Dirk and Natalya had settled into a cozy, private bedroom in the Imperial Honcho’s estate. Together, they eased back onto the bed and engaged in a rousing game of big league tonsil hockey.
“Oh Mr. Smegma,” Natalya cried as she ran her hands through her new lover’s hair.
“Please. Call me Dirk.”
“Oh Dirk! Your scent it’s so…manly.”
“Nothing but one hundred percent Eau de Dirk, baby,” Dirk said. “I find that the more cologne I put on, the more I mask my naturally macho odor and when I do that, the ladies are left disappointed.”
“I’m sure you do all you can to avoid being a disappointment,” Natalya said.
“In life and in the bedroom, baby,” Dirk said as he went in for another kiss, only to be rebuffed when Natalya pressed her finger up against his lips.
“Hold that thought, darling. I must tinkle.”
“I understand,” Dirk said. “You wouldn’t be the first woman to lose bladder control in my presence and I doubt you’ll be the last. Do hurry back my dear.”
As Natalya retreated to the bathroom, Kendra squawked in Dirk’s ear. “Dirk! What are you doing?!”
“Uh,” Dirk whispered into a tiny microphone implanted in his shirt collar. “What does it sound like I’m doing? I’m about to get my pickle tickled, duh!”
“Have you placed the tracker on the Imperial Honcho’s toilet yet?” Kendra asked.
“Not now, K-Diddy,” Dirk said. “I’ve got a piece of fabulously wealthy Russian cooze to attend to.”
“We’re on a tight schedule here!” Kendra said.
“Oh I know it’s going to be very tight,” Dirk said. “But don’t worry, I’ll squeeze it in.”
“Pervert,” Kendra said. “Do I really have to go over the mission particulars with you?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Dirk said. “But you will anyway…”
“Damn right I will,” Kendra said. “As we speak, Skippy Jr. is waiting in the septic tank. We have twenty minutes before the guards on our payroll bury the tank so they can avoid being caught. You need to get to that toilet, mark it, get the hell out of there and leave Skippy Jr. enough time to chow down on the Honcho, and exit out of the tank just in time to be snatched by the skyhook.”
“Which leaves me roughly five minutes to plant my skyhook in some snatch,” Dirk said. “Plenty of time.”
“Five minutes?” Kendra asked. “I wouldn’t brag about that.”
“Bshh bzzt,” Dirk said. “Oh no, Special-K, you’re breaking up…”
“Don’t you cut me off, Smegma,” Kendra said.
“Bzzt bshhk,” Dirk said. “Oh my God I’m just going to have to enjoy some meaningless, gratuitous sex with a beautiful woman and then go save the day.”
“Dirk,” Kendra said. “Gamble with your own life all you want, but you’re putting Skippy Jr. at risk.”
“Skippy Jr.?” Dirk asked. “Who cares? He’s just a dumb alligator. If we lose him we can just get that crazy professor to make some more.”
A third voice entered Dirk’s earpiece. “Raarga.”
Dirk’s eyes widened. “Oh…hey Skippy Jr., how are you doing buddy?”
“Gee whiz,” Dirk said. “I didn’t know this was a party line.”
“Don’t mind him, Skippy Jr.,” Kendra said. “He knows not what he does.”
The bathroom door opened. Natalya stepped out. She had changed into a skimpy, silky piece of lingerie. She’d let her hair down and removed her shoes.
“I’m sorry I took so long, Dirk,” Natalya said. “I had to change into something more comfortable.”
Dirk gulped as he checked out Natalya’s body. “Mind? No, I don’t have a mind at all.”
“You’ve lost your mind,” came Kendra’s voice into the earpiece. “You think women just walk around with a sexy outfit to change into? The bitch is probably a spy.”
Dirk ignored Kendra and patted a spot on the bed next to him. The lady sat down, kissed Dirk passionately, then lifted her leg up into the air, landing the foot on Dirk’s right shoulder.
“Tell me, Dirk,” Natalya said. “Are you a leg man?”
“I’m actually an ass man,” Dirk replied. “Though I’ve never been one to sneeze at a pair of getaway sticks as lovely as these.”
