“Where are they?” the hair asked fretfully.

“How should I know?” the hat snapped.

“They’ve always been here right after he tests positive. That’s why we haven’t had to announce it before.”

“We shouldn’t have announced it this time either,” the hat groused. The tunnel under the White House was cold and he shivered. “Had to beat the damn leakers. Traitors.”

“Remember when we were chased by JFK rape clones down here?” the hair asked wistfully.

“Yes. I do. Vividly.”

“Remember when the ghost of Eleanor Roosevelt flashed us?” the hair asked.

“Stop. Just stop. I didn’t come down here to have a clip show with you. No cheap flashbacks.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Every day with you is like a bottle episode. I want to shoot on location. I want to shoot on actual film.”

“Where are they?” the hair asked.

“They’re not coming. Let’s go back upstairs.”

“But they have to come. What about the dark future they want to prevent?”

“Maybe,” the hat said, “The future is so fucked at this point we aren’t alive to come back.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Maybe there is no future. Maybe we are just speeding toward a brick wall.

“Stop!”

“C’mon, let’s go.”

They waddled toward the ladder up to the Oval Office and began to climb. Halfway up, they could hear Donald screaming.

“Metabolic syndrome?!?” Donald said angrily. “That’s just a fancy way of calling me fat!”

“Can we go back down?” the hat asked. The hair answered by climbing up two more rungs and waiting for him to catch up.

Muttering and mumbling from above. “Fine, take my blood,” Donald said clearly. “Take it all. I don’t care. I can make my OWN blood. I bet you didn’t think about that, did you, you quack?”

“Get out!’ Donald said as they looked into the Oval Office over the last rung. Donald was herding medical staff dressed in HazMat gear out of the room. “I feel fine,” Donald said, started coughing and then spat into a trash can. “It’s just allergies! I’m not sick! I can’t get sick! Joe Biden gets sick! I’M NOT JOE BIDEN!”

“Donald?” the hat called.

“Friends,” Donald said, “My friends. Where have you been?”

“Just on an errand,” the hat said.

“Errand?” Donald asked, his eyes narrowing.

“I had to pee!’ the hair said. “It’s really messy. I, uh, do it down a storm grate in the tunnel.”

“OK,” Donald said slowly.

“I didn’t want to do it in the fancy bathroom,” the hair continued. “It’s basically like sitting on a water balloon.”

“Did you get cleaned up?” Donald asked. “I don’t want hair piss all over me.”

“He’s clean enough to eat off of, Donald,” the hat said. “I used a whole bottle of horse shampoo.”

“Good, good. Then join me in my quarantine feast!” Donald swept over to his desk and spread his arms wide. “Ooh,” he said, and “Aah.”

The desk was covered in fancy food elegantly presented. A crystal punchbowl filled with McNuggets. Mounds of sauce packs. A pyramid of BigMacs. A gallon jug of secret sauce. A soaring tower of Filet O’ Fish. A river of fries winding through it all, with glistening lakes of ketchup and BBQ sauce.

“It’s just like my dream,” Donald said.

The hat and the hair ambled over to the couch and climbed on to it.

“Should you be eating all this when your sick, Donald?” the hair asked.

“I’m the healthiest President in the history of time,” Donald said, glowering at him. “How many times have I shrugged off the Kung Flu? And doesn’t my herpes always clear up before I catch it again? I have to eat keep my Presidential strength up.”

Donald scooped up a meander of fries, dredged them through a bayou of BBQ sauce, and fit them into his mouth, smiling beatifically.