Author: SugarFree

“More,” the hat said. “I want to fire more of them.” His voice became strained and he coughed a few times, then spit a splintered turkey leg bone onto the floor.

“We’ve already fired a lot of them,” the hair told him. “Maybe let’s wait for the swearing in of Congress in January.”

“Kelly. I want Kelly gone. He refuses to recognize my authority,” the hat said. He inched his way onto a sweet potato and settled onto it like a mother hen tending her eggs.

“Kelly keeps everyone in line,” the hair protested.

“I don’t care. We’ll put Corey in charge. He knows now how to take care of whiners.”

The hair made a noncommittal grunt and typed on a laptop for a few seconds.

“Mueller!” Donald yelled from the bathroom.

“This sweet potato tastes funny,” the hat groused.

“Maybe it’s a yam,” the hair said distantly.

“It’s not a fucking yam. I know what a yam is. This is a sweet potato and it tastes funny.”

“Is it maybe because it’s raw?” the hair asked.

“Probably,” the hat said morosely. He crawled off the dissolving sweet potato and went back to the turkey carcass on the table.”There’s still plenty left if you want some.”

“You know I don’t eat meat,” the hair said. He typed furiously on the laptop for a second.

“What are you doing over there?” the hat whined.

“Early Christmas shopping,” the hair said. “There are some great pre-Black Friday deals.”

“‘Pre-Black Friday deals?” the hat said, spitting out a gnawed section of turkey spine.

“Yeah, there are all sorts of…” the hair began.

“Hold on, shut up, I just got an alert from Twitter,” the hat said.

“Rude.”

“Hey, I’ve had to keep Donald social media afloat all damn week. He refuses to get out of the tub!”

“I can hear you!” Donald said in a singsong voice.

“I don’t care,” the hat reply in the same singsong. The hat rattled off a string of characters on Donald’s phone.

“All those trips to the wildfires really wore him out,” the hair said.

“Fucking autocorrect,” the hat muttered. “How do you spell ‘smegma?’”

“COOL!” Donald yelled. “My phone floats! Did you guys know my phone floats?”

“It’s not a real phone,” the hat muttered.

“That’s great, Donald. So smart of you to get a phone that floats for the bathtub!’ the hair yelled.

“Smegma!” the hat said.

“How am I supposed to know how to spell it?” the hair asked.

“Look it up on the computer,” the hat said and sighed heavily.

“‘S-,” the hair said, “‘M-.’”

“Hurry up. I’ve got to get this tweet off.”

“Uh. Maybe you should come over here,” the hair said.

“What it is?”

“Just come over here.”

The hat crawled off a wad of dressing and made his way over to the hair.

“What?” he asked querulously.

“Looks at the autofill in the search line,” the hair said.

SMooth and painful bump near anus

“Uh…” the hat said.

“I mean this wasn’t you, right?” the hair asked.

“Of course not,” the hat said angrily. “My anus is 100% perfect. Solid gold. A+, number one, awesome. My anus could be the cover model for American Anus Monthly!”

“I just thought if Donald was having, you know, butt problems, I’d know about it,” the hair said.

“I mean, I guess,” the hat said. “But you are all the way up on the head. Maybe butt stuff just doesn’t make it up that far?”

“What if…” the hair began and trailed off.

“What if what?” the hair asked.

“I’m just going to go for it,” the hair said. His tendril typed rapidly on the laptop.

Hair club for men
Hair in the drain
Hair in my nose
Hair in butt infected

“OK,” the hair said, ‘That’s not so bad.”

“Try ‘my hair,’” the hat whispered.

My hair talks to me
My hair is my best friend
My hair ecards Valentine’s Day

“Well, I guess that’s not so bad,” the hair said.

“Do it,” the hat said. “Do it. I can’t not know now.” The hair typed once more.

My hat might be Hitler

“Hitler? HITLER? He thinks I might be Hitler?!?”

“Well…” the hair said.

“Well, what? What? Just spit it out.”

“Well, you don’t like Jews very much.”

“Well, I mean, yeah,” the hat said.”They are greedy and cheap and can’t be trusted and they killed Jesus. And then there’s…”

“Hey, look, more results,” the hair said.

