Using the heel of his toothbrush, Donald gently pinned the dead Hair Mouse inside the cigar box as he poured all the blood into the toilet. The hard edges and corners of the wooden box made for a sloppy pour, spreading blood everywhere despite Donalds best attempts to contain it. Frustrated, he dumped the Hair Mouse onto the marble sink like a dish towel. It landed with a sop.
He hung his suit jacket on the back of the door, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and began washing his hands in the sink. Outside of a container, the Hair Mouse seemed to bleed more slowly.
But it still bled. Even after all this time, it never stopped. It overflowed every container he kept it in and it never turned cold.
I guess you know you cant flood the whole world, dont you Hair Mouse? Donald asked. Its little black eyes were wet, but empty.
The Hair Mouse didnt answer.
You wouldnt flood the world anyway. You wanted to burn it.
The Hair Mouse didnt answer.
Will the fire still come, Hair Mouse?
The Hair Mouse didnt answer.
Hair Mouse, I am a train off my rails. Please help me.
Still, it did not answer.
Donald turned the water off and nudged the blood body of the vermin into the sink. If it was determined to fill the basin, at least it would drain into the sewer. His eyes stung from wiping so much sweat from his brow. The presidential election was killing him. He couldnt take the heat. Without the Hair Mouse, all he could do was sweat.
There was a candle on the back of the toilet, something Ivanka had given him as a fathers day gift. It was the kind of easy gift that meant nothing to either of them, but it had fulfilled the obligation. Beside it was a matchbook from some Trump venue in Atlantic City he was sure was out of business. He turned away from the mirror and felt his neck hair stand up - as if his reflection was still watching him. He had the matchbook in his hand when he looked back.
He pressed down the drain stopper and struck a match from the book. Donald wasnt sure why, but he had resolved to try to burn his murdered arbiter. Hopeless men are prone to desperate experimentation and Donald was at the end of his rope.
He lit the rest of the book and held it over the sink. The dead eyes of the mouse glimmered orange under the flame.
What have I got to lose? He asked.
He dropped the little burning book. Very suddenly, and very bigly, the fire came.
And the Hair Mouse answered:
Pull me from here, Donald. It is foul.
