Overlord L'Orange: Observations of an Average Citizen, Installment #108; "Putin's Bitch"

     It was time for Overlord L’Orange to report to his overseer, Vladimir Putin, or “Vladdy” (as he liked L’Orange to call him). It was a “term of affection”, and also seemed fitting to L’Orange, as Putin was kind of like his long-lost Daddy. It was a double entendre, even though L’Orange did not know what that meant.

     L’Orange was feeling giddy as a schoolgirl this morning, like he was going to his first Prom, as he sat at his desk nervously, preparing to make his phone call. This was definitely different than Tweeting! More hair-raising. On-the-spot. He ran his fingers through the Silkie sleeping on his scalp, and straightened out his signature red tie. He was a fraud and phony, a treasonous traitor, a ghoulish shape-shifter, depending on who he was with, similar to the demons living inside Regan from The Exorcist who declare: “I am nothing! I am no one!” Ironically, today at the White House L’Orange’s “personal pastor” spoke and trumpeted that “We declare every demonic network to be scattered right now!” Of course there were jokes all over the internet afterward that obviously her exorcism didn’t work, because L’Orange is still there, fidgeting uncomfortably at his desk and being broadly inept. This “personal pastor” is a television evangelist with bleached blonde hair and what appears to be plastic surgery gone awry, and is married to a former rock star from the 1970’s. She wore a string of pearls as she performed her “exorcism”, dainty and powerful at the same time; the women in the L’Orange administration love to wear pearls! It makes them appear more ladylike, instead of Snake-Oil salesmen-like, or sell-your-soul-to-the-Devil-for-a-dollar-like. It helps the racist old geezers trust these women even more, these nice young gals with spunk, wearing good old-fashioned pearl necklaces, fighting the Good Fight! The Lord’s fight.

     Speaking of lords and ladies, L’Orange’s phone call was going through to his Master, Putin.

     Putin spoke first: “Talk to me!” he said, picking up the phone in the middle of the first ring.

     L’Orange cleared his throat, nervously. “No collusion! No puppet!” he croaked.

     “L’Orange…save it for your followers…it’s me, Vladdy!”

     “It was all a big hoax! A Witch hunt!” L’Orange went on.

     “Yes, that’s right, a big hoax, a big Witch hunt. You know just what to say, don’t you, L’Orange? You have the best words. You are a stable genius,” Putin satiated.

     L’Orange blushed, a deep crimson red. Whenever he blushed it was a deep crimson red color, for obvious reasons.

     “You vill tell people that it vas mouse, not mountain?”

     The Silkie stirred sleepily on L’Orange’s head. “Yes, yes, it was a mouse, not a mountain!”

     “Very good, very good! We don’t vant you to end up in prison, or vorse, do ve?”

     “Or worse?” L’Orange pondered.

     “Vell, you know…sometimes things happen to people who don’t follow the rules or instructions, and sometimes things happen to people who break the rules and then don’t cover them up effectively, no?”

     “No! No, no, no, no, no!” blurted L’Orange.

     “So, we have an ‘understanding’? Our ‘understanding’ still holds?”

     “Yes, of course, it still holds!”

     “Very good, very good…you are smart man, L’Orange. Such a smart, smart man. You know vat is good for you, yes?”

     “I…yes. I know what is good for me!” L’Orange felt confused.

     “And who is your Vladdy?” Putin asked, with a slight smile, and a gleam in his eyes.

     “You are,” responded L’Orange.

     “Let me hear you say it!”

     “You are my Vladdy, Putin. You are my Vladdy!”

     “That’s right! And don’t you forget it!”

     “Never,” vowed L’Orange.

     “But, if you do forget, Kim Jong-un has a present or two for you, as a reminder! Big, strong, powerful presents!”

     L’Orange remained silent. He knew that Putin liked to have the last word. After they terminated their call, L’Orange sat at his desk for a few minutes, stroking his Silkie with one hand, while gnawing on the thumb of his free hand. These moments of contemplation were rare, far-between, and extremely uncomfortable for him. He much preferred not having to think or feel at all.