The People’s Republic of No-One-Can-Pronounce-this-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan, 2018
The people of PRNOPTSC were poor and starving, roaming the streets, begging for table scraps. Meanwhile, the dictator of the PRNOPTSC, Imperial Honcho Gadooba and his guests were living high off the hog, enjoying zesty appetizers and fine wines as they waited for the evening’s festivities to commence.
Imperial Poobah Gadooba walked through the foyer of his grand estate, his eyes covered behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses, his head adorned with a three foot tall pointy hat, his uniformed chest covered with a thousand medals that he had literally done nothing to win.
A German man with an eye-patch and a Van Dyke beard strolled up to the party’s host. “Such a lovely soiree, Imperial Honcho, and as I saw earlier, such lovely merchandise. Tell me, do all the peasant women being auctioned off come with their own teeth?”
The Imperial Honcho smiled. “Why of course, Herr Dudenflinger. Their dentures belong to them and they are free to do with them as they please.”
Herr Dudenflinger waved a finger at the dictator. “Oh, you!”
“I know,” the Grand Honcho said. “I’m such a cut up. In fact, I cut up fifty dissidents this morning!”
The German laughed so hard he spit out his champagne. “Oh, Imperial Honcho! You slay me!”
“Not yet,” the Grand Honcho said. “But stay on my good side. Tell me, Herr Dudenflinger, how are things with your evil organization?”
“Das Worldenshtuppen?” Herr Dudenflinger asked. “Oh, fine, fine. As we speak, our evil plans are underway to schtup the world over real good. Yah, I forsee that the world will irreversibly shtupped over by 2030.”
“Well then,” the Imperial Honcho said. “Remind me to cancel my New Year’s Eve plans that year.”
Both men laughed maniacally. “Muah ha ha!”
“Say, Imperial Honcho,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “What would you suggest as a good opening bid for the nuclear submarine you are offering? I don’t want to start too high but I don’t want to seem like a cheapskate in front of all of our ridiculously evil colleagues either.”
“Well,” the Imperial Honcho said. “I would say that…”
A tall, muscular, balding man with a thin mustache interrupted the conversation. He was flanked by a contingent of security goons. “Pardon me, Herr Dudenflinger, but if I might borrow our prestigious host for a moment.”
“Of course, President Popov,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “Anything for someone as wickedly evil as you.”
The Imperial Honcho smiled graciously as the President’s minions led him into a side room. Once the door was closed, the host dropped his smile.
“Mr. President,” the Imperial Honcho said. “Why are you here? I told your ambassador that Project TS would require at least another month.”
“Please,” the Russian President said as he pulled out a cigar and lit it up. “Ooba. You look so stressed. Come on now, we are friends, are we not?”
“Of course,” the Imperial Honcho said. “But I have beaten all of my scientists with horse whips and personally raped all of their wives and mothers and yet, despite all of these motivations, they still tell me that Project TS requires one more month before it will be fully operational.”
President Popov smiled. “Don’t worry, Ooba. I believe you.”
“Oh thank goodness,” the Imperial Honcho said.
“Ooba, haven’t I been good to you?” President Popov asked.
“Very much so, yes,” the Imperial Honcho replied.
“I sent my troops into your country, this shitty hellhole the name of which no one can pronounce, to help you and your comrades shove your machetes up the taints of all of your detractors, those wicked men who promised to shoot rocket propelled grenades up your ass?”
“Yes,” the Imperial Honcho said. “And now the Shove-a-Machete-Up-Your-Taint-tarians are victorious!”
“Have I not sent you generous aid packages?” President Popov asked.
“Indeed you have,” the Imperial Honcho said. “In fact, I heard many of the starving peasants lamented that they wish they could have had some of that food before we traded it all for more machetes.”
“And you’ve been receiving my checks?” President Popov asked.
“Yes, Mr. President,” the Imperial Honcho said. “I just purchased a solid gold toilet with one of them. All of the peasants who installed it commented that it cost more than any of them could ever make in a thousand of their lifetimes.”
“Wonderful,” President Popov said as he sucked on his cigar, causing the end to glow brightly. “And I don’t think I’ve asked for much in return, namely, for access to your seaport.”
“My sea men are your sea men,” the Imperial Honcho said.
“And for your scientists to build project TS using the data my people hacked from the Americans,” President Popov said. “To have that done here, far, far away from the prying eyes of UN inspectors.”
“Pbbht,” the Imperial Honcho said. “The only thing I will ever allow a UN inspector to inspect in my country is my big hairy dick.”
President Popov laughed. “Ha…ha ha…ha.”
Assuming he had been let off the hook, the Imperial Honcho joined in. “Ha ha ha.”
Soon, both men were laughing heartily. “Muah ha ha!”
President Popov interrupted the laugh session by grabbing the Imperial Honcho’s throat, slamming him against the wall, and hovering his lit cigar an inch away from the Imperial Honcho’s eyeball.
“I don’t care if it’s not done,” President Popov said. “But you will give me some assurance that you have not been pissing the money I gave you for this project away immediately, da?”
The Imperial Honcho shook his head up and down. “Da, Mr. President. Da.”