Fifty Shades of Vladimir Putin

It was an hour before dawn in the Grand Kremlin Palace in Moscow, the official residence of the Russian President. On his computer in his private office, while others were still deep in sleep, dreaming their communist dreams of stabbing each other in the back, Vladimir Putin was hard at work hacking into Hillary Clinton's campaign email account, much like he did with her unsecured private server when she was Secretary of State.
     "So, Comrade," the sultry voice of Anastasia Steelinski caressed the darkness, "it is true, you are rigging the American presidential election. I find that... incredibly sexy."
     "Madam Comrade," Putin said, coiled and ready to strike. You could say his blood turned cold, but that would be redundant.
     Then he got up from his chair and moved toward her, his arms and legs slithering through the shadows, like a snake discovering an unguarded clutch of eggs. When he stopped, he was so close to her their bodies were almost touching.
     "It is unfortunate that you are up so late at night," he continued. "You were not supposed to see this."
     Ana pressed her soft, warm body against that of the Russian President's. She looked teasingly into his reptilian eyes, her soft full lips pouting seductively.
     "Why, Vladimir," she purred, rubbing up against him, "is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"
     BANG!
     Sadly, it was a gun.
 
 

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