The winds across the barren plain howled, cold, with stinging flecks of rock picked up by gusts.

“Tell us of 2020,” the crone whispered.

“Many plans are in motion, Grandmother,” Hillary said. “Plans within plans, plans for plans.”

“Speak plainly or not at all,” the old woman said.

“The plan is largely the same as 2016,” Hillary said. Someone behind her groaned loudly.

“BUT THIS TIME, I will succeed!” Hillary said through gritted teeth.

The Pussy Hat Horde behind her shifted their weight and scuffed the ground with their expensive shoes, but otherwise fell silent.

“Our servants in the media will attack the fool at all turns. There will be TV reports of his malfeasance, scathing articles in The Atlantic and New Yorker, and many women will come forward to accuse him of sexual misdeeds. He has groped and mishandled many women, old and young, beautiful and ugly, fat and only a little chunky. Something will stick this time. Surely something will stick!”

“His powers against holy rage are various and sundry,” the crone said.

“He cannot hide behind the power of the dingus forever!” Hillary said through gritted dentures.

“Hi-yo!” someone yelled.

“We have #metoo on our side now,” Hillary continued. “It won’t be like last time. Comey isn’t…”

“Say not his foul name!” the crone snapped, suddenly animated.

“Yes, Grandmother,” Hillary said.

“Emails!” the horde wailed in terror.

“SILENCE!” the ancient figure thundered.

Grumbling and crying and squatting to pee in fright, the Pussy Horde took some time to calm, even with Hillary chanting Sarah MacLaughlin lyrics to soothe them.

“And who will be your running mate?” the crone inquired.

“Harris or Booker, whichever of them submits first.”

“Intersectionality,” the crone crooned contentedly.

“Intersectionality,” the horde sighed.

“Like totes intersectional!” a deformed 14-year-old in the front row said brightly.

“Booker has the power of the dingus on his side,” the crone said.

“And charisma,” Hillary said. “Like Barry.” She spat on the ground and it sizzled.

“You might not be able to control him. He might be a danger in the primary,” the crone pointed out. Hillary spat again, a fat black blob of corruption.

“Harris might be better. More… malleable,” Hillary said. “She isn’t too bright, though, and I can’t afford a Palin on my ticket.”

“Joe served Barry well,” the crone observed.

“I love Joe! He’s just so dreamy!” one of the horde said. Those around her groped her back into silence.

“But a double female ticket,” mused Hillary. “Someone so thoroughly and amazingly qualified as me and a… person of intersectionality like Harris. We could be unstoppable. We could wash the Republican taint from America forever!’

Some in the horde giggled.

“Victory will be ours,” the crone said dustily. Rivulets of piss were running off the edge of the dais.