I slash my palm over the obsidian altar of Hastur - The Unspeakable, Lord of Interstellar Spaces,The King in Yellow - and let the claret run across the Cyclopean masonry which can be nothing less than the tangible substance of earth's supreme terror and down into the stygian depths beneath my parking garage, beneath Toronto.
Through this act I pledge fealty, and my soul shall be lashed to the remnants of a cold, dead star and I shall summon a tree of a sickly blue-green bruised color, and it shall be hot to the touch. This trees roots shall dig into the soil, ever downward; a ropy tentacled mass leeching the life from the continent until the tree blossoms, and a single flower, so pale blue it may be a bruised white, drifts on a stagnant breeze and sheds it's petals one by one until the final petal falls into my palm.
Then as the tree rots in septic malevolence, I shall use it's fetid bark to light a conflagration that feeds itself off of the breath of every teenage girl who has ever succumbed to heartbreak at the hands of her first love. I shall direct this flame in a sweeping arc from Ontario and down into the United States, burning everything in it's wake as it's violet, violent flames rise up towards Washington state and the city of Redmond.
There the flame will coalesce into a jewel faceted geode that will weigh on the very fabric of your reality until it tears through and exposes a ravenous metallic vortex that will swallow Microsoft into the cold mists of Mother Hydra's embrace. --- Now you know I ain't wit that ****, Lieutenant