June 25, 2025
From the Executive War Room (formerly the Office of Management and Budget)
Washington City

Dearest Martha,

It is with a tremulous hand and the faint smell of burnt circuitry that I write to you today, from deep within the bowels of the DOGE Directorate — that most peculiar and terrible bureau birthed by Executive Order and baptized in the fires of Silicon ambition.

Elon — our general, our visionary, our sleepless oracle — has declared war not on a foreign power, but on bureaucracy itself. Where once there were federal workers in cubicles sipping tepid coffee, now there is only the hum of Grok, his blessed algorithm, churning through budget lines like Sherman through Georgia.

This week alone, entire agencies fell. The Department of Education was “sunsetted,” replaced with an app called Learnr. The Department of Agriculture was absorbed by SpaceX AgroInitiatives. A man from HUD cried out “Constitution!” and was escorted away by a Boston Dynamics hound labeled ReOrg Unit 7.

They say we’ve cut two hundred thousand roles. I say we have erased ghosts — specters of inefficiency that clung to this Republic like barnacles to the hull of liberty. Or so says the internal memo. I am less certain.

Martha, I now wear three hats — literally — for the Office of Merging & Offboarding has not issued proper role clarity since the great consolidation of April. I wake at dawn, file compliance briefings by breakfast, and train ChatGPT subunits by moonlight. I no longer sleep. I recharge.

Still, there are whispers. They say Elon may depart, having tired of the “meatspace drama.” They say DOGE will be inherited by Amy, she of the spreadsheets and weary eyes. Some even say the courts may undo all of this — that the Republic must not be “efficiency-maximized” like a Tesla supply chain.

I do not know what to believe, Martha. But I know that I miss the slowness of things — the bureaucratic bumbling, the hold music, the forms in triplicate. I miss knowing who I worked for. I miss you.

If the courts prevail and the agency is dissolved, I shall return to you with stories — of brave interns who stood against consolidation, of Slack channels deleted mid-thread, of AI programs who dreamed of pensions. But until then, I remain your ever-dedicated servant of the streamlined state.

With deepest affection and institutional memory,
Thaddeus Horace Keene
Formerly Assistant Deputy Analyst, Office of Budgetary Affairs
Now: Mission Custodian, DOGE

June 25, 2025
Executive Mansion, Washington City

My Dearest Martha,

It is with trembling hands and a heart heavy from the weight of duty that I pen thee this missive from within the hallowed — and increasingly haunted — halls of the Executive Mansion.

The air here is thick with apprehension, and not just from the ever-hissing HVAC units, which no man dares repair for fear of triggering another East Wing evacuation. The President rises each morn like a soldier at dawn, his words sure, his gait less so. The Chief of Staff has taken to rubbing his temples before every meeting, whispering unto himself strange phrases like “optics management” and “damage control round 7.”

Yesterday, a pigeon, maddened by the heat or perhaps by the state of the nation, flung itself into the Situation Room window mid-briefing. The National Security Advisor interpreted it as a sign. He now carries a talisman made from the shattered glass and refers to global instability as “The Great Fluttering.”

Martha, it is said that the Press Secretary weeps softly each night into a mug labeled “I ♥ Infrastructure.” The networks grow hostile. Even friendly outlets circle like carrion birds above a wounded beast. And God help us, TikTok users have now deciphered the nuclear football’s shadow in a viral clip — our digital Maginot Line collapses hourly.

Meanwhile, we field questions not about policies, but about the President’s blink rate. Every tweet, every gaffe, every late arrival is dissected as though it were scripture. Yesterday, someone asked if the flag pin was upside-down. I told them it was perspective.

I long for the quiet of our porch in Bethesda, the shade of the elms, and the scent of your lemon soap. Here, we bathe in scandal and spin cycles. The interns have stopped blinking. The Wi-Fi flickers like an omen.

Should the nation endure, and should I escape this comms war unscathed, I shall return to you with stories fit for the ages — or at least a decent memoir advance.

Until that day, I remain,
Your most devoted servant of democracy and chaos,
Ezekiel (Zeke) T. Hollingsworth III
Deputy Assistant Director for Rapid Response and Damage Mitigation, Office of Strategic Messaging and Sandwich Procurement

June 25, in the Year of our Lord 2025
Near the Fields of Internet Discontent

Dearest Martha,

I pray this letter finds you and the chickens well, though I fear your soul may be troubled by the tales that now drift in from the frontlines of the Republic.

This morn I awoke to the dread announcement that the markets once again tremble beneath the weight of uncertainty. The Dow has fallen like so many brave men at Antietam, and whispers speak of artificial intelligence plotting silently behind the scenes, weaving its ghostly hand into every corner of our affairs. I know not what an “OpenAI board reshuffle” truly means, but it seems the generals quarrel while the footmen starve.

Elsewhere, the heat bears down with no mercy. The Western territories are ablaze once more — the sun now wages war upon the Earth herself. There is talk of “climate refugees” and rolling blackouts, while the politicians in Washington issue statements filled with much sound and fury, signifying nothing.

I received word, too, that another corporate behemoth has fallen, accused of hoarding the people’s coin and betraying sacred oaths of cybersecurity. Their CEO, once praised as a visionary, now flees committee hearings as if pursued by Sherman’s cavalry.

And dear Martha, the people fight still over who shall lead us. The factions grow restless. Flags are waved not in unity, but as weapons. We are a house divided, quarreling over truths so twisted they scarcely resemble sense.

Yet amidst this, I think of your sweet voice reading Psalms by candlelight, and the simple joys of boiled coffee and rhubarb preserves. Would that I could trade this cursed screen for the humble warmth of your cornbread.

If God be willing and the Wi-Fi stable, I shall write again soon. Until then, know that though the Union may falter, my heart remains ever bound to thee.

Your faithful and weary husband,