At the Side of the River

I’m sprawled buck-naked on the muddy banks of some Alaskan river, the icy breeze tickling my dangling particulars like a cheeky tart, with Hyrum and Vlad flanking me, their own bits swinging free in the wilderness breeze. It’s Wednesday afternoon, a bonus day snatched from the International Date Line’s temporal sleight of hand after our jet landed in Anchorage. With the Crimea deal looming, demanding a Thursday wrap-up for Trump and Putin to scribble their autographs on it by Friday, we’ve ditched the boardroom for a rustic romp.

Forty minutes ago, we each downed a cap of Dr. Jameson’s top-shelf pharmaceutical LSD. It is the alchemists madcap opera. The sky’s a swirling kaleidoscope, the trees pirouette in neon hues, and—inevitably—the deal worms its way into our tripped-out tripod banter. The chill is nipping at my unmentionables like a scorned mistress.

Hyrum, his lean frame shimmering with river damp, scratches his hairy chest and dives into theology. “So, Johnny, are Jews the chosen race or what? We’ve got the Torah, the bagels. It sounds like a heavenly leg-up, eh?” I roar with laughter, Hairy Hogan, my mustache quivering like a flustered moth. “Chosen? Only if God’s got a soft spot for schlemiels with their dicks out! But I’ll hand it to you, Hyrum, stripping naked to hash out tachlis is pure Jewish genius. Anyone who wants to take on the bald headed champion just has to put up the purse. This is how Jews trust each other, balls to the wind, no suits, no pretense, just raw flesh and candor. Vlad, you Slavic sod, “what say you?”

Vlad, brushes off the insult , no Russian Jew wants to be called a Slav. They both know I’m the mark here. “Naked is power. No wires for FSB to tap. Chosen? Nyet! Russians are picked to guzzle vodka and rule! Still, I admire your… exposure.” His chuckle erupts, sending a flock of imaginary parrots scattering. The LSD derails us next—Hyrum muses, “Ketamine or LSD, lads? Ketamine’s a velvet cruise, like floating on caviar clouds. LSD’s a wild circus, my kind of ride.” I nod, swigging phantom whisky. “LSD trumps it, Hyrum. Ketamine’s for tooth-pullers; this is for emperors with their tackle swinging.” The deal slinks back into view, a pesky gnat in our acid-drenched Eden. “Listen up,” I boom, my voice a pirate’s roar, “Trump snags the Nobel Peace Prize, let him buff that golden mop with it. Putin claims naming rights on Crimea, ‘Putin’s Paradise,’ a shrine to his ego.”

Vlad grins, teeth flashing like a wolf’s. “Da, perfect. But deal needs meat. Johnny, you fork over $500 billion, half your Bitcoin hoard, to erect towers, marinas, a casino where oligarchs can piss away rubles. I’ll wrestle the zoning laws; Hyrum will scrub the cash through shell companies. Thursday’s the deadline, Friday we’re legends.”

The figures pirouette before me. $500 billion, a juicy chunk of my trillion, ballooned to a king’s ransom at $100K per coin since that 2022 Putin jackpot. Crimea’s poised to eclipse Dubai, a garish testament to our greed, with Trump posing and Putin preening.