“I knew I was stronger than this, that I could beat this, that no China Virus could take me out,” Donald said and began coughing and coughing open-mouthed until a barbell shaped hunk of phlegm shot out, spinning, the ends orbiting each other until it hit wallpaper and stuck.

“He’s cured,” said the hat deadpanned.

“At least he’s not puking McNuggets everywhere any longer,” the hair said, his voice muffled by the dozen surgical masks in which he was entombed.

“I will challenge Sleepy Joe to another debate, brand him a coward if he refuses, expose him as a weak old man afraid of catching the flu!”

Laughing hollowly and coughing horribly, Donald waddled over to his desk and slammed his hand down on the Diet Coke button in triumph.

“Hey,” Donald said, “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” the hair asked.

“Where’s my Diet Coke?” Donald mashed the button again and then again.

“They haven’t stocked it since they quarantined you in here,” the hat said. “Everyone in the building is sick.”

“All of them?” Donald asked.

“Well, Patient Zero gets around, if you know what I mean,” the hat said.

“You didn’t seem to mind when she wore you into the bathroom,” the hair said, rolling his cocoon of masks off the desk.

“I was a perfect gentleman,” the hat said. “I only listened to Hope poop.”

“But there’s no Diet Coke,” Donald said sadly, still hitting the button on his desk.

“I’m sure they can send one up from the kitchen through the pneumotube,” the hat said.

“They get all shooken up in the tube,” Donald said, his voice morose.

“Don’t get upset, Donald,” the hair said. “Save your strength for Tweeting during the Vice President debate.”

“No! It’s not fair!” Donald said sobbingly.

“Maybe you should take a nap,” the hair said.

“I don’t need a nap!” Donald said, flashing to anger. “I’m not some sick old man like Joe Biden.” He sneezed suddenly a long rope of snot hung from his nose until he wiped it away with his sleeve.

“Donald, at least set down for a little while and I’ll try and get you a Diet Coke,” the hat said.

“No!” Donald shouted and coughed. “I need a Diet Coke now. I DESERVE a Diet Coke for all I do for this ungrateful nation of whiners and hypochlamydiacs!”

Donald stomped over to the Oval Office door and held up The Finger of Resolution. “I’m going to get a Diet Coke and then I’m going to the balcony to give a speech so good it will make Madonna shit her pussy!”

“Madonna?” the hair asked quietly.

“Eva Peron,” the hat whispered.

“Why won’t this door open?!?” Donald demanded. “I will not be held a prisoner! I am not sick! I am the strongest President! The strongest!”