“I don’t know why I’m driving,” Donald said. “I never drive myself. And why am I driving a Subaru? It’s made in Chyna.”

“It’s made in Japan, Donald,” the hair said, styled majestically, like an eagle swooping down on hapless prey.

“Probably still loaded in germs,” Donald said, taking his hands off the wheel to wipe them on his suit jacket.

“STEVE SMITH WANT KNOW WHY STEVE SMITH HAVE SIT BACKSEAT,” STEVE SMITH growled.

“Because I ride up front,” Warty Hugeman rumbled, his voice like boulders cracking. The matte black time suit crackled with energy in agreement. “Gigantopithecines ride in the back with the rest of the animals.”

“Was that directed at me?” Hillary asked, gnawing the last bit of meat from the femur she was holding.

“In a thousand years, people regard you as little better than the Countess Báthori of non-consensual suicide,” Warty said.

“Countess?” Hillary scoffed. “I’m a fucking Queen.” The femur cracked like a rifle report. Greedy sucking noises began as she went after the marrow.

“Cannibalism doesn’t shock me,” Warty said. “I’ve eaten my enemies across a billion years.”

STEVE SMITH chuffed and crossed his dangling arms. “STEVE SMITH RAPE HUMANS MORE THAN THAT.”

“I’ve never raped anyone,” Donald said. “Women just give it up when you’re famous. E. Jean begged me to fuck her ancient gash. It was like fingering a rotten avocado.”

The hat laughed from where he sat on the dashboard. “You tell ‘em, Donald. It was pure bullshit that they didn’t let me testify at your trial.”

“Will you people be quiet?” Hunter meanded loudly from where he was nestled into STEVE SMITH’s cavernous armpit. “I’m trying to OD back here.”

“Shut up, junkie,” Hillary and Donald said simultaneously.

“Jinx!” Donald yelled. “You owe me a Diet Coke!”

“STEVE SMITH LIKE COKE ZERO BETTER MORE,” STEVE SMITH said. Hunter sighed contentedly.

“I love you, Steve Smith,” Cracky said from Hunter’s jock-strap.

“You brought that goddamn thing?” the hat asked.

“I have just as much right as anyone else to be in this crossover event,” Cracky said indignantly.

Hillary rolled down her window and tossed the two ends of the femur out into the endless desert they were crossing. She pulled a loop of intestines from the bucket of gore between her feet and began feeding into her mouth like a lumpy Fruit Roll-Up.

“Is there a butthole in the bucket?” Hunter asked. “I’m bored.”

“You could have married Chelsea and sealed the breach in the bloodlines,” Hillary said, spitting out a hyoid bone.

“Ew. I may fuck hookers and strippers and cousins and nieces and crack-whores I find behind dumpsters, but I do have some standards, you know.”

STEVE SMITH laughed. Donald joined him because he felt no one had paid attention to him in too long. The hair purred and kneaded his scalp.

“You want some?” Hillary asked STEVE SMITH, holding a particularly succulent iliac crest out to him.

“HUMAN GIVE STEVE SMITH GAS,” STEVE SMITH said.

“Now I’m hungry,” Donald said.

Cracky said, “I could eat.”

“Find a place, Donald,” the hat said. “I need to take a shit.”

“There’s never a McDonald’s when you need one,” Donald said.

Up front, Warty Hugeman began to dematerialize and then snapped back into solidity. Trapped, he thought. Trapped in hell. Plaything of a malevolent Demiurge. He growled and began to program Doomcock 3.6 for self-destruct.