Real-estate tycoon (and future president of the greatest country in the world, which need not be named) Donald Trump was feeding copious amounts of gel to the parasite which perched upon the cracked, dry terra cotta of his lumpy head. It had not been fed in awhile and hungered to be moisturized once more; it required such sustenance to keep its healthy shape, and it required it more often of late than Trump was prepared to give it.
In the eyes of those untrained and ignorant to the Art, this parasite was merely the dried, bleached hair of a vain, aging demagogue. However, Grandmaster Trump had meddled in the dark arts for many years, but his specialty was the calling of the Void; so vain was he that he sought eternal life, fearing his own mortality and the end of the legacy which no quantity of children or Trump Towers could ensure. In his pursuit, he touched the unimaginable, the unfathomable, the things that writhe in the primordial darkness - the things whose screams echo in the radiation of the universe, before its beginning and long after its end - and his brush with this reality invited into the world a globular, vomitous denizen of the Ether. It latched upon its summoner, an eternal reminder of his Dabbling - and the worst hairstyle known to all of mankind (since the parasite which hugged the wobbling expanse of Emperor Nero's chin) which would echo across all barriers into innumerable realms of unspeakable proportion.
It was this creature's intent to Dominate. How could it do so in this world? How could it do so as such a repulsive, froggish man, to whom nobody could ever listen - whom nobody could ever love?
How else but the pursuit of the presidency of the United States of the America, by which it might open the door to its eternal reign over all of the mortal world?
Grandmaster Trump turned away from the sight of his empire through the great glass window of the Trump Tower; he instead, with a twist of his lips and an amphibious wobble of his chin, craned his ample neck to survey his Labours. For a moment a tremor of fear shook his soft, gelatinous body; his eyes shone in the wrinkled, clammy white flesh that encased them. He licked his lips, sticky tongue flickering out over their catfish-wide, wormy expanse. Grandmaster Trump would not admit to himself that he was afraid of what lay naked and vulnerable on the slab before him, mottled and white: he instead filled his hammering breast with arrogance.
The man who lay before him was a Puritan, but he had lain in the grave for several centuries. The frigid cold of the New York tundra had preserved his flesh well: it was supple and spry, Trump hoped, as his manhood. He possessed the body of a man who knew hard labor in the service in the Lord; his flesh was free of gluttony, tight and muscular. Plowing the land had made his arms sinewy, and the gristle of his legs reflected many days of terse walks through the barren New England landscape in contemplation of Humility. Where his eyes had once, though cold, been bright, the flame of Life had been extinguished within them, leaving them dark and blank; they had sunk into the pits of his skull, marking a life of eyes narrowed and brow furrowed in stern judgment.
Grandmaster Trump prepared the rites; he lifted his small, supple hands, his lips puckering around his teeth.
"Now I'm the best necromancer," he began, looking about the room at an invisible audience, "I've been doing necromancy for thirty years, nobody does necromancy like me, I'm gonna strike a good deal tonight, it's gonna be a really good deal, it's gonna be the best deal..."
The mysterious dead Puritan's fingers twitched minutely.
"...there's necromancers in China that're stealing our rights, I'm bringing them back, I'm gonna put necromancy back into America, we're gonna make the Dead great again. So we're gonna make the Dead great again, ladies and gentlemen. People of America. They're stealing our rights in China, they're stealing them. They're taking them away. And I'm not gonna let them do that, I'm gonna bring them back to America. I'm gonna bring them back, this is what I do, I make great deals, I've made great deals, China and I have made great deals. These are the necromancers that are lightweights. They're outsourcing our stones, they're outsourcing our crystals, they're outsourcing our liches, we're going to bring them back to America, we're going to bring them back.
"We're literally... going to bring them back and Make America Great Again™."
Like a conductor of some Hellish symphony, his small hands jerked and twitched as he channeled eldritch magics. The spell burst from him with a groan as he released it; he stumbled, heaving, panting, sweating. The parasite twitched in pleasure.
For a moment, he waited, sweat trickling down his face like a rotting tangerine. He had attempted the ritual before on none other than Ronald Reagan in an earlier attempt to Make America Great Again, but Reagan's spirit had been too powerful for his mortal shell. His corpse had burst open and the foul smell of jelly beans had pervaded the air, causing Grandmaster Trump to expel forth the foeis gras and 1947 Chateau Cheval Blanc he had dined upon after a dinner of filet mignon and oysters (with Caitlyn Jenner, who was expounding upon her difficulties as a rich white Republican woman in this country).
It was this humiliating and petrifying failure that had caused him to practice on a lesser corpse, but no less conservative (and appealing to the grandmaster's nether urges). It was also this failure that made tense the current moment, for he knew that if he failed again, his parasite would sink its teeth into his brain-stem and seek a new host.
Oh, Self, he prayed, for he could not pray to God, let this work be bigly good.
The Puritan sprang erect, gasping, from the slab.