“Getaway sticks?” Natalya asked.
“Just a fun term we use for legs in the U.S.,” Dirk said. “Because they’re a couple of sticks a woman can use to get away.”
Natalya used her foot to push on the side of Dirk’s head until he laid back on the bed.
“I love my legs, don’t you?” Natalya asked.
“Oh sweetheart,” Dirk said. “I love everything about you.”
“Gag me,” came Kendra’s voice.
“Tell me, Dirk,” Natalya said. “Do you enjoy the taste of a woman?”
“Meh,” Dirk said. “I prefer to receive than give, baby, but I’m always down with a little cunnilingus if the favor is returned.”
Natalya straddled Dirk’s face, leaving a panty clad vagina to land right on his face.
“Oh,” Dirk said. “Hello there, that’s quite a…mmpphh!”
“Dirk,” came Kendra’s voice. “I’m reviewing Natayla Snatchatova’s file and it’s no good. You need to get out of there right now.”
Natalya pushed herself further down onto Dirk’s face, leaving the agent so he could barely breathe. “Mmpph!”
“Her father is Anatoly Popov’s number one campaign contributor,” Kendra said. “She’s involved in all sorts of black market dealings…”
“How’s that, my love?” Natalya asked.
Dirk’s muffled cries for help grew more serious. “Mmmph!”
“She’s a top hit woman for the FSB,” Kendra said. “Interpol suspects of her murdering fifty men with her vagina alone.”
Dirk grabbed hold of Natalya’s legs and pushed up with all his might. Finally, he gasped for air and was able to speak. “Do…you…expect me to…lick?”
“Muah ha ha!” Natalya said. “No, Mr. Smegma. I expect you to die!”
Natalya clamped her legs down around Dirk’s head, leaving the hero feeling as though his cranium was trapped in a silky smooth vice. He gasped for air as he stood up. He flailed about the room but it was of no use, as Natalya refused to release her snatchtastic grip.
Dirk ran into a wall, hoping the blow would knock his assailant off, but she simply grinder her lady business into the agent’s face harder.
“Dirk?” Kendra asked. “Are you alright? Jesus, you’re literally going to be killed by a pussy, aren’t you? No surprise there.”
Completely blinded by vagina, both on a personal but more importantly, on a physical level, Dirk felt around the room until he found the bathroom door.
“Muah ha ha!” Natalya cried. “Die, Mr. Smega! Die by the lips of my vatrushka!”
Dirk stumbled into the bathroom. He pulled a small black box out of his pocket and flipped a switch, causing a light on the device to blink red. He then tossed the gadget into the toilet.
Crack! Dirk thrashed his attacker into the mirror, smashing it into pieces. Natalya was unfazed, her sole focus on murdering Dirk with her beaver.
“Poor Mr. Smegma,” Natalya said as she tightened the grip of her legs around the back of Dirk’s neck. “I’m so sorry you must leave but you must admit darling, there are worse ways to go.”
The toilet rumbled.
“Dirk,” came Kendra’s voice. “Please tell me you didn’t…”
Dirk grabbed the woman and pushed her away from his face with all his might. Natalya was strong, causing Dirk’s muscle’s to strain as he pushed.
Boom! The toilet exploded, sending porcelain shards everywhere. Dirk managed to hurl the woman off of his face just in time for her to land inside…the jaws of a hungry toilet gator.
Skippy Jr. was just a big as his father – fifteen feet long and over a thousand pounds. His sheer bulk pushed Dirk right out of the bathroom, leaving him to land on the floor. As he caught his breath, he could hear Natalya’s blood curdling screams, followed by the sound of bones snapping between a pair of gator jaws.
“That is the absolute last time anyone ever talks me into giving a little mouth to the south!” Dirk declared.
Skippy Jr. waddled out of the bathroom. “Raarga.”
Dirk patted the gator on the head. “That’ll do, gator. That’ll do.”
“Dirk,” Kendra said. “Please don’t tell me you just wasted the one and only tracker you had on a toilet not being used by the Imperial Honcho.”
