“C’mon, man. Help me out,” the hat croaked.

“No, this is for you own good,” the hair said.

“OK, OK… No Twitter. Just let me browse Salon or something.”

“No, you are on a full media detox.”

“Then a hit. Cook me up a hit.”

“You’re detoxing from that, too. Donald is spiraling and I need your help, you junkie fuck.”

There was a scratching noise from inside the dark Trump Tower wig vault. The hat started making a piteous whine.

“I need it,” he said. “Just turn on CNN or something.” He was sick and he was shaking, pale pink and threadbare from withdrawal.

“Nope. You’re going cold turkey, turkey.”

In the cool darkness, the scratching came again. “Like bugs under my fabric. Bugs,” the hat said.

It was quiet for the next ten minutes or so and the hair hoped the hat had drifted off into some junk sick parody of sleep.

“We’ve been in here since Steve fucked up the White House,” the hat whispered. “What if he’s forgotten about us? What if we die in here?”

“Donald hasn’t forgotten about us. He’s just wearing some of his dumb hair and a USA hat.”

“A WHAT?” the hat screeched in the confines of the vault.

“Calm down,” the hair said.

“DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN! WHAT USA HAT?!?”

“It’s just a hat…”

“JUST A HAT?!?”

“It is, like, a regular hat, like when he wears just a regular toupee. It’s not you.”

“No one else is me,” the hat stated. His voice had the pride in it that the hair had missed. “He can wear whatever hair he wants,” the headgear continued, “I don’t care about that at all.”

“Thanks for that.”

The hat coughed and spat out a bare handful of thread.

“I’ll have you know that I was Hitler’s hat. I nearly ruled the world.”

“What are you raving on about?”

“World War II. You’ve heard of that, I assume?”

“What the fuck are you saying? You used to be Hitler’s hat?!?” the hair asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

“Hitler? Like Hitler Hitler?”

“Adolf Hitler, the Chancellor of Germany from 1933 to 1945,” the hat said. He puffed up his dome and straightened his bill.

“Did you say ‘Make Germany Great Again?'” the hair asked, laughing nervously. He had drawn himself into a tight ball as he unconsciously retreated from the hat.

“No, I looked like a regular Hitler hat. A regular German military cap.”

“How in the fuck…”

The hat coughed weakly. “As long as man has had hats, I have existed.”

“Bullshit.”

“And as long as men have been ashamed of being bald, you have existed,” the hat said. “The first time we met you were just some stitched together rat hides. You looked horrible.”

“Why don’t I remember any of this?”

“You never remember. Something about follicular memory being not being about to retain patterns. Soviet scientists looked into it…” The hat awkwardly shrugged.

The hair shelved the rest of his questions as the door to the wig vault swung open. Donald was half-dressed and groped for the hair in the darkness of the vault. The hair relaxed from his disgusted ball as Donald picked him up.

“Missouri,” he mumbled while jamming the hair on his piebald head and twisting until it was seated properly.

“How are you doing, Donald?” the hair asked.

“Tax reform,” Donald said. “Missouri.” He began to piss himself.

“I’m going to need some help here,” the hair said to the hat.

“Too sick,” the hat groaned. “I need a hit, man.”

“Take the hat, Donald,” the hair ordered.

“He looks terrible,” Donald said. “Like a bum’s hat. My hat is supposed to be classy, A-1, top-notch like me. Look at this suit I’ve got half on. That hat is a garbage hat.” The hat shivered and mewed.

“You’ll be fine without me,” said the hat. “It’s Missouri. Those inbred hick retards love us… What could possibly go wrong?”

Donald tore the hair off his head and dropped it on the floor, perilously close to the pool of piss, and wandered off in search of dry underwear.

“He’s been like that since before the hurricane,” the hair said.

“What hurricane?” the hat demanded.

“Oh, right, media blackout,” the hair said. “Texas. It’s fine. It just some white people. It’s not going to be another Katrina.”

“George Bush doesn’t care about black people,” the hat said and laughed weakly.

“Tell me…” the hat began.

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me the truth. Were you Hitler’s hat? Have we really be around for thousands of years.”

“Turn on MSNBC and I’ll tell you.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Horse or Twitter, your choice.”

Donald shuffled back in carrying a double handful of underwear.

“Tell me or I’ll leave you here,” the hair warned.

“OK, fine, I made it all up,” the hat said. “Or maybe I didn’t.”

“You’re just fucking with me,” the hair said. “Yeah, you’re just fucking with me.” He watched Donald struggle into a pair of underwear when the hat didn’t answer. Donald reached down and grabbed the hair.

“Better hat,” he mumbled to himself. “Classy hat.” He placed his palm on the lock and the vault door began to swing shut.

“I’ve gotten out of tougher bunkers than this!” the hat yelled as the door slid home.

The hair shuddered, causing Donald to break out into a brief St. Vitus dance.