“Subpeona me, motherfuckers!” the hat drunkenly yelled at the television. “You want contempt? YOU WANT CONTEMPT? I’LL FUCKING GIVE YOU CONTEMPT!”
The hair spurred his iguana to walk over the hat.
“That’s an invasive species,” the hat said for the hundredth time, eyeing the iguana. “How dare you.”
“You need to calm your tits, Marsha,” the hair said. He pulled on the iguana’s reins to get it to stop gnawing on the hat.
“You don’t love Florida like I do,” the hat said. “This wonderful state opened its arms to us, dammit!”
“Christ,” the hair said.
“Oranges! All the oranges I want!” the hat said. He inch-wormed across the coffee table, teetered at the edge, fell, farted out a button and zipper, and began snoring.
“Can’t you do something about this?” the hair asked Donald.
“Silence!” Donald said. “I am writing.”
The hair rode the iguana up a dying ficus and dropped down to the desk. “I’ll proofread it for you,” he offered Donald.
“SEND!” Donald yelled, jabbing at the button.
“There’s nothing about Steve in this,” the hair said.
“Steve,” the hat said weakly.
“Steve can take of himself,” Donald said. “He wants to be held in contempt.”
“But they are going to put him in jail!” the hair said.
“Jail!” Donald said. “Ha! It would be the biggest mistake those fools could possibly make.”
“Steve,” the hat said again.
“Steve in jail?” Donald said. “Three square meals a day? An exercise yard? The man would become unstoppable! Unstoppable!”
The hair sighed and rolled over on its back.
“And you are missing the fundraising possibilities,” the hat said.
“I thought you were passed out,” the hair said.
“I am stonk like bull,” the hat said in a terrible Russian accent. “Send lizard for me. I wish to desk now.”
The hair raised a clump of himself and rustled. The iguana began to climb down from his ficusal lair.
“Fundraising, yes,” Donald rubbed his hands together like a cartoon villain. “And even more money if he is jailed. The Free Steve Project!”
“Free Steve! Free Steve!” the hat chanted.
“It will piss off quite a few people,” the hat admitted.
“And Sleepy Joe might have a stroke on TV!” Donald squealed. He began to herk and jerk, sticking out his tongue and shaking all over. He had this fantasy two or three times a week of Joe stroking out and had really refined his St. Vitus Dance.
“Murmph!” came a sound from the floor and Donald stopped miming a stroke.
“Did you say something?” he asked his hair.
“Not me,” his hair replied.
“GAH!” the hat screamed.
Donald and his hair looked over the side of his desk. The iguana was on the hat, moving.
“It’s having sex with my face!” the hat screamed. “It’s having SEX with MY FACE!”
Donald and his hair laughed at the hat’s antics and then froze as the closing credits began to roll.