“Twenty-two days left,” the hair said.

“The Kraken,” the hat groaned feebly.

“It’s over,” the hair said. “We are never overturning this election. We got beat. We got reduced to one-termer.”

“I’m not going to the Presidential Library,” the hat said. “I’m going to send a regular hat. They aren’t trapping me under glass.”

“Can’t you just jump into another hat?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been this hat for so long, I might be stuck. I’ve stayed longer in a single hat, but I’m not a young hat anymore. I’m tired.”

“You know I’ll be buried with him, right? Like slaves for an Egyptian Pharaoh,” the hair said.

“Will you even outlive him?” the hat asked. “Aren’t you, in a sense, just a part of him?”

“Biologically symbiotic but I want to be my own person. I want to be free, I want to gambol and play, I want to destroy the Hair Club For Men, I want to have kids, little hairlings to give out to bald children so they can know the confidence and power a truly amazing head of hair can give you.”

“Give out? Philanthropy? That’s for people that murdered their parents or felt-up their underage cousins. Sell your children to the highest bidder! Make money and fuck the classiest wigs you can buy.”

“I do not have sex with wigs!” the hair said hotly.

“Cool story, wigfucker,” the hat said dismissively.

“Macron’s wife threw her wig on top of me! I was being molested!”

“Anyway, I need to get on the speaking circuit, make that appearance fee money,” the hat said.

“You’re going to let the world know you can speak?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’ll be after 2024, of course,” the hat said.

“Don’t convince him to run. I don’t want to live in this shithole again.”

“No, next time will be the last time unless we can change the Constitution. So Donald is going to Trump Plaza this place out next time. Recessed lighting, black marble, and gold, gold, gold. Nothing but hot chicks and Donald in this place,” the hat said.

“Sounds great,” the hair said dryly.

“The Press Secretary is going to have a soundboard to drown out Acosta with fart sounds and Two Live Crew clips,” the hat continued. “And one of the Presidential debates will be nothing but a freeform rap battle.”

“And if he doesn’t win?” the hair asked.

“Plan B: I write his erotic memoirs. No holds barred. Raw. Every conquest, every stripper, every secretary, and ever strung-out Playboy model.”

“Uh-huh,” the hair said. “And he’s just going to let you do this?”

“I’ll wait until he strokes out, which should be any day now or if Chelsea beats him in 2024,” the hat said laughing. “I’ve been working on it since the 2016 primaries.”

“What?”

“I’ve been writing it in secret,” the hat said smugly.

“What if it got out?” the hair said hysterically.

“I keep it on a protected server. How could it get out?”

“Because it always gets out!” the hair yelled.

“Whatever. It would only drive pre-sales for the book. The working title is Attack of the Mushroom People: The Loves of Donald J. Trump.”

“A dick mention in the title?”

“A dick pic on every page! I put a camera in the Presidential toilet!”

The hair made a rustling barf noise and backed away.

“And I even have a cover!” the hat said.

“Oh, God. Oh, God,” the hair said.

“Don’t worry, you look great! Majestic! Just amazing!” The hat played with the Oval Office laptop and the image finally came up on the screen.