“Not guilty, muthafuckas!” the hat said, strolling into the Oval-Office-in-exile, flip-flops slapping against the Mexican tile floor.

“How long are you going to keep saying that?” the hair asked, clinging to the inside bars of his gilt toucan cage.

“Until it sinks in,” the hat said pointedly. “And when I’m done sticking a shiv in all the ones who have betrayed me.”

The hair hummed a few bars of “Paranoid.”

“Shit like that is why he put you in the cage,” the hat said dryly.

“He put me in here because you said I was a Jew baby-eater,” the hair said, shaking, shedding a bit of himself onto The New York Times lining the floors of his cage.

“Burr, Collins, Cassidy, Murkowski, Romney, Sasse, and that other one…” the hat seethed. “They won’t see me coming. I’ll just be a hat that someone mailed them… and then I’ll strike!”

“Pat Toomey,” the hair said.

“Yes, Toomey. Droopy-Dog Toomey with the startled robot smile…” the hat said.

“Is the Oval Office done yet?” Donald said, coming into the sunny room. He was wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt, board shorts, black dress socks, and loafers. And a “Make America Great Again Again Again” visor on his head with a dollop of yellow wig hair poking out of the top like an aroused prairie dog.

“We’re still working on the permits,” that hair said.

“The county stands in our way,” the hat said, glaring at the visor with naked hatred.

“We’ll pressure DeSantis,” Donald said. “I’ll call him tonight. Put that on the social calendar.”

“Yes, sir!” the hat said.

“Kiss-ass,” the hair hissed.

“Good work on McConnell,” Donald said, awkwardly climbing into his President-in-exile hammock.

Dour, sullen, and unsmiling political hack,” the hat said. “I was really proud of that line.”

Sullen means unsmiling,” the hair said.

“Shut up!” the hat snapped.

Dour also means sullen,” the hair said.

“Don’t make me come up there,” the hat said through gritted bill.

“Basically three words that mean the same thing,” the hair whispered.

The hat howled with rage.

“Can I get out of this cage?” the hair asked Donald. “That wig looks terrible. What if someone took a picture of you playing golf in it?”

“And the visor doesn’t even talk,” the hat said tightly, trying to stay calm. “What’s the point of wearing a hat that doesn’t talk?”

“It keeps the sun out of my eyes,” Donald said blithely.

I keep the sun out of your eyes!” the hat yelled.

“And you two go native when we’re outside,” Donald said.

“So do you!” the hair and hat said together.

“This is our new home,” Donald said, watching the reflections of the pool play across the ceiling. “We have to master Florida or it will master us.”

“I think it’s all the Monster Energy drink evaporated in the atmosphere,” the hair said.

“And we still haven’t gone somewhere on a fan boat,” the hat said. “Do we even have a fan boat? How can we be authentic Floridians without a fan boat?”

“You two better be watching your episodes of Miami Vice,” Donald grumbled.

“We’re halfway through season one,” the hair sullenly.

“You should get a Ferrari!” the hat said.

“USA hat would have loved a Ferrari,” the hair said dourly.

“He’s gone now,” the hat said, “Speak of him no more. He has gone a progress through the guts of an alligator, the most Florida death of them all.”

The hair climbed to his perch, unsmiling, and set it swinging.