Half-dressed, thirsty, asleep, the hair had Donald staggering down a narrow hallway with a machine pistol in his right hand and the shredded remains of a MAKE BASQUE LEGIBLE AGAIN hat in the other.

“Where are we going?” the hat asked. He was jammed down on the hair haphazardly and wanted heroin very badly.

“We are going the safe room on this floor,” the hair said.

“We could hole up in the wig vault,” the hat said.

“Donald would never fit in there,” the hair replied.

“And?”

“We have to keep Donald safe.”

“Oh, yeah.”

The hair had Donald stop and peek around the next corner before proceeding. Three terrorists were in the hallway, smoking cigarettes and looking at their phones.

After pulling Donald back, the hair whispered, “Shit, they’re right in front of the safe room.”

“Let’s just kill them,” the hat said.

“There’s three of them.”

“They’re just Eurofags. We can take them.”

“How did they even get in here? The White House has huge security. The best. Like, top-notch.”

“That doesn’t matter now,” the hair told him. He turned Donald around and walked him back the way we came.

“No, not that way, they’ve sent someone to check on him by now,” the hat said urgently.

“Where then?”

“What about the Kennedy Fuck Tunnels? We could get out that way.”

“Your solution to everything is always the Kennedy Fuck Tunnels,” the hair said wearily.

“They lead to, like, ten different side-piece apartments around the city.”

“They’ve blocked all those off. It was the only way to keep Bill from sneaking back in and pissing on all the toilet paper,” the hair said.

They only noticed that they had circled back while bickering when Donald tripped over the gunman they had killed and it sent all three of them sprawling. Donald let out a protracted groan and muttered some thick syllables from a dream, “No, Nancy, not there. Not there.”

“Goddammit,” the hat said. “Learn to fucking drive!”

“Shut up and let me concentrate,” the hair shot back as he struggled to make Donald stand.

“No, wait,” the hat said, “There, on the floor.”

“What?” the hair asked.

“The gunman’s phone,” the hat said entranced.

The hair had it picked up and then braced Donald against a wall to finish standing.

“We’ve gotta get out of here,” the hair said, out of breath in his non-existent lungs.

“Give me the phone,” the hat demanded.

“OK, fine, jeez,” the hair replied, tucking the cellphone under the hat.

“To the roof!” the hat crowed. “To the roof!”

 

 

 

 

The hair could feel him begin to type on the phone and he drove a sleeping Donald toward the White House roof access port.

“What are you doing up there?!?” the hair asked.

 

 

“Just get us to the roof,” the hat replied.

“Can you stop fucking around on that phone? It’s hard enough to climb a ladder as is.”

“Mush! Mush!” the hat cried gleefully. “We have to the get to the roof to save the hostages!”

“They are all still in the ballroom, probably,” the hair said. “What makes you think they are on the roof?”

“Because when they blow the roof, all the hostages will die and if will be the perfect thing to hide their heist!”

“Oh, fuck,” the hair moaned. “Do you think we are in Die Hard or something?” He hooked Donald’s arm into a rung so he could rest.

“HAAAANNNS!” the hat screamed down at him. “HAAAAAANS!”

“Are we just getting up on the roof so you can jump off?” the hair asked.

“HAAAAANNS!”

The hair sighed and started to climb once more.