The cameras were hot on Pusyn. The New Year Parade was waiting patiently for their monarch. He was taking his sweet, sweet time, showing off to the first grade class of Lomonosov Academia. His annual office renovations were astonishing this year. The cameras were rolling hot, capturing the brand new mahogany EVERYthing.

“Some people say I spend too much money on my office,” Pusyn told the children, “But the way spies work today, you need to clean everything out. There are lots of people trying to spy on someone like me.”

Pusyn laid a tremulous hand on Anyeta Melasiya. The little blond youngin looked up, elated that she finally got to meet God himself. The doors to the office swung open. Dmitry entered.

Everyone in the room all swung to see Dmitry. The digital eyes of the cameras saw one bright, wrinkly smile. A secret hid behind this smile. The monarch thought it might be a secret, a state secret.

“Is it time already? Half an hour flies when you’re having fun,” said Pusyn. A dollop of “awwws” expelled from the children.

“Presidenta, mind my interruption, but I must brief you. Before the pageantry begins.” The Monarch grew frisky.

“Alright… well you heard the man, children. We’re going to cut this short.”

The kids protested. “Children, children, what kind of Presidenta would I be if I didn’t listen to great mother Russia?” That shut ‘em up. Then Anyeta looked up to her Monarch

“I think, I think… I..i… Think you would be a b… b… bad presidenta. Like Ye… ye… Yeltsin.” The room erupted. She didn’t get why everyone was laughing. Yeltsin was a terrible President. Her dad told her so.

“Alright, alright, everyone enjoy the Kremlin. Za RoSSIya!”

The group replied in tandem and exited. Anyeta lunged onto Pusyn’s leg. She hugged him like she would never see her God again. And she was right. She wouldn’t.

Anyeta’s teacher started to rush at her. Pusyn stopped her calmly. “Dzivcha, I’ll always make sure you’re safe. Now run along, and enjoy the parade.” Pusyn was smooth.

Dmitry walked around behind the camera crews. He commanded they be shut off. He hurried them out of the office. “Bistro, BIStro” he yelled to the photographers. Dmitry closed and locked the great, 15-foot doors.

The men were alone, and Pusyn’s face cracked a genuine smile. “What’s going on? Why the laughs.”

Dmitry started to pull out his phone, “Presidenta, it’s happening sooner than planned.”

“Trunk? Are they impeaching him already?”

“Better.” moaned Dmitry.

“What, treason?”

“Not. Even. Close,” he said, handing the glowing phone to Pusyn, “They killed him. In the White House. There’s even rumors the staff tried to cover it up.”

Pusyn was flabbergast. He read and reread the RT news story.

The two friends burnt laughter poured out of their lungs.

“Well this… ha… is surely a step forward. Wow. Oh…. WOW. I thought we would be waiting months for them to get him out,” said Pusyn, steadying his laughs, “We’ll be able to proceed sooner than expected.”

“My thoughts exactly Presidenta. What great news for the New Year.”

Pusyn was pleased. No… pleased doesn’t sum it up. He was a sum of all the joy he had ever felt. He was about to evolve into his final form.

“Why don’t we get the committee together first thing tomorrow morning… tomorrow night. We will plan the next step before the weekend. Understood?”

“Understood, Presidenta,” said Dmitry.

“Wonderful. Now enjoy yourself tonight. Za RoSSIya”

“Za RoSSIya”

The men exited the room. And they were confident. Cocky, even. But all the mahogany in the world couldn’t hide the conversation. A camera feed buzzed. Pusyn had clamped down on the press, and they were retaliating. Now, working for Russian TV meant becoming cyber agents. Cyber punks. They infiltrated the organizations. Pusyn offered condolences to the Americans that day, but the cyber punks got busy declaring war on Pusyn: the God of Russia.