Allie and Tammy make fun of Sean for thinking he's going to get "the truth" out of Andrea anyway. "She will brainwash you," says Tammy, awesomely and correctly. Roxanne sits and listens to all of this, and finally tells Sean to "go think about it," and not to "worry about" the Coven meeting -- he's already dust, and nothing says Allie needs to bring him into the BR at all, and nobody takes him seriously, so why play into his "I'm a really good person" psychodrama when it has nothing to do with the task at hand. "Go be a nice person somewhere else and let the grownups strategize." Andrea, listening outside, intones in a scary witchy voice, "I'm out here! I can hear every word you say!" Sean gets up to go talk to her, begging for the other women's approval on the way out. Roxanne notifies him that she is laughing at him. I'm too tired of him to laugh.
Outside in the fainting couch room, Sean asks Andrea politely to brainwash him, and she obliges. Allie and Roxanne agree that Sean cannot currently be trusted. Andrea tells Sean not to "trust politics," and tells him that she will "protect" him in the Boardroom. Like he needs to worry about that this week. He bites the hook anyway, because he's a dipshit, and inside, things get...amazing. It grows subtly darker in Trump Tower, and there are crashes of thunder from a sunny sky; snakes appear in shadows, under couches and behind laundry baskets, coiled and invisible to all but the most peripheral vision. The creeping vines on the wallpaper begin to grow and undulate and sprout blood-red blossoms. There are dry rustles in empty rooms, and high-pitched sighs from behind mirrors. In an upstate New York barn estate, something unnatural is born, and screams like a bald eagle before it dies. The New York harbor glows brightly for a few seconds, and becomes a few degrees warmer as shoals of fish head for the coast, fleeing something huge and vast and deep. An entire household in Queens sees itself growing old and decaying in their mirrors and family portraits, then snaps back to normal before they can scream. Down at Macy's, there is a frightening ten-minute period in which the whole place goes black, and all you can hear is the chorus of "Possum Kingdom" by the Toadies, everywhere, from the sound system and the gold-plated Versace boom boxes and from everybody's phones, in the darkness. And at Trump National, terrifying things are crawling out of the golf course holes, arms like matchsticks, claws like toenail parings, and no eyes at all.