The overlord.

At night, the hairpiece relaxes its grip on Donald Trump’s skull, sloughing to the floor in a heap, digesting the satisfaction that comes of its own practiced malevolence.

“What did I do today?” Donald asks the horrified expression he sees in the mirror. “God in heaven, what did I do?” He desperately searches for the television remote, cycles to a cable news outlet, hoping not to see his own name, knowing in his gut that he will.

From a shadowy corner of the room, the hairpiece cackles quietly.

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