“Hang Mike Pence! Hang Mike Pence!” the hat chanted as it inched across the Resolute desk.

“It’s been a week, aren’t you tired of that yet?” the hair asked, down over Donald’s eyes like a sleep mask.

“It’s catchy,” the hat said.

“It’s bad optics,” the hair said.

“Oh, no,” the hat said with almost terminal sarcasm, “People won’t vote for us in the election that was two months ago!”

“We have to preserve some semblance of dignity for 2024,” the hair said.

“No, we don’t,” Donald said, pulling the hair off his eyes and dropping it on the desk. “2024 is four years away, might as well be a lifetime.”

“They are calling us insurrectionists, Donald,” the hair said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Donald said.

“You’re being impeached again,” the hair said.

“Doesn’t matter. The fruition of my master plan is at hand.”

“If you get convicted by the Senate, you won’t be able to run in 2024,” the hat said, inched toward the hair, and then launched himself to pounce.

“I don’t want to be President again without Twitter,” Donald said, shaking his head. “I love it too much.”

“Jesus,” the hair said in disgust.

“I wish I could have a baby with Twitter, find the right server, really get up in there, three weeks later a little Twitter pops out with perfect hair and a brilliant mind,” Donald said, miming that he was cradling his newborn abomination.

“You could have hit it big on Parler,” the hat said.

“Parler served its purpose, not really much use for it at this point,” Donald said

“But you could reach your people on it,” the hat said.

“My people are the ones who fall in line without me having to tell them what to do,” Donald said, levering himself out of his chair. He looked down the hallway out the open Oval Office door. Workers scurried back and forth with armfuls of papers, scared looks on their faces, the roar of the shredders deafening.

“We move on, boys. We move on,” Donald said, slamming the door shut. “My revenge almost complete.”

“Revenge?” the hair asked.

“And then go to Florida, where it is sunny unless there is a hurricane, where frozen lizards drop right out of the sky for you to eat, where there are ladies and manatees and lady manatees to fuck,” Donald dropped back into his chair and smiled.

“I don’t want to go to Florida,” the hair whined.

“You ever fuck a manatee?” Donald asked. “Tight’s not the word. Slick with algae, half shit-out seaweed tickling your stomach. Makes my balls ache just think about it.”

“I’ll fuck a manatee!” the hat said with faked enthusiasm.

“You are going to the Trump Presidential Library,” Donald said gravely. “You will be a living exhibit, giving a constant oral history of the accomplishments of the greatest four years in American history.”

“No!” the hat cried. “I won’t do it. I want to go with you two. I’m perfect for Florida! I can do meth and Monster Energy drinks and burn myself with fireworks!”

“You will go my Presidential Library,” Donald said, flicking the hat’s dorsal button painfully.

“I’ll just sit there,” the hat said through gritted bill. “I’ll just pretend to be a dumb old regular hat until I figure out how to get out of this one.”

“You’ll scamper and dance and do as you’re told,” Donald said.

“So that’s it?” the hair asked. “Florida and a long retirement of sea cow sex and Cuban McDonalds?”

“McMedianoche…” Donald said dreamily and passed a long series of wet farts into his Oval Office chair. “My second-to-last gift to Joe and Kamala.” he said contentedly.

“Second-to-last?” the hat asked.

“You forget my revenge!” Donald said. “COVID rampant, Qanon whipped into a frenzy, rioters in the Capitol building–my beloved angry white men with guns–FBI chatter about more demonstrations…”

“Yes?” the hair said.

“There won’t be anyone at his Inauguration! Empty!” Donald said in triumph. “All his fans are too old, too black, too female to risk watching an old man mumbling a speech in the snow. He got his media to lie about the beautiful crowds at my Inauguration, and now no one will attend his!”

“This is your revenge?” the hair asked.

“All this for…” the hat started.

“Yes! Yes! Let Joe Biden know my pain, my humiliation! And I’ll be gone! long gone!” Donald began to laugh, starting as a deep rumble in his stomach then expanding to fill the Oval Office until he began to hiccup.

“Too Flo[hic]rida!” he said, standing.