“I have brought peace to the Middle East. I have healed a wound in the psyche of the world. I will win the Nobel Peace Prize, maybe even two. And I get overshadowed by Joe Biden playing a song on his phone to Mexicans,” Donald said, pacing around his office.

“I don’t know about ‘overshadowed,’” the hat said. “I mean, no Democrats are really happy he did that, the song is like three years old. That’s like a decade in shitty pop song years.”

“I remember a decade ago,” Donald said. “1999 was a great year, just tremendous.”

“1999?” the hair asked.

“The Matrix had just come out,” Donald said. “Weird movie. No boobs. Why make a movie with no boob shots? What’s the point?”

“1999?” the hair asked again.

“What?” Donald said. “The Matrix came out in 1999. Look it up on the imdbs.”

“It’s 2020, Donald,” the hat said. “He’s trying to figure out if you are stroking out or just bad at math.”

“What does that have to do with The Matrix?” Donald asked. He paced around the Oval Office, touching the ritual objects and the edges of tables, the quiet swish of his pants the only sound.

The Oval Office door opened suddenly and McKayla burst into the room, blonde and bubbly. The APPLAUSE sign over the set began to flash.

“McKayla!” Donald cried happily and shuffled toward her.

“Mr. President!’ she said and ducked a hug. “You’re dressed! That’s great! I’m so proud of you!” She looked back out of the office door and motioned. A group of janitors in overalls with mops and buckets and a sandblaster walked.

“And you brought friends!” Donald said, reaching out for her arm as she danced away.

“These men are here to clean the Oval Office for the photo ops with the peace agreement participants.”

“Cleaners?” Donald said. “I love Latins! So hot-blooded and passionate!”

“You’ll need to leave, sir,” McKayla said.

“Leave?” Donald asked. “Where would I go?”

“We’ll go for a walk in The Rose Garden together,” McKayla suggested. “You can’t stay in here. The chemicals they will have to use are too dangerous to be around.”

“Deep clean, I get it. Ivanka told me the other day it smelled like monkeys fucking in here.”

“I said that,” the hat snapped.

“Did you know my daughter is a Jew now?” Donald asked as McKayla lead him away.

“Yes, sir, I did,” she said.

“Donald!” the hat cried. “Don’t leave me in here! Chemicals!” He watched Donald slumped form walking away as the hair flipped him off with a cowlick.

The cleaners began to work, emptying trashcans, spot-cleaning blood and snot, clearing the shoals of Diet Coke cans. The hat growled when they got close to the desk he was sitting on, but they ignored him. The cleaners hauled out the couch Sarah peed on, the rug that had Guilini-jizz worked deep into the pile and brought in new furnishings, same as the old but clean, kept in storage for state occasions. Donald’s McNugget-encrusted office chair was rolled into the Presidential Shitter and replaced. Finally, a mist of hospital-grade odor neutralizer was sprayed on every surface and the walls and curtains, becoming a choking fog. The hat tried to burrow into a pile of facemasks, but they were swept off the desk as well and taken away.

After the cleaners left, the hat waited for Donald to return, for the hat to take pride of place as the dignitaries piled into the office glad-hand and bow and have their pictures taken. The hat thought about his plans for everyone, refined now to include McKayla and cleaning personnel. He stewed in his hate and waited.