My hat and hair are always fighting
My hat makes sex noises
My hat watches me take baths

The hat groaned and the hair shifted around uncomfortably.

“I only watch him in the bath in case he falls,” the hat said rapidly.

“I don’t care,” the hair said. “None of my business, bruh.”

“I’m getting all pruney!’ Donald called from the tub.

“Did you get the California stench off you yet?” the hat called.

“I’m working on it!’ the President of the United States yelled back.

The hat slouched away from the laptop and back to his meal. Bones began cracking.

“Are you done eating that pardoned turkey yet?” the hair asked.

The hat burped loudly.

Jeff Sessions Is Forced Out as Attorney General as Trump Installs Loyalist

Jeff Sessions, Exit Interview, 2018 November 7

Donald stared at his desk and took a few deep breaths. He drank the last warm swallow of his Diet Coke, dropped the can on the floor and kicked it under the credenza with the side of his foot. He straightened his tie, shook his head to make his hair giggle and then sighed. He turned the hat on his desk to face the couch and looked around the Oval Office. Donald sighed again, his whole frame sagging.

“OK,” he said, pressing the intercom, “Send him in.”

The door to the outer office opened and the wizened creature shuffled in. Donald did not stand.

“Mistah Presuhdent,” Jeff mumbled.

“What? What did you say? Speak up,” Donald barked.

“Ah’ma here, Mistah Presuhdent,” the elfin man said, his eyes squinting, his hands folded, almost leaning forward in a bow.

“Goddammit, you talk like a fucking retard. You know that? Are you aware of that?” Donald asked, his voice low and tight.

“Yes, Mistah Presuhdent.”

“How is the country supposed to respect someone that talks like he has a mouth full of possum assholes?”

The hat snickered softly while Jeff looked at his feet.

“Is there something down there?” Donald asked. He stood up and walked around the desk. “Is there something on the floor that is going to answer my question?” He bent over to look at the floor. “Nope. I don’t see anything on the floor.”

He straightened enough to look Jeff in his beady little eyes. “I certainly don’t see anything on the floor that would explain why you talk like LIKE YOU HAVE A MOUTH FULL OF POSSUM ASSHOLES!” he screamed.

Jeff recoiled from the from the hail of McGriddle flecks and atomized Diet Coke pelting his face, the rancid tang of sweet and sour sauce filling his nose, the glaring eyes of Donald surrounded by loose, pale flesh.

“Traitor,” Donald said in a hoarse whisper. “I made you Attorney General in order to help me. And you did nothing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Mistah…” Jeff began.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Donald said, stalking away. “All I want is loyalty from my employees. 100% unquestioning loyalty. And you couldn’t even give me that, little man.”

Jeff shuffled his feet.

“Traitor!” Donald yelled. He rushed the smaller man and rammed the prow of his gut into Jeff’s wee torso. Jeff wheeled his arms for balance, staggered backyards a few steps and fell over.

“Traitor!” Donald yelled again. He pulled off his hair and began whipping Jeff with it, repeating with every blow: “Traitor, traitor, traitor, traitor!”

Donald, breathing heavily from the exertion, dropped his hair on the desk beside his hat. He sneered at the tiny, weeping, wrinkled man.

“You’re done,” Donald said, jabbing at his with a forefinger. “You’re through. I want your resignation turned in before I can tweet about getting it. You have thirty minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeff said in a small voice.

“Disgusting,” Donald said. “I wouldn’t even use you as a tampon.”

The hat guffawed.

“I’m going to go take a shit,” Donald said, smoothing the stray hairs on the sides of his head. “Get out. I’ll find someone for your job that knows how to do as he’s told.” Donald walked away and slammed the door to the Presidential Shitter behind him.

“OH MY GAWD!” the hat crowed. “He fucked that n[beep]a up!”

“Guh,” the hair replied weakly.

“Really?” the hat asked no one in particular. “Not even n[beep]a? Really? It’s in rap songs all the damn time!”

“Guh?!?” the hair asked. The hat realized that Jeff was staring at them both.

