Week 35

They paused inside the front door as the security man did
 a perfunctory walk-through, starting in the front room with its large fireplace.

There was a small bedroom, and a little kitchen that opened into a very basic bathroom—that was all. The furnishings were minimal and few.

It took only two minutes before the FSB man stationed himself out on the porch, facing the road and guarding the front door.

Putin felt a slight pang of disappointment: Not even a man on the kitchen door! And Yeltsin was already half-drunk. It would be too easy.

“Let’s drink!” the President cried, as he headed for the vodka. “Let’s drink to your rustic little dacha!” Putin hurried forward to pour.

Yeltsin downed a shot. “Good stuff!” he nodded, holding out his glass for more. Putin obliged, smiling, as Yeltsin looked around the room.

“You are an honest man, Vladimir Vladimirovich. Most heads of Property Management would enrich themselves. Their dachas would be palaces.

“But you live very simply; the only luxury I see is that tiger-skin rug in front of the fireplace.” “Rug, Sir?” Putin asked innocently.

Suddenly, as if in an episode of a new and very popular @AdultSwim TV program, the ”rug” came to life! It was a real Siberian tiger!

Without a moment’s hesitation, Putin lunged between the tiger and Yeltsin. Hearing the noise, the FSB man ran in, gun drawn.

An apricot blur streaked out of nowhere and attached itself to the leg of the security man’s pants. It was C-4! “Awwww!” the FSB man cooed.

Stunned by C-4’s cuteness, he dropped his gun as the little Poodle tugged and play-growled. “’What a wittle cutesy-wootsy!” he exclaimed.

Meanwhile, the tiger was crouching, staring hungrily at the Russian President, who took a quick swig of vodka straight from the bottle.

The tiger sprang! In an incredible display of judo skill, Putin tossed the beast past the Russian President and into the kitchen.

Before Putin could pursue it, the tiger escaped out the kitchen door, which seemed to have been left ajar.

Yeltsin propped himself against the sideboard, breathing heavily. “Vladimir Vladimirovich! You saved my life!” he exclaimed.

Putin smiled modestly. “It was nothing, Sir.” He glanced at the FSB man, who was holding C-4 and giggling as the little dog licked his face.

The President followed his gaze. “You are a hero of Russia!” Yeltsin declared. “You deserve better than the Property Management Department!

“I hereby name you head of the FSB!”

Putin nodded graciously. “It will be my great honor to protect you and to serve my country.” He glanced again at the FSB agent.

The man was an idiot, but at least he appreciated Poodles. Perhaps he would arrange a quick, and relatively painless, demise for him.