Monday Morning

“Charlotte,” the hat snarled. “A shitty city in a shitty state. Why did we have to have the convention here?”

“Florida wanted Donald to wear a mask,” the hair said. He was sitting on the register in front of the hotel window, the gentle flow of air conditioning wafting through his nethers.

“I’ll take any excuse not to go to Jacksonville,” the hat said, pushing cold french fries around on the bedspread.

“Jacksonville is our base,” the hair said, “Our frosted tip, frozen margs, and sandalled base.”

They both heard Donald turn off the shower, and rip down the shower curtain as he got out of the tub, cursing.

“He really should have someone in there with him,” the hair said.

“You volunteering?”

The hair didn’t answer but moved to a new spot on the louvered exhaust of the AC, which was blowing recycled jizz dust from the bed.

“BETRAYED!” Donald screamed from the bathroom. “TRAITORED!”

“That’s not a word!” the hair yelled.

“What now?” the hat asked.

“Oh, shit,” the hair said.

“Oh, shit,” the hat said

Bumps and stumbles and muttered curses flowed through the thin bathroom wall.

“I thought you said we could get through the convention before he found out,” the hat hissed.

“You’re the one that let him take his phone in the bathroom!” the hair accused.

“You know he can’t take a shit without it!”

Donald came out of the bathroom in a thick POTUS robe he took everywhere. Once white, now stained and charred black in a number of places, Donald never let anyone wash it.

“BETRAYED!” he screamed.

“What? What happened?” the hair asked innocently.

“She’s leaving, she’s leaving!” Donald said, shuffling his feet on the carpet.

“Who’s leaving?” the hat asked in feigned concern.

“KELLYANNE!” Donald wailed.

“Which one is that?” the hat asked.

“The really old one,” the hair supplied.

“My sweet wrinkle baby,” Donald said sadly and plopped himself down on the bed, the frame creaking dangerously, flipping the hat off to the floor.

“She’s leaving to spend more time with her family,” the hair said, stifling a laugh.

“George?” Donald asked. “George?!? Who wants to spend more time with George?”

“Donald!” the hat said. “Hope is back. You still have Hope.”

“They don’t even let her come to the Oval Office to see me anymore,” Donald said petulantly.

“That’s her choice, Donald,” the hair told him.

“Lies,” Donald grumbled.

“It’s probably because the Oval Office smells like two monkeys have been fucking in there,” the hat said.

“I’ll never see her little crinkum-crankum again,” Donald moaned, “That honeyed tangle.”

“Maybe you should be practicing your speech,” the hair suggested.

“I’m too sad, just too sad,” he said, slumping forward.

“We can find you another old woman, Donald. Straw-like hair, hooker-witch make-up, fat husband, the whole experience, man,” the hair said.

“It won’t be the same,” Donald said, laying back on the bed. Outside, clouds began to boil across the sky.