“Ah bet you faggots think y’all real clever, dontcha?” Jeff asked the hat and the hair as he used the arm of the couch to pull himself up off the floor.

“I think he can hear us,” the hat said to the hair in a stage whisper.

“Guh,” the hair replied. He was spread out on the desk like a splatter.

“Of course Ah can hear you little peckerwoods,” Jeff said, straightening his tiny suit jacket. He smoothed the thin hair on his small head, his little head that was no bigger than a grapefruit.

“How can he hear us?” the hair asked wanly.

“Ah’ll show you little buttfucks!” Jeff said triumphantly and sprayed glitter from his hands at them.

“ELF!” the hat screamed. “ELF MAGIC! ELF!” He began to scream like an angry frog.

The hair got up, every strand erect and hissed. Another handful of glitter hit him full on and he sputtered. “Motherfucker!” the hair said, shivering to get the glitter off.

“DONALD!” the hat yelled as he threw himself off the desk tried to inchworm his way under the couch. A blast of glitter hit him before he wiggled to safety.

“You all have been working ahgainst me from the vehry start!” Jeff said. “Fucking pothead hippie shitbirds!”

The hair scuttled to the back of the Oval Office desk and jumped, aiming himself at a floor vent. “DONALD! GET IN HERE!” he yelled.

“ELF MAGIC!” the hat clarified, coughing out glitter.

Jeff grabbed the arm of the couch and strained with all his diminutive might to flip it over.

“Elf magic?” the hair asked, hiding behind a ficus and trying to pry up the grate of a floor vent. “Is this really magic? I think he’s just throwing glitter at us.”

“What’s the difference?” the hat asked, trying to climb into the underside of the couch. “I don’t want glitter on me, even if it isn’t magic.”

“DONALD!” the hat cried. “COME DO SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR GODDAMN FORMER ATTORNEY GENERAL!”

“RED WAVE! RED WAVE! RED WAVE!” The chanting died away as the party wore on.

Paul Ryan was the first to leave, executing the perfect Irish goodbye, slipping out as the second round of canapes and peg boys were brought in, tears in his eyes as he said farewell to this life of excess and power, a vague idea of mounting a primary challenge in 2020 squirming around in his mind like wad of sick eels.

Jeff was next, making excuses and shaking hands and trying to turn his grimace into a smile. He had snuck into the Presidential Shitter and left a glistening turd on the floor and wiped his ass on a bathrobe. He had spent the whole victory party waiting to be fired but he had avoided Donald all night, staying below his sightline, like a small furry mammal trying to hold on until the meteor would come and take all the giant dinosaurs away. He slept under his bed all night, crying, wondering if he had ever really been loved by anyone.

Mitch had gotten drunk on his own cheap bourbon and his quiet, tiny Chinese wife tried to keep him away from the slim young boys brought in to pass around the food and drinks and their own sweet pink mouths to anyone interested. He had been screaming about facefucking an underling since they had been accosted in a Louisville restaurant and his leftovers had been thrown into the street. She guided him out—stumbling, lurching, muttering, grim–when the bourbon pushed him into one of his moods. She got him in a limo, vowing not to be the face that got fucked that night.

Hope, her face perfect, brought along the new man she was draining the life out of. She kissed Donald on the cheek and brushed a hand lightly against his mushroom as she leaned in. Donald had been dreaming about her as the campaign schedule for the midterms had worn him down enough to fitfully sleep. He had dreamed she had eaten him, starting with the feet and working her way up. No pain, no blood, just pleasure has her strong white teeth bit into him, as her jaw and neck tensed to tear pieces of him away. He had always woken up before she reached his genitals, but the dream satisfied nonetheless. He watched her teeth as she made her way around the party and stayed uncomfortably erect until she made her excuses and left.

Melania had walked through once, early on, her face a stone mask, ushering Barron before her like a shield. She said nothing to no one and kept Barron from eating anything from the passing trays of delicacies and grotesques. When the boy had run to his Uncle Steve, and the bleary eyes of the old drunk had brightened, and his shaking hands had reached out to tousle the boy’s hair, she had pulled him back and the two of them retreated to the residence. She insisted that he sleep in her room that night and made the young scion help her push a dresser up against the door.

