“I didn’t suck Willie Brown’s herpes-riddled dick for two years to be told no!” Kamala screamed into the phone and then snapped it shut. She threw it at a patch of tastefully exposed brick in her campaign showroom and it shattered, the pieces raining to the floor. The aide behind her tore open the package of another burner and set it on the desk.

“Alright, get them in here,” Kamala grumbled.

The aide waved the campaign’s social media influencers into the room, grimacing as they fell over each other like puppies: eager, bright, blonde, and prone to pissing when excited. They gripped their phones and tossed their hair about trying to take the perfect selfie.

“Sit down,” Kamala ordered. “No selfies in here, dammit. I told you that already.” They whined with disappointment and finally sat down and started scrolling on their phones

“What’s happening,” Kamala demanded. “Give me information.”

“Instagram followers are up,” said Astra. “And I have a yeast infection.”

“Just stick to business,” Kamala said, squirming her seat, echoes of yeast infections past.

“#yeastinfection is trending,” Kayleighburrow said brightly, widening her surgically-enlarged irises. “Twitter will be talking about discharge all day!”

“How is Black Twitter?” Kamala asked.

Seresto, her thin blonde hair in sloppy bantu knots, looked up. “Demands for bikini shots are way up. Way, way up. But they might be Russians pretending to be white people pretending to be Black people on Black Twitter. Massa Dorsey said he’s looking into it.”

“Goddamn it,” Kamala said. “Those better not leak.”

“I bet you look fierce,” Astra said.

“Oh, and I don’t have a yeast infection,” Seresto said and make a show of moving her chair away from Astra slightly.

“I don’t either!” Kayleighburrow protested loudly into the higher octaves.

“Can we at least take a mask selfie?” the three asked.

“What about the shoes? Did they work?” Kamala asked.

“Shoes?” they asked.

“These stupid things!” she said, slamming her pair of signature Converse on the table.

“Fashion,” Astra said knowingly. “So fashion.”

“A good bump in the favorable demos,” Seresto said. “White female journalists under 50, gay Black men in Florida, the Chinese factory where they are made, White female journalists over 40, divorced suicidal fast-food workers, all up.”

Astra’s hand shot up.

“Yes?” Kamala asked archly.

“I have a lot of discharge,” Astra said. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

“You don’t have to raise your hand.”

“It’s like cottage cheese down there,” Astra said.

“Go, just go,” Kamala said wearily. Astra clattered out of the office on wood-soled mules.

“What about cop memes?” Kamala asked, “Are we keeping on top of the damn cop memes?”

“Three hundred accounts banned over the long weekend, two hundred more pending,” Kayleighburrow said.

“Everyone of them, I don’t want to see another one!”

“Yes, ma’am,” the two influencers mumbled.

“Don’t call me ma’am!” Kamala screamed, throwing the unused phone against the brick wall, and then held her hand up for another.

“Out!” Kamala yelled, “Out, out, out!”

They stumbled away, crunching phone pieces under painfully high heels, and beginning to cry.