“Get out, Sean!” the hat screamed from under the desk. “Get out, get out, get out!”

“We are going to let him resign,” the hair told him.

“No, fire him. I want him fired. I want to do it. Have Donald whomp him over the head with me like The Skipper and Gilligan!”

“Who?”

“The Skipper? Gilligan? I was a TV show?”

“Before my time, I guess.”

“All of time was before your time, you infant wig!”

“Can I pardon myself?” Donald asked.

“I don’t think so, Donald,” the hair said.

“You’ve really never seen Gilligan’s Island?” the hat asked.

“Why not?” Donald asked.

“Precedent. Ford had to pardon Nixon for Watergate,” the hair told him.

“What’s Watergate?” Donald asked, shifting his bulk around in his Oval Office chair.

“It’s a hotel, moron,” the hat said. Donald kicked him with a filthy bare foot.

“Don’t kick me!” the hat wailed.

“Kick him, Donald,” the hair urged, “Kick him hard!”

“Stop encouraging him!” the hair yelled.

“Can Jeff pardon me?” Donald asked.

“Jeff is Attorney General, Donald,” the hair told him.

“So? Can he pardon me?”

“No, only the President can pardon someone?”

“Who’s the President? Can I call him?”

“You’re the President, Donald,” the hair said patiently.

“Damn fucking right, I am!” he roared. “I pardon myself. Donald J. Trump, thou art pardoned!”

“That’s not how it works, Donald!” the hat said. Donald was stepping on him now and his voice from under the desk was distorted and faint.

“Russia doesn’t matter anymore! I’m pardoned, I’m pardoned!” Donald yelled, getting up to run in circles around his desk.

He stopped after a few laps, breathing raggedly. “Russia is all fake news from now on,” he gasped. “Mueller is fired. Jeff is fired. I’m free!”

Donald pulled open the Oval Office door and took off down the hallway toward the Residence, the hair flapping behind him, struggling to hang on.

“I’m pardoned, I’m pardoned,” he told his secretaries taking selfies with their salads.

“I’m pardoned, I’m pardoned,” he told Reince masturbating in his office to Holocaust autopsies.

“I’m pardoned, I’m pardoned,” he told his Sarah as she was sitting on a chocolate cake and moaning.

“I’m pardoned, I’m pardoned,” he told he told a scowling Melania as she gave her son his bath.

“I’m pardoned, I’m pardoned,” he told Steve, the homeless drunk sleeping in his bed. “I’m pardoned, I’m pardoned,” as he tried to shake him awake. “I’m pardoned, I’m pardoned,” he screamed while stamping his foot.

“Steve?”

“Stevey?”

“Wake up, Steve. I need to tell you something.”

“Steve?”

“Donald,” the hair whispered. “You might need to call for someone.”

“Nonsense. Steve is just playing a joke.” He poked the homeless man in the neck. “C’mon, Steve, joke’s over. You need to wake up.”

“Donald,” the hair said, “I think he’s dead.”

A toilet flushed and Steve came out of the bathroom, wiped his hands off on his shirt. “Who’s dead?”

“Steve!” Donald said and hugged him. “You’re OK. I told you he was OK!”

“Then who is in the bed?” the hair asked quietly.

“Who is in the bed?” Donald asked.

“A man can’t have someone over for the night?” Steve asked.

“But who is it?” Donald asked. He went to poke the man in the bed again and jammed his finger into the body’s eye.

“No one,” Steve said walking back into the bathroom. “Have it cleaned up,” he told Donald.