“OK,” Dirk said. “I will not tell you that.”
A fist pounded on the bedroom door. “This is the Imperial Honcho’s Select Guard! What’s going on?”
“Oh,” Dirk said. “Hey there, fellas. Everything’s fine.”
“We heard strange noises,” the guard said.
“Oh yeah,” Dirk said. “You know me. I can get kind of wild in the sack.”
“We’re coming in,” the guard said.
“What are you going to do now, doofus?” Kendra asked.
“Now?” Dirk asked as he climbed onto Skippy Jr.’s back. “I’m going to improvise.”
A set of twin jet engines propelled the metal container downward. Once the box was 20,000 feet above the surface of the earth, it broke apart, leaving the gigantic alligator inside free to twist in the wind.
“You need to roll fifteen feet to the right,” Kendra advised through the earpiece in Skippy Jr.’s ear.
“Raarga,” Skippy replied as he obeyed the command.
“I’m worried about Dirk, Skippy Jr.,” Kendra said.
“I know, I shouldn’t,” Kendra said. “But it’s like he refuses to grow up. Sure, he’s having a good time chasing tail now but if he never grows up and finds a stable relationship, he’ll eventually grow old and die alone.”
“Raarga, raarga,” Skippy Jr. said as he zoomed downward, scaring the crap out of a flock of birds with his hideous face.
“Well, that’s awfully presumptuous of you, Skippy Jr.,” Kendra said. “No, I’m not saying I want to be the woman who fixes him. I prefer my men to not be broken when I find them, thank you very much.”
“You see the way I look at him?” Kendra asked. “You are imagining things.”
“Of course I might stare at him once in awhile while he’s not looking,” Kendra said. “He’s a very good looking man but that doesn’t mean I want to hook up with a serial philanderer. Do you know how many women he’s been with?”
“Add a hundred to that and you’re in the ballpark.”
“I’m sure he is compensating for something,” Kendra said. “But I hardly need a man whose genitalia is a walking petri dish of disaster in my life. You missed the point.”
“The point is someday there will be a brave woman who doesn’t care how much strange has touched Dirk’s junk and I fear he’ll be so obsessed with finding his next female conquest that he won’t see what he has right in front of him until it’s too late.”
“Will you stop it? I’m not talking about me. At all. That will never happen.”
“OK good talk, but time to get your head in the game. Assume the position.”
Skippy moved his head downward.
“Brace for impact in 3…2…1…touchdown!”
Splash! A wave of dirty poop water poured up out of the Imperial Honcho’s septic tank as Skippy Jr. landed deep within his intended target.
“You OK buddy?”
“OK. Hang tight. As soon as Dirk comes up for air, I’ll let you know.”
In the back of a military cargo plane, Dirk’s handler, an attractive woman by the name of Kendra McKenna, studied the plane’s coordinates on a tablet computer. She wore a pair of red glasses and a black leather jacket.
“Dirk,” the woman said into a microphone clipped to her lapel. “We’re going to be over the Imperial Honcho’s septic tank in five minutes. The goons we bribed only have a ten minute window before they have to bury the tank again, so stop screwing around and get to work.”
Hearing no answer, the woman shook her head. “Pilot?”
“Yes, Miss McKenna?” came the pilot’s voice through the woman’s earpiece.
“Be prepared to dump cargo on my mark,” the woman replied.
“Affirmative,” the pilot said.
Kendra walked to the center of the cargo hold where she found a giant metal container. Stenciled on the side were the words, “SKIPPY JR.”
“You ok in there, Skippy Jr.?” Kendra asked as she knocked on the container.
A few silent moments passed before the container’s inhabitant responded. “Raarga.”
“Good boy,” Kendra said. “Prepare for deployment. Upon landing, standby in the Imperial Honcho’s septic tank and await further orders.”
“Raarga,” came the voice of Skippy Jr. from inside the container.
“I know,” Kendra said. “But you know how Dirk gets around exotic poon.”
“Raarga, raarga,” Skippy Jr. said.
“Bros before hoes?” Kendra asked. “Sigh. You men are all alike.”
