Republican Sen. Jeff Flake calls for FBI investigation and Senate floor vote delay


All of Donald’s senior staff and aides trooped out of the Oval Office. A couple of them were crying. Rudy scuttled glumly. Bill was playing a furious round of pocket pool.

“Idiots,” the hat said, as soon as the door closed.

“They were blindsided, we were all blindsided,” the hair said.

“Don’t defend them. I knew Flake was going to fuck us as soon as he and his little butt-buddy Coons left the hearing. If I had my way, I’d have the entire committee lined up and shot.”

“I want Brett on the court,” Donald pouted. “The ugly lady with the baby voice is getting in my way.”

“Rape,” the hat said disgustedly. “She doesn’t know from rape. I’ll show her rape.”

“Dear God,” the hair said, appalled.

“I’m going to go get in the tub,” Donald said.

“Good, you get some rest,” the hat said. “Lot of tweeting to do tonight, I’m going to need your help.”

When the door to the Presidential Shitter closed, the hat slumped down on the desk.

“Who knew running the country would be this much work?” he asked.

“I did,” the hair replied.

“I mean, it was fun at first, making fun of people and scaring the normals,” the hat said. “And then he fucking won. Who could have seen that coming? I’m so damn tired.”

“All the clocks in here are wrong,” the hair said.

“I set them so Donald wouldn’t know how late it was getting. I need him awake and working until the vote on Friday.”

“He can’t stay up that long, you’ll kill him,” the hair said.

“You don’t seem to understand. This is the DEEP STATE. They are fucking with us again. This is exactly the sort of shit they would pull. I can feel it down in my hat bones.”

“But are you OK?” the hair asked, sliding closer to his head mate.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, with all this… the rape accusations, the DEEP STATE, all the allegations of substance abuse. This situation must be very triggering for you, after, you know, after what you went through.”

“Fuck that,” the hat sneered. “I’m not some snowflake, I’m not no sob sister. Someone is coming after us, and I’m going to find them, I’m going to fuck them, and then I’m going to skin them alive.”

“I’m just…”

“You’re just nothing,” the hat said, cutting him off. “I’m fine, Donald’s fine, we’re all fine. I’m going to get us through this.”

“OK,” the hair said carefully. He hopped down off the desk and skittered over to the Shitter door.

“Donald?” the hair called. “Are you jerking off in there?”

“Yes,” Donald yelled back. “Someone’s got to make the mushroom juice around here.”

“OK,” the hair said. “I want you good and relaxed.”

The hat took the time they were distracted to text his dealer: u score me modafinil?

The dealer wrote back before the hair even made back to the desk: 2hr usual place.

“OK,” the hat said, “We have to make this our war room. I need a whiteboard, some pens…”



“OK,” the hat said. “OH-KAY… Now pay attention, Donald. All of this is very important.”

Donald hadn’t even bothered to dress after his bath, his masturbation session, his epic shit that he had to be physically restrained from tweeting out to the nation, his second bath to get him cleaned up after the epic shit and a huge breakfast of McGriddles and hashbrowns and dozens of ketchup packets.

“I’m so full,” Donald groaned. “I need a nap.”

“No, you need to pay attention. Drink more Diet Coke.” The hat had spiked it with modafinil.

Donald slurped noisily with his straw and rattled the ice in the huge empty cup.

“All gone, all gone,” the President said.

“Look at the board, Donald,” the hat said. “These are our enemies. All of them are the worst people, Donald. Just awful. They want to keep you from getting what you want.”

The hair was laying in the morning sun and stretched and yawned loudly. “Just terrible people,” the hair said sleepily.

“Look here, Donald,” the hat said, playing a laser pointer over the names. “These are the known weaknesses of our enemies. You must learn them.”

“Is that ugly old lady really a zombie?” Donald asked .”The undead? An unclean spirit that walks among the living?”

“Have you been reading comic books again?” the hat asked, staring at the hair.

“But if she’s a zombie…” Donald began.

“Headshots kill most everything,” the hair said and yawned again.

“And here are the rest of them,” the hat said, circling the next row with the laser pointer.

“Is Blumenthal really a mummy?” Donald asked. “I don’t like all these movie monsters fighting with me.”

“To the best of our knowledge. There’s probably an amulet or a hieroglyphic tablet we have to break to kill it.”

“And that orange thing scares me,” Donald admitted.

“It scares the rest of us too,” the hair said.

“I can’t understand how even a place as low and degraded as California could have put that creature in the Senate,” the hat said mournfully.



The hat was almost asleep when a hypnic jerk caused Donald to kick over the small mountains of Diet Coke cans next to his desk.

“My thumbs are tired,” Donald said.

“Keep tweeting, damn you!” the hat said.

“He needs to sleep,” the hair said.

“He can sleep when Brett is on the Supreme Court!” the hat said screeched. “MORE DIET COKE! I DON’T CARE IF HE DROWNS IN IT!”

The Oval Office door opened and a hairy arm shoved Sarah into the room, a two-liter of Diet Coke cradled in her arms like the Christ Child.

“Hope!” Donald cried. “Hope! It’s so good to see you!” Donald struggled out of his desk chair and ran to her and threw his arms around her.

“Hope!” he said, stepping back. “Oh my God, you got so fat! Did you have a baby? Bring me the baby. I love babies!” He pulled the swaddled Diet Coke from her and swung around the room with it until it flew out of his arms and bounced off the wall.

“I’m Sarah, Mr. President,” she said, jowls aquiver.

“Sarah? I know no Sarah.”

“Pie,” she said, thoroughly ashamed. “You call me Pie, sir.”

“You brought me pie?” Donald asked. Tears started to well in his eyes.



“Who the hell is Jeff Flake?” Donald. The hat had had him on Twitter all night, a raw run of Diet Coke and Provigil keeping the old man pumping.

“Yeah, who the hell does he think he is?” the hat loudly agreed.

“No. I mean who is he? Why is everyone talking about him?” Donald asked, his eyes locked in his iPhone’s screen.

“Donald, he’s a senator,” the hat said gently.

“Senator? Put him on the board then!”

“Uh, he is on the board,” the hat said.

“GOOD! I want the FBI to investigate them all!” Donald bellowed.

“Finally, the FBI can do something for us!” the hat crowed.

“Eleven Democrat assholes,” Donald sneered. “I’m going to destroy them all.”

“Flake is a Republican,” the hat said tiredly.

“Who is Flake?” Donald demanded.

“Jesus,” the hair said in utter disgust.

“He’s on the board, Donald,” the hat said. “Everyone on the board is bad. All bad. Board bad.”

Donald picked the hair up off his desk and placed him on his head. He crossed to look out one of the Oval Office windows. A slanted beam of sunlight lit up the tendrils of the hair as it squirmed to settle itself on his head.

“Board bad,” the President said solemnly, nodding to himself. “Board bad.”