(Please note that this is all Brett L’s fault.)

“Luther! Luther! Pay attention you fuckin’ cracka!” Donald yelled. “Hit him in the panhandle! It’s his only weakest!”

Luther and Steve circled each other in the Montgomery Cockfighting Pit, the swankiest state capitol cockfighting pit of all the state capitol cockfighting pits. The handicappers for the fight had hobbled Steve and given Luther a set of steel spurs. They were sitting in their respective corners of the pit having their cloacas massaged by their trainers.

“This is barbaric,” the hair muttered. Donald slapped his own head to quiet him. The USA hat squealed in protest. “Moron,” the hair muttered.

“It’s won’t settle the election, but honest, hard-working people like Alabamians like to know you can fight before they vote for you,” Donald said.

“Don’t distract him, Donald. Steve is dangerous,” the hair said. Donald mumbled something and went back to his ice cream cone.

The stands around the pit were full of eager fans. The air was dead and the smell of sweat and beer and chaw and cigar smoke were mingled together and hanging heavy. Donald’s scalp was beginning to sweat and the hair held on with anxious tendrils.

“Dem two gonna fight ‘em?” USA hat asked.

“O-M-G, shutthefuckup,” the hat said.

“Steve could kill him,” Donald said and laughed.

“Why is he even out there? Shouldn’t be overseeing Breitbart or riding the rails? And where the fuck is Roy? Roy’s who should be in the ring,” the hair said.

“Roy had a date,” Donald said. “Skinny little guy, but he forwarded me the picture of his dick. Roy’s probably going to shit wrong for a week.”

“It’s the seat that Roy wants, so Roy should be fighting for it,” the hair said.

“Big Luther knows what he’s doing. Besides, I took out a little insurance. Watch.”

The trainer with Steve held his hand up to the editor’s face and Steve gobbled down whatever was there. Donald started laughing and rubbing his nipples.

“What did you do, Donald?” the hair asked.

“Just watch.”

“Can I have a popsicles?” USA hat asked.

“No,” the hair snapped, “You’ll get it all over me. Shut up.”

“Aww, don’t be like that, Touppie” the USA hat said.

“I told you not to call me that!” the hair yelled.

“Both of you stop it!” Donald said. “The fight’s starting.”

“I like watchin’ fights, yes I do, I surely do,” the USA hat said. The hair growled at him.

“Hey y’all,” Jeff said, emerging from the smoky dim outside the glare of the pit lights. “Yew mind if I sit by yew?”

“Sure, OK, whatever,” Donald said with no enthusiasm. “Just be quiet.”

“They’re fightin’ for mah old Senate seat, you know,” Jeff said, perching on the bench beside Donald like a wizened Elf on the Shelf.

“No shit,” the hat said.

“You say somethin’, Donald?” Jeff asked.

“I said ‘be quiet,’” he replied.

The referee raised his hand and the venue grew quiet, but when he dropped it, and Luther and Steve were shoved into the pit, the crowd roared.

Steve minced to the center of the ring, his feet tied together by a short length of rope. He raised his arms over his head and bellowed something unintelligible.

“Big Luther!” Donald yelled.

Luther scuttled forward quickly and slashed at Steve with an ankle spur. Steve hopped backward and brought his clasped hands down on Luther’s shoulder. Everyone could hear it dislocate and Luther stumbled back. The USA hat guffawed loudly.

“Uh, Donald…” the hair began.

Luther, holding his arm, stepped away from his opponent’s lumbering embrace, pivoted and brought his spur down, laying open Steve’s shin almost its entire length. Steve howled in agony and fell into the side of pit.

The hair noticed that Jeff was pawing at his own crotch frantically.

“Yeah!” Donald yelled. “Give him a taste of STRANGE!”

Luther rushed into punch Steve twice in the face as the homeless Svengali reeled drunkenly. A cut over his eye began to weep blood. The referee stopped the fight and sent them both out of the pit.

“That’s it? I though theys was gonna kill each udder,” the USA hat whined.

“Wow. What happened?” the hair asked, impressed.

“I paid off the trainer to slip Steve the one thing no hobo can resist,” Donald said smugly, “A pint of Sterno.”