“I am not a Russian agent,” Donald wailed, ripping a copy of The New York Times to shreds with hands shaking with indignation.

“Of course not, Donald. Of course not,” the hair said.

“I was going to do the crossword, you know,” the hat said.

“How could the FBI think that?!?” Donald asked the empty Oval Office.

“Well, you are pretty close to Vlad…” the hair ventured.

‘It’s not like that between us,” Donald said. “We’re just… friends.”

The hat let a small, strangled laugh escape.

“It’s all nonsense,” the hair said. “Nonsense,” he repeated, putting on a weird Britsh accent.

“Oh, nonsense, is it?” the hat replied in his own bad Cockney.

“Piffle,” the hair said. “Piffle and poppycock.”

“I have never felt more insulted,” Donald said quietly.

“Piffle, poppycock and profiterole, I say!” the hat replied, switching to a high-class twit accent straight from Monty Python.

“I think that last one is a dessert,” the hair pointed out.

“I say, I say,” the hat went on. “Harrumph, harrumph. Bring me my pipe and dressing gown! I say!”

“I wish Vlad was here,” Donald said.

“Oh, c’mon, big guy,” the hat said, slipping back into his Long-Island-meets-gravel-road voice.

“Yeah, Donald, don’t be sad,” the hair said.

“Let’s call Jeanine,” the hat suggested. “Jeanie always cheers you up.”

“I think Jeanie is mad at me,” Donald said.

“No, never,” the hair said. “Jeanie loves you.”

“If she loves me then why did she send me that horrible picture?” Donald asked.

“Horrible picture?” the hat asked, perking up.

Donald put his phone down in front of the hat and he used his bill to flip through the pictures app.

“Dear God, what is that?” the hat asked.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Donald said. “But it don’t look right.”

“Why didn’t you delete this?!?” the hat asked.

“What is it?” the hair asked, sliding over to look.

“A burn victim pulled out of a week dead in the ocean?” the hat suggested.

“I think it’s the underside of some sort of spider,” Donald said. “But whatever it is I don’t know why she would send it to me if she wasn’t mad at me.”

The hair started giggling, a tiny forest of follicular mouths opening.

“What?” the hat asked.

The hair kept giggling, his whole tangled mass shaking. “It’s a sext, guys,” the hair finally managed to say.

“No,” Donald said, pulling back from the phone.

“It can’t be,” the hat said. “It just can’t be.”

The hair snaked out a tendril and pointed to places on the phone’s screen. “See?” he asked. “Those are the nipples and that down there is her, you know.”

“That can’t be,” Donald said in dawning horror.

“What did she do to it?” the hat asked in horrified wonder.

“Is it upside-down?” Donald asked.

“Is what upside-down?” the hair asked.

“The whole thing,” Donald said. “Is it all upside-down or something?”

“It seems like she hates him,” the hat said. “There’s no other reason to send someone a picture like this.”

“Be nice, she’s like in her 80s, you guys,” the hair admonished. “And she’s our strongest ally in the press.”

“I still think she hates him,” the hat muttered.