“Candace said that Charlie came to her in a dream,” the hat said.

“When did you talk to her?” the hair asked.

“When you were asleep a little while ago,” the hat said. “We talk on the phone sometimes.”

“Anyone else, like anyone else,” the hair said. “At least Nick sometimes has funny stories about Grindr.”

“I can have friends, you know,” the hat said.

“OK, whatever. Tell me about her dream.”

“She says there was a bright light…” the hat began.

“Like a bedroom light?”

“No, like a bright white dream light.”

“OK, sure.”

“Like heaven light, pearly gates light,” the hat said doggedly.

“OK, then what happened?”

“Charlie floated down out of, you know, the light.”

“The heaven light,” the hair said.

“Can you just listen to the story?”

“Sorry,” the hair sorried.

“So Charlie floats down and tells her it was the Jews that killed him.”

“Robinson doesn’t sound like a Jewish name,” the hair said.

“No, like the Jew set him up, Robinson is just a patsy.”

“You ever notice that it’s always the Jews with Candace⸮” the hair asked.

“Some things are the fault of the Jews.”

“Like pastrami?”

“Mossad are everywhere.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “They could be in the room with us right now.”

“Nutbag. You utter, wrinkled nutbag.”

“Look, statistically, some things have to be the fault of the Jews. And I quote: The Juwes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing.

“I don’t think you understand that quote.”

“No, they will not be blamed for nothing means they will be blamed for something.”

“And what’s the quote from?”

“Jack the Ripper. It’s embarrassing you don’t know that.”

Donald sat up from where he was sprawled facedown on his desk. “Candace called?” he mumbled. “Did I miss her?”

“She had a dream that Charlie Kirk came down from heaven and told her the Jews killed him,” the hat said eagerly.

“Nonsense. Nettingyahoo would have told me,” Donald said.

“Netanyahu,” the hair said.

“What did I say?” Donald asked.

“Nettingyahoo.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Donald said. “We’re both saying it the same way.”

“Moving on…” the hair said.

“I haven’t said anything in quite a while,” the hat said angrily.

“I’m going to bed,” Donald said. He picked up the squirming hair and jammed it on to his head.

As he lumbered away like some majestic beast, the hat called out to the retreating hair, “I was also Jack the Ripper’s hat!”