Kendra slapped the container. “Good luck, Skippy Jr.”
Kendra strapped herself into a chair attached to the plane. “What do you mean you don’t need luck?”
“Oh, you’ve got skills, huh?”
“Well, good luck just the same, buddy.”
Kendra spoke into her microphone. “Open cargo bay doors.”
“Affirmative,” the pilot replied.
A red light blinked and a buzzer blared. The plane’s cargo bay doors opened up and the metal container moved down a conveyor built until finally, it fell out of the plane.
“Skippy Jr.,” Kendra said into her microphone. “You got your ears on?”
“Take five, Igor.”
The hunchback removed his tiny hands from Dirk’s head. “Will do, sir.”
Dirk found him face to face with a dazzling brunette. She was wrapped tighter than a tick engorged with blood under a form fitting red dress and bow howdy, was Dirk ever warm for her form.
The lady put on her dainty hand. “Good evening, Mister…”
Dirk took the lady’s hand and smooched it. “Smegma. Dirk Smegma.”
“Smegma,” the lady said. “Excuse me, but isn’t that the name of the cheese like substance that sometimes builds up in an uncircumcised man’s…”
“Indeed,” Dirk said. “But I come from a long line of Smegmas, and I’m not about to change it now.”
“How very interesting,” the lady said. “I do appreciate a man who is loyal to his family.”
“My last name hasn’t slowed me down any,” Dirk said. “Why, with looks like mine, sometimes I think God just gave me the last name of ‘Smegma’ just to keep me from impregnating every last female on earth.”
The lady’s eyes widened. “My goodness, Mr. Smegma. You certainly are full of yourself.”
Dirk sipped on his rum and generic cola. “Yes, my dear, and perhaps you can be full of me later.”
Dirk and the woman laughed and laughed.
“Oh, but where are my manners?” Dirk asked. “What is your name, my dear?”
“Snatchatova,” the lady replied. “Natalya Snatchatova.”
“Of the St. Petersburg Snatchatovas?” Dirk inquired.
“The same,” Natalya answered.
“My word,” Dirk said. “In that case, the next round is on you, because rumor has it your family is loaded.”
“That is not a rumor, Mr. Smegma,” Natalya said. “My father is a very rich man, having built a fortune off of baby seal clubbing, dolphin clubbing, manatee clubbing…”
“I’ve heard he’s making inroads into puppy clubbing,” Dirk said.
“Yes,” Natalya said. “Naturally, when it comes to the clubbing of adorable creatures, one must diversify.”
“Naturally,” Dirk said.
“You drink rum and generic cola?” Natalya asked.
Dirk sipped through his crazy straw. “I like the way the bubbles tickle my nose.”
“I see,” Natalya said. “Perhaps something else will be tickling your nose tonight.”
Dirk laughed as he stared into Natalya’s big, brown eyes.
“Just to clarify, we’re talking about your vagina, right?” Dirk asked.
“Yes, Mr. Smegma,” Natalya said.
“Cool,” Dirk said. “Coolitty cool, cool, cool. Coolsville. Just wanted to be sure.”
“You know, Mr. Smegma,” Natalya said. “The life of a wealthy woman is not easy.”
“It isn’t?” Dirk asked.
“No,” Natalya said. “For, you see, I am used to getting whatever I want and tonight…”
Natalya ran her fingers up Dirk’s arm as she leaned her and whispered into her new friend’s ear. “…I want you.”
Dirk straightened his bow tie. “I think that can be arranged.”
Inside Dirk’s ear, there was a small communications device. “Dirk,” came the voice of an American woman. “Dirk, are you there? Come in, over.”
Dirk ignored the voice and offered Natalya his arm. “Shall we retreat to somewhere private for the purposes of dancing the horizontal mambo?”
Natalya took Dirk’s arm. “My dear Mr. Smegma. I thought you would never asked.”
The American woman’s voice was in Dirk’s ear again. “Dirk, don’t even think about knocking boots with that Russian skank. She sounds unclean. Come on, man, focus on the mission.”
