Nyarlathotep is now facing one of the greatest threats in Its presidency so far. I should know, I clock in to kneel at Its feet upon the Altar of Despair every day.

In the year-and-a-half since the Black Pharaoh replaced the Oval Office with a literal blood fountain throne, I’ve watched as the hits keep on coming. The executive cabinet is wracked with scandal, ordinary citizens who signed the cultist oath are making good on their grave pacts, and, of course, the entirety of the country’s water supply is now teeming with pulsating eggs from some kind of inter-dimensional parasite. It’s easy to look at these kinds of headlines, to read these sorts of leaked stories from the desiccated Capitol Hill, and see an unsustainable administration. Rumors of reversal incantations are beginning to make the rounds, and if our Commander-in-Chief is not careful, It could find Itself cast back among the stars beyond the universe. The past few weeks, in particular, have seen our President certainly live up to our campaign slogan “I See All, and It Shall Burn.”

But it’s important Americans know there are still some of us upholding the tenets envisioned by the original Necro-Party. We are part of a different kind of Resistance, one that still supports the foundations scrawled within the Tome of Infernal Torment, and not the whims of a Mad Anti-God who cares not for the literalist interpretations we hold so blasphemous. We believe the Tome is, was, and will forever be instrumental in wresting reason from the minds of the multitude. It may provide faint solace, but we felt we owe it to our fellow subjugates to let them know all is still very much for naught.

The root of this problem, we believe, is in Nyarlathotep’s very essence. It is a being incapable of viewing Its servants as anything other than playground toys or troublesome fleas. Many may argue that we should have known this to be the case for the Stalker Among the Stars. And that might well prove true, to a point. We summoned the God of a Thousand Forms assuming the weight of responsibility would rein It in slightly, remind It to adhere to the Necronomicon’s nightmare prophesies first and foremost. If it was foolish to assume the Outer God would care so little about this dimension that it wouldn’t even acknowledge the Tome’s existence, well, call us fools. We still believe utter ruin can be brought to the land through the proper rituals and unhallowed traditions, not by this fly-by-the-seat-of-your-tentacles kind of governing.

Don’t get me wrong. We still willingly choose to show up each and every day in order to carry out Nyarlathotep’s sins. Its Administration has produced things we are truly proud of — instituting monthly public desecrations, a complete reform of the tax system now requiring every other family’s firstborn — we still maintain this will eventually benefit Middle America — and increasing the defense budget. The entirety of our armed forces is now morphed into a singular, gargantuan oozing mass of shrieking teeth and eyes. Nyarlathotep campaigned on veterans’ reform, and by golly, we sure got it, if for a price some of us did not anticipate.

But we are not giving up so easily, readers. We do not renege on blood vows — we literally can’t, apparently, unless we want our innards sucked out by that inter-dimensional parasite. There are those of us still wandering the labyrinthine halls of the mutated Capitol Building, looking for ways to constructively appease Nyarlathotep, despite continual smear campaigns by the elitist, now underground press. For instance, we replaced the orphans It absorbs every “morning” with migrant laborers, and It didn’t seem to notice. When Its appetite turned to Idaho, one of us directed Its soulless gaze up towards the moon. No more moon, of course, but no one can say we ever turned our back on our core constituents.

Yes, there are those of us Mad Priests who take that title and run with it, but most of them have long since formed a pile of frothing bodies in front of that Altar of Despair. I felt it was my duty to let the remaining Americans know that a few of us choose to remain sobbing within the trembling corridors of the West Wing, but still dedicated to the cause of infinite nothing. In the end, I am still confident our ruin will be brought upon us the way we always intended — by our own hand and summoning of the proper Outer God. It is important that, despite our differences in beliefs and backgrounds, everyday subjugates remember that it is still within us to strip our remaining descriptors in favor of a single, unifying one: Blind Specks Floating in a Fetid Void.