“We all enjoyed your work in California,” Hillary said, a wheeze in her voice. She slipped a gelatinous arm through Kamala’s and lead her down the long hallway.

“Thank you, Madam President,” Kamala said demurely. She felt Hillary shiver liquidly.

“Willie is not the easiest person to deal with. He expects… a lot of the women we assign to him.”

“Like suckin’ the last bit of meat offa broken rib bone,” Kamala said in her best approximation of AAVE.

“Yew dona hafta do that here, honey,” Hillary said in her own bad version of a Southern accent.

“Oh, thank God,” Kamala replied, but Hillary frowned.

“We do not thank The Patriarch here,” Hillary whispered, stroking the labial folds of her hideous neck.

“Yes, ma’am,” Kamala whispered, eyes downcast.

“The penis is evil,” Hillary said, touching both breasts and then her crotch. “The Demiurge rapes the Earth with it. We are the Earth.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kamala whispered again.

“Hurry, we must hurry,” Hillary told her. “Grandmother awaits.”

They walked along the dark hallway, Hillary putting more and more of her considerable weight on Kamala. The walls were daubed with glowing runes and scenes of sex between women and creatures with impossible anatomies. Focusing on any scene for too long gave Kamala a piercing headache, so she looked at her feet while they shuffled along. The floor was soft and wet. It seemed to be breathing.

“Where are we?” Kamala asked.

“Far beneath Washington, in the places forgotten to all but us, the weirding women,” Hillary said. “A place of our power.”

They stepped out into a vast hall carved from the muck of Maryland swamps. The walls pulsed and fluoresced weakly, creating a baleful blue-green light that suffused the entire space. “Die Gebärmutter des Wurms!” Hillary said grandly, throwing her bingo wings out wide.

“Wow,” said Kamala, wrinkling her nose at the smell of old blood and mildew.

“Yes,” Hillary said, “‘Wow,’ indeed. This is the beating center of our power, not the thrusting penis monuments or the mutilated boob of the Capitol Building. Come, meet Grandmother.”

Hilary took Kamala by the wrist a dragged her toward the huddled group of women in the center of the great wombroom.

“Away, ladies, away,” Hillary said, making shooing gestures with her free hand, the fingers curved into cruel claws. They scattered and cooed like kicked pigeons.

“Grandmother! Grandmother! I have brought her! The new anointed one!” Hillary said excitedly.

Kamala looked at the small figure in the wheelchair before her, tiny and dry, shriveled and shrunken.

“Is she OK?” Kamala asked Hillary quietly.

“Grandmother is eternal!” Hillary insisted.

“This is the one, Grandmother,” Hillary said to the swaddled form. “Bless her, I pray.”

“Yes,” Kalama said after Hillary poked her in the ribs with a sharp fingernail. “Bless me, Grandmother.”

The figure in the chair said nothing. There was the faint squeak of a pulley and its hand raised briefly with the rustling sound of dead leaves and paper.

“She approves, she approves!” Hillary said.

“So brave,” the pigeon women cooed. “Much intersectional.”

“Kiss her!” Hillary said. “Kiss Grandmother.”

Vinegar and the corruption of flesh flooded her nostrils as she got close to the thing. She pursed her lips and got as close as she could.

“We must feast” Hillary cried as a Kamala stood and straighten and swallowed hard against the rising contents of her stomach.

A knife appeared in Hillary’s hand and before Kamala even registered it, the crone had made a long slice along the loose flesh of her own arm. There was no blood.

“Eat,” Hillary said, holding out the writhing piece of her own flesh to Kamala.