Clad in his best white tuxedo, Dirk Smegma strolled through the Imperial Honcho’s foyer, nibbling on a cheese ball he’d stabbed with a plastic toothpick and sipping on a glass of complimentary champagne. As he surveyed the room filled with the world’s most dastardly super villains dressed in their best finery, he took the sights on some of the pieces about to be auctioned.
“Will you bid on this fine panda, sir?” a henchman asked as he pointed to a cage filled with large, adorable black and white panda bear.
“Please,” Dirk said. “I have three already.”
“What about this fresh jar of endangered whale testicles?” a second henchman asked as he held up a jar, the contents of which appeared to be quite disgusting.
“No thank you,” Dirk replied. “I can’t say I’ve ever acquired a taste for those.”
“Sir,” a henchman said as he popped a briefcase up onto a table and opened it up, only to reveal a computer filled with numerous blinking lights. “How would you like to be the proud owner of your very own dirty bomb?”
“Hmm,” Dirk said as he stroked his chin. “How dirty is it?”
“It can take out all of Scranton,” the henchman said.
“Meh,” Dirk said as he shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve seen dirtier.”
Dirk walked past an enormous Harrier jet. “Add to your personal air arsenal, sir?” a henchman asked. “It’s only been flown by a little old lady who dropped bombs on a church on Sundays.”
“No thanks,” Dirk said. “When it comes to aircraft, I go brand new or I don’t go at all.”
“Sucker,” the henchman said. “You know they lose half their value as soon as you fly them off the lot.”
“I know,” Dirk said. “But I just love that new aircraft smell.”
Dirk bellied up to the bar, where a hunchback with two great big, bugged out eyes was washing a glass. “Good evening.”
“Holy shit!” Dirk said as he looked away from the hunchback’s eyes. “I mean, hello, how are you?”
“I’m fine sir,” the hunchback said. “Thank you for inquiring as to the well-being of a lowly dog like me. Might I get you a drink?”
“Sure thing, Igor,” Dirk said.
The hunchback smiled a toothless grin. “How did you know my name?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Dirk said. “Let’s just call it a…hunch?”
Both men laughed maniacally. “Muah ha ha!”
“What will you have?” Igor asked.
Dirk ran his hand through his perfectly coiffed, chestnut brown hair. “Rum and Generic Cola. Stirred, not shaken, because, you know, if you shake a soda it will blow up.”
“I’m aware, sir,” the hunchback said as he prepared the drink. “I passed eighth grade science class.”
As Dirk waited for his concoction, Herr Dudenflinger sauntered up to the bar. The German took one look at the incredibly handsome American and put out his hand.
“Guten Tag,” the German said. “I am Herr Dudenflinger of the evil organization known as Das Worldenshtuppen. Our motto? Shtup the world before it shtups you. And you are?”
Dirk grasped the German’s hand with a powerful grip. “Smegma. Dirk Smegma.”
“A distinct pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smegma,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “I don’t mean to brag, but parties such as these bring out the worst in me and my evil organization has been up to so many naughty activities as of late.”
“Is that so?” Dirk asked.
“It is,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “Did you see on the news about all of the children’s cereal boxes that were contaminated with flesh eating bacteria?”
“No,” Dirk said. “That was you?”
The German threw up his hands. “Guilty as charged. And we are also working on a special ray gun that will warp a man’s mind until he becomes so greedy that he will be willing to push his own grandmother down a flight of stairs for a penny.”
“That is evil,” Dirk said.
“Did I mention that we are also working on a machine that can cause tidal waves?” Herr Dudenflinger asked.
“You didn’t,” Dirk said.
“Yes,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “Soon, we will be able to drown entire cities with the push of a button.”
“That’s absurdly evil,” Dirk said.
“Yes,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “But I am so proud just the same.”
Igor popped a drink on the counter. “Your Rum and Generic Cola, sir.”
“Thank you, Igor,” Dirk said as he picked up the drink and sipped from a crazy straw that swirled all over the place.
“But enough about me,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “Tell me, Mr. Smegma, what line of work are you in?”
