I
Mikey surrounded himself with women. The steep stairs and voluminous hallways of the fuckboi Capitol building were lined wall-to-wall with members of the female gender. When he wasn't conquering or playing "Wonderwall" on his guitar, he was throwing massive orgies with his payrolled fuck-toys. They stood sentry-like for 8 hours at a time, only moving when their shifts ended (If it weren't for the fuckbois' alliances with many pro-human-rights countries, the women would be enslaved), and when he gave them a sexual order. For years his life trudged on in this estrogen-filled monotony, and Mikey felt empty. He didn't understand it. He had everything the world told him he should have wanted, and yet he felt nothing when he tried to pleasure his tic-tac with their slender, beautiful bodies. He knew they were attractive, he knew it should have felt right, but his mind couldn't help but wander whenever he went though the primitive motions of sex. To pass the time, he would often pick random girls out of the crowd and charm them. He would convince them to fall in love with him, he would tell them that they weren't like the other girls, that they specifically were special to him, and then intentionally break their hearts when he felt like toying with someone. He may not have understood the meaning of love, but sadism still brought him some semblance of satisfaction. However, on this day specifically, he was all business.
Manly Russian music flowed from outside the Capitol building and into Mikey's ears, followed by the elegant trotting of a horse. He tugged at his violet curtains, as the image of Vladimir Putin, shirtless, atop a horse, gliding through the meadow in the distance beamed softly through his window. Mikey stood with a sigh, and spoke through the microphone positioned on his desk. Mikey's irritating voice screeched through the loudspeakers in the building.
"Alrighty ladies, make yourselves decent. We have a visitor."
Mikey turned off his office computer and turned his desk chair towards the comically-large oaken doors behind him. After a minute-or-so, the doors creaked open and 2 small, identical Russian men played a tinny tune on matching brass instruments to signal Vlad's arrival. Vlad hitched his horse on the golden post in the room outside Mikey's office, an investment Mikey made after Putin's frequent visits. Putin walked his buff body dreamily into Mikey's office as the doors closed behind him. He sat in the visitor's chsir the same way he always did, yet Mikey noticed his expression was more troubled than usual.
"Good to see you, Vlad. Would you like me to request some tea or coffee to accommodate you?" Mikey chimed.
"Cut niceties, Michael. You know why I'm here." Vlad said, in a rather thick accent
Indeed, Michael knew why Putin had arrived, and had been secretly dreading this conversation all week.
"I am good guy, no? I know Fuckboi Utopia, is, ehh, fairly new. I understand if you not know, the ehh, how you say, nuances of war. I like you Mikey. You are friend to Vladimir, me appreciate. But I can't help but feel frustrated when this fucking headline arrive at desk"
Putin pulled a newspaper from the waistband of his pants and tossed it onto Mikey's desk.
'Russian Army Decimated by the Hordes of the Undead'
Mikey rubbed his temple. "Look, Putin, I understand the frustration-"
"NO MICHAEL!" Putin boomed as he slammed Mikey's desk. "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND SHIT!"
Mikey shuddered from the shock of Putin's outburst. He wasn't used to not getting his way, and sometimes forgot anger was an emotion that someone could express towards Mikey G, the Great and Powerful.
"My army is gone. No more. Killed by the fucking skeletons. Russian men know this war one giant suicide mission, no one enlist in army. Have to instate draft, drafted men still no good at murdering the dead. Russia loses land everyday. I give Fuckbois resources and money. You tell me in return your men will be fit and trained to fight in Russian army. Now, if these men fit and trained, why, at one of most important battles to win, do they shit their pants and run, leaving these zombie motherfuckers to parade around good Russian land?"
Mikey's face continued to sink deeper into his hand as he thought of the impending climax of this discussion.
"I know, Vladimir." Mikey mumbled, sullenly. "I'll be the first to admit that my men have attitude issues, but they are good fighters, I swear. I just need time to teach them discipline. They're only kids, you know."
"Time to teach them discipline." Vladimir laughed. "Time?! LOOK AT THE NEWS, WE ARE LOSING! DO YOU THINK WE HAVE ANY FUCKING TIME?!"
"You," Putin pointed, "are very, very lucky. Lucky my boytoy Trump has the army to bail me out of this one. Lucky I don't have him run you out of your land and build a wall around it. But if you think I'm going to keep throwing Russian resources at you for that joke of a gift you call an 'army', you are wrong."
Mikey began to sob at the thought of the one thing he truly loved, his empire, crumbling before him, before Putin sternly put a meaty hand on his shoulder.
"Do not cry, Michael, all is not lost for Fuckboi Utopia. I have proposition for you, and I promise you not have to do much."
Mikey tilted his head up and dried his eyes on his leather jacket. "What is it you had in mind?"
Putin's voice changed from his tense, business-like seriousness to the easygoing softness Mikey knew so well. "You are fairly good looking boy. Me say, solid seven-out-of-ten. The singing voice can use work, but the face is like that of beautiful faun. I love Trump to death, no get me wrong, but sometimes thrusting my cock into an oompa-loompa everyday gets old. Plus," he whispered, "his anus is increasingly loose these days for whatever reason. Simple proposition is, you want to keep getting Russian assistance, you fuck me on a regular basis for a six-month period. Simple as this."
Mikey panicked. "W-w-w-what? Y-you want... to fuck me?"
"Did I stutter, Michael?"
"But-but.... I'm straight. I can't have sex with you. I-I'm sorry, but-"
"These are my terms, you take them or leave them. I come back in 1 week on dot. Give me answer" Putin said, heading for the door. He paused and turned back at Mikey. "And whatever you do, don't tell Trump."
The wooden door creaked and slammed shut, leaving Mikey alone with his thoughts. He couldn't do this. No way. Not Mikey G, the world's greatest sex symbol. But he couldn't abandon his fuckboi brethren. Surely there was some other way...