So you did it. You pulled the lever for the anti-genocide champion, the one with the shiny halo and the press release that said all the right things. Congratulations. Now brace yourself, because that person is going to disappoint you. Not might. Will. You need to carve this into your skull like a commandment: the politician you just helped elect is going to sell you out.

Here’s the part nobody tells you at the victory party: the lobbyists don’t clock out when the ballots are counted. They were whispering in your hero’s ear before the election, and now they’re moving in full-time, with better furniture and a catering budget. They get paid to yap at your representative morning, noon, and night. It’s their job. Their entire job. Do you have a full-time person yapping in their other ear? No? Then you’re already losing the fight you think you just won.

And your elected friend is only human. If they don’t cave on their own, their staffers and the establishment ghouls you’re sending your friend off to, handing out committee assignments and cocktail invitations and gently explaining how the world really works, will make them cave. Your person is only human, and they will fold. It’s not a question of if. It’s a question of when.

Yes, it’s a sign of weakness. Yes, it’s a lack of integrity. But that’s the nature of anyone who seeks power in the first place. Their soul was sold the moment they decided to run. Power is the master, and they will do anything—anything—to cling to it. Not every elected official is like this, sure. But you must assume yours is. That’s the only safe bet in this rotten casino.

So here’s the deal: just like the lobbyists and the establishment stooges will be constantly working your representative’s ear, you have to work the other. You have to yell. You have to scream. You have to make it crystal clear that if they betray you, you will turn your back on them, you will help them lose, and you will enjoy doing it. Without that constant pressure, expect disappointment of mind-blowing proportions—nothing less than a total reversal of everything you thought you voted for.

But here’s the twist, and it’s the only thing that might save you: your politician needs you to keep yelling. They need you as a human shield. They need to be able to point at you—the frothing, furious constituent—and tell the ghouls surrounding them: “Look at these people. They’ll primary me. We’ll all lose if we don’t throw them a bone.” You are not just a voter. You are leverage. You are the gun on the mantelpiece that your representative waves around in the back room.

So gear up. The real work starts now. Get ready to call them constantly. Email them until their inbox smells like your rage. Protest at their door. Yell. Scream. Swear. And most importantly—get ready to abandon them. Get ready to work against them. Because if you don’t, your anti-genocide knight is going to turn into a curse, and you’ll be standing there with blood on your hands, wondering how you got played.

You will get played. Unless you make yourself impossible to ignore.