Please allow me to take your umbrella, Dread Lord. My advisors informed me this morning during my final daily presidential briefing that Hell had frozen over in honor of your return. They certainly made their decision frigidly clear, by golly. I’m happy the Capitol One Arena could accommodate the final details of your resummoning ritual on such short notice. The intestinal pedestal erected so the guests of honor from TikTok, Meta, Amazon, and SpaceX can properly show fealty by licking your pustuled tentacle was a particularly nice touch.
I know we do not see eye-to-eye sockets on most things. As President these past four years, I repeatedly tried to remind the nation about the unequivocal evidence that you are not a “rational human being” in any traditional sense of the term but rather an Outer God of Chaos devoid of any semblance of conscience, humility, or even sentient logic. You, meanwhile, cursed my family with bile plagues, plotted retribution from your Shadow Palace at Mar-a-Lago, and raged incoherently from some surreal psychic plane known in the common tongue as Truth Social. You also somehow managed to eternally infect millions of American minds with false visions of nightmarish and imaginary foes, bird-murdering windmills, and cheap eggs.
But never mind that you’re a convicted necromancer with a paper trail linking you to every conceivable atrocity, crime against natural law, and humiliating deviance. The country made its voice loud and clear last November—and by “loud and clear,” I mean less than 23 percent of the nation’s total population.
So it goes. The gears of this Great Nation grind on, no matter who or how many people beg us to stop and reconsider. My only responsibility today is to pass the torch that will help illuminate a new era that’s somehow more hauntingly grotesque, bleak, and horrifying than your first.
Some say I, in my tenure as Commander-in-Chief, could have helped silence the trumpets that began heralding your apocalyptic return from nearly the moment I assumed the presidency. Critics in my own party say I should have encased the Necronomicon in tetanus-riddled barbed wire and used one of Elon’s rockets to jettison it into the sun. Or, perhaps, I should have properly outfitted the country’s already problematically powerful Witchfinder Generals to root out your mindless goblin horde that stormed the Capitol in a last-ditch effort to appease you. I was even informed there is some pretty clear language in the Constitution’s tattered remnants that explicitly lay out a simple legal spell to banish you back to the Salted Plains of Mar-a-Lago for the rest of your unnatural life.
To which I say: Look, it really was more a top-to-bottom failure of every conceivable institutional safeguard that brought us here. Maybe even a fatal flaw in capitalism’s occultic fabric that inevitably metastasizes humanity’s worse inclinations. I’m just spitballing, but maybe American worship of wealth exacerbates these baser tendencies toward a societal breaking point. And, once broken, that rending in reality charts a direct path for a Stalker Among the Stars such as yourself into the Oval Office
I’m just saying, they can’t really lay it all at my feet, alright? I’m sure you and I can at least agree on that. Well, that and pardoning our respective progeny.
But at the end of the day, I suppose I don’t care what the political historians, marginalized constituents, fearful targets of your ire, experts in the arcane, or my own tired eyes tried to tell me. For reasons I have never been able to articulate convincingly, I believe the American Democratic Experiment is greater than any one vindictive and insatiable Elder God.
I know you campaigned on a renewed platform of “I See All, And It Shall Burn.” I know innumerable cretins, nihilists, billionaires, and crypto bros are at the gates, salivating at the Body Politic’s final, shuddering gasps. But it’s either this or permitting Americans to realize the truth: Humanity is still capable of conjuring its own protective communities—and that scares the shit out of feckless politicians, soul-shirking opportunists, and maybe even Outer Gods.
But if my hunch is correct—and hey, there’s a first time for everything—we should be good to go. So, before I escort you into the Inauguration Day Fealty Orgy, let me be the first to say: Welcome home, Dread Lord Nyarlathotep.