“Kayleigh,” Donald sighed.

“You haven’t had a press secretary you’ve liked since Sarah left,” the hat said. He was perched on Donald’s shoulder like a parrot and stank of rum.

“In these uncertain times,” the hair began.

“Who?” Donald asked, scratching his head up under the hair.

“Sarah. Your press secretary for a long time,” the hat said.

“I don’t know that person,” Donald sniffed.

“Sarah, Donald, Sarah. Big girl, meaty,” the hat said. “Had kind of a fucked up face.” The hat twisted his bill and front panels grotesquely, striving to replicate her disturbing asymmetry.

“In these troubled times,” the hair began.

“Pie. You always called her Pie because she was always eating pie,” the hat said.

“Where did you hear this?” Donald asked, narrowing his eyes. “This sounds like a hoax.”

“It’s not a hoax!” the hat said.

“In these concerning times,” the hair began.

“Fake news,” Donald mumbled. “It’s all fake news.”

The hat made a strangled cry of rage and dropped down onto the desk.

“Kayleigh,” Donald said again dreamily. “She’s a blonde, you know.”

“Yes, I know!” the hat growled, dragging himself across the desk.

“In these unsettled times,” the hair began.

“She worked on your campaign!” the hat said. He dropped to the floor and crawled under the desk.

“I wonder if she’s a real blonde,” Donald mused.

Under the desk, the hat barked out a laugh.

“In these trying times,” the hair began.

“OH MY GOD! STOP THAT!” the hat yelled.

“In these difficult times,” the hair said, dropping his voice an octave.

 


 

Meanwhile, in an undisclosed location

“FINGERBANG!” Joe screamed. “FINGERBANG!” he screamed again.

“How long has be been doing that?” the secret service supervisor asked, out of breath, holding his side.

“Two hours now,” said the secret service agent assigned to the former Vice President for the evening shift.

“FINGERBANG!” Joe hollered.

“He’s going to pop,” the supervisor said matter-of-factly. He looked through the small wire-mesh window into Joe’s sundowning room. “You can almost smell how high his blood pressure must be.”

“Maybe that would be for the best,” the agent muttered. The supervisor slapped him.

“FINGERBANG!” Joe howled.

“Never say that. Never even think it. You want to be assigned to the White House again?!? Do you?”

The agent looked away and down and shook his head.

“FINGERBANG-ANG-ANG-ANG-ANG!” Joe ululated.

“OK. He’s not going to stop until we give him what he wants,” the supervisor said grimly. “Remember the bubble tea incident?”

The agent closed his eyes and nodded.

“FINGERBANG?” Joe pleaded.

“Well, get in there,” the supervisor said.

“What?” the agent asked.

“Get in there, I said. You can wear gloves.”

“No,’ the agent said, backing into the rough concrete of the wall.

“I said you could wear gloves,” the supervisor said, pulling a pair of bright blue nitrile gloves in a sterile plastic pack.

“I don’t care if I could wear all the gloves in the goddamn world!” the agent said.

The supervisor’s hand shot out and took the gun from the stunned agent. “Get in there,” he said, motioning.

The agent fumbled out his keys and opened the sundowning room.

“In, in,” the supervisor said, poking the agent in the lower back.

“Fingerbang?” Joe asked, half his mouth curling into a smile.

The supervisor slammed the door behind the agent and locked it.

“FINGERBANG!” Joe screeched.

“Sir?” the agent asked, his frightened face filling the small window. “Sir? What if he, uh, wants to, uh, do it me?” He put the first two fingers of his right hand together and stabbed them again and again toward the ceiling and made a face both horrified and aroused.

“Then you have him wear the gloves,” the supervisor said and walked away.