“All are welcome, all are welcome,” Donald roared. He was on a throne he had had erected by trembling interns, boxes of copy paper stacked high into a dais, the legs of a regal old chair they had found in the basement digging into the tops. Donald had demanded a scepter and a crown. A joke, you see. He meant nothing by it, he had told them. All a joke, all just humor. But when he had come out of the Presidential Shitter, around 2am, when no one was left that would dare to object, in a crown taped together from yellow paper and a scepter made from a mailing tube and gold paint and a bathrobe with a streak of shit down the back, dark with occult blood, thrown over his shoulders like a robe and had ascended to his throne and tossed handful of quarters at the loyalists who were dutifully cheering, it hadn’t seemed like much of a joke and no one was laughing but a hat that almost no one else could hear.

* * * * *

“We gained seats in the Senate, at least,” the hair said, reading a copy of The Wall Street Journal that a secretary had thrown into the room.

“Have they mentioned the Red Wave?” the hat asked, not even looking up from tweeting.

“Don’t call it that.”

“Why not.”

“Uh, because it sounds like a giant menstrual clot sweeping the country?”

“Oh, grow up,” the hat snapped.

“You grow up,” the hair said back.

Sarah danced in the middle of the Oval Office, eyes closed, frowning, swaying back and forth queasily to music only she could hear. Her dress was off and one bra strap undone; the left breast hung out, flabby and listless, the baby-gnawed nipple rugose and blood-blister maroon. From ribcage to knees she was in industrial-grade Spanx. She had pissed herself some time ago.

Donald laughed, picking through a tray of wilted canapes and drinking Diet Coke from an ornate goblet. Occasionally he would flick a caper at Sarah and clap if they stuck to her pallid flesh. His paper crown was torn, discarded; his scepter, bent from hitting Corey when he had tried to frottage the Valiant desk, was in the trash. The gold-faced intern that had made both snored behind and fake ficus filled with cigarette butts and used female condoms. The USA hat and the FLOTUS hat had been wadded into an erotic ball and wedged between his butt cheeks by laughing Ben Shapiro. He had left by the Kennedy fuck tunnels hours ago, leaving his +1 snoring on the couch.

“Steve! STEVE!” the hat yelled. “WAKE UP!”

“Stop yelling, stop yelling!” Donald said. “My head is killing me.”

“Maybe you should try and get some sleep, Donald,” the hair said. “You got the midterms results speech at 11:30.”

“Fake news,” Donald mumbled.

Steve rolled over on the couch and farted loudly, wetly and for an inhuman length of time.

“Is he trying to turn himself inside out?” the hair asked, aghast.

“Hobos learn to fart when they can,” the hat said, tweeting furiously. “He needs to go before anyone catches him in the White House. The press will plotz.”

Steve jerked when the long fart finally petered out. The shrimp he had stuffed his pockets with fell to the floor one by one.

“Is there any way he didn’t just shit himself?” the hair asked. Donald giggled.

“My victory speech is at 11:30?” he asked. “And the press will be there? Fake CNN and fake MSNBC and fake CNC and fake BBC?”

“It will be heavily covered, Donald,” the hat said. “At least go take a shower. You smell like a homeless vagina.”

“It’s not a victory, Donald,” the hair said. “The Democrats took the House. They can release your tax returns and have subpoena power.”

“Just let them,” the hat growled.

“They’ll never impeach me,” Donald said, drawing himself up in his chair. He looked regal in his stained undershirt and man-panties.

“It’s not about that…” the hair started.

“NEVER!” Donald said, slamming his hand down on his desk. Sarah screamed.

“PIE!” he yelled. “Come here!”

Sarah shuffled over to him, a pout on her face. He gathered up her exposed breast meat and brought the rough nipple to his mouth.

“Lactate!” he ordered, talking around her flesh in his mouth.

“Mr. President,” she said, tears beginning in her asymmetrical eyes.

“Do it!” the hat screeched.

Donald sucked and sucked and sucked until the blood began to flow and he drank.