? It’s horrible. It’s worse than flying coach. It’s worse than going somewhere by train.”

“Yes, the Post Office,” Donald said again. He picked up the USPS hat and turned it menacingly over and over in his hands. “Oh, God!” he said after a few seconds, “Why is this wet?”

The hat shook with laughter.

“Donald?” the hair asked, “Do you know The Parable of The Scorpion and The Frog?”