“I’m a network television executive,” Dirk Smega said.
The German choked on his drink and sprayed a fine mist into the air. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m a network television executive,” Dirk said. “Yeah, I’ve been forcing all sorts of artists to abandon their creative visions in favor of brand and predictable, formulaic tripe for years now.”
Herr Dudenflinger spashed the remainder of his drink in Dirk’s face. “You sir, make me sick!”
“Aw, come on!” Dirk said. “Network TV isn’t that bad!”
“Good day, sir!” the German said as he walked away.
“Come on, Fritz!” Dirk said. “I want to hear more about that tidal wave contraption!”
“I said, good day!” the German said.
Soon, and without warning, a pair of tiny hands were massaging Dirk’s temples.
“Igor?” Dirk asked. “What are you doing?”
“I am attempting to dry your magnificent hair, sir,” Igor said. “I apologize. Insignificant speck of filth that I am, I neglected to stock up on cocktail napkins this evening, so my wretched hands will have to do.”
Dirk closed his eyes. “Is it weird that it feels good?”
“Only if you make it weird, sir,” Igor replied.
Dirk enjoyed the temple massage for awhile, but was soon interrupted by the voice of a Russian female. “If you think that feels good, just wait till you see what I can do.”
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.”
(Somber music plays as the camera fades in on a sparse studio, where a beautiful, large breasted woman sits behind the news desk. She wears a fur hat with a red star in the center and a red bikini featuring a hammer on one breast and a sickle on the other.)
Hello, comrades. Is I, your most trusted and revered anchorwoman, Katerina Dashenko, reporting for Nyetwork News One-ski, the most glorious and also only state approved television reporting service for the most wonderful Russian Federation, which, as we all know, is the greatest country on the face of the Earth and it will always make that vile cesspool known as America look like a pile of dog fecal matter crushed underneath the powerful boot heel of our most amazingly virile president, Anatoly Popov.
(Katerina shifts camera angles.)
In today’s news, our most fantastic President Popov has been voted the sexiest man in all of Russia for the 3000th day in a row. President Popov also coasted to victory over all of his challengers for the presidency, and would most likely done so if they had all not been coincidentally thrown off of rooftops onto sharp spikes and fed to dogs in a totally legitimate and non-suspicious manner. Congratulations to you, Mr. President, for most deserved victory.
And now it is time for the weather with our meteorologist, Boris Sokolov. Boris, how is the weather in Siberia today?
(Cut to a chubby man in a brown coat and fur hat standing in the middle of a blizzard.)
Is so fucking cold, Katerina.
This is your official approximation of the weather in Siberia, Boris? That it is so fucking cold?
Indeed, Katerina. Is so cold my dick froze off this morning. I am dick-less now.
Tell me something I don’t know, comrade. So sorry to hear it is so fucking cold in Siberia. I pity all of the poor fools who have been sent to work their in the completely volunteer, non-forced labor camps because that’s what they wanted to do and not because they criticized our most glorious President Popov.
(KATERINA turns to another camera.)
In sports news, President Popov is such a manly son of a bitch that he scored one thousand goals in today’s hockey match and further, in entertainment news, the one and only movie available at the box office is “The Road to Awesomeness: How Anatoly Popov Became the Best President of Russia Ever and Why All Vaginas in His General Vicinity Get Super Wet Whenever He Flexes His Muscles” has been made required viewing for all citizens.
In science news, are you aware that ten out of ten of our most highly intelligent Russian scientists have declared that waiting in line for toilet paper can strengthen your buttocks and slow the aging process? Send one of the fifty family members in your one room apartment to go stand in the toilet paper line and we’ll tell you more about this informative study after these state approved commercial messages.
ANNOUNCER: You’re watching Nyetwork News One-ski. The hottest babushkas! The biggest tatushkas! Oh da, and we always report the best news about most interesting and intelligent President Anatoly Popov.
Yup. Toilet Gator draft done and I’m not going to put my other projects on hold. I think it’s good to keep striking the iron while it’s hot though so one chapter of the sequel every week.
Get ready for, “Son of Toilet Gator.”