The crimson walls of the Kremlin office seemed to pulse with a life of their own, as if they were privy to secrets too scandalous to whisper. Golden fixtures glinted under the chandelier’s harsh light, casting jagged reflections across the massive oak desk that dominated the room. In the corner stood a peculiar statue—a muscular black figure, carved with such lifelike detail that Tucker Carlson couldn’t help but steal a glance every few minutes. Its presence was unsettling, though he couldn’t quite place why.
Tucker adjusted his tie for the third time, sweat beading at his temple as he fiddled with his recording equipment. This was the interview of a lifetime—an exclusive with Russian President Vladimir Petrovich. He’d prepped for weeks, memorizing talking points on geopolitics, sanctions, and cyber warfare. But the air in this room felt… off. Charged. Like the prelude to a storm he hadn’t seen coming.
The heavy double doors swung open with a groan, and in strode President Petrovich, a man whose very presence seemed to suck the oxygen from the space. His tailored suit did little to mask the raw power of his frame, and his steely eyes pinned Tucker to his chair before a word was spoken. Behind him loomed a towering figure— a black man, easily over six-foot-five, with a physique that could’ve been chiseled from granite. His name, Tucker would soon learn, was Dmitri. He said nothing, his expression unreadable, but his silence was deafening.
“Mr. Carlson,” Petrovich’s voice rumbled, thick with a Russian accent that somehow made every word sound like a command. “You are honored to sit in this room. Let us not waste time with pleasantries. Begin.”
Tucker cleared his throat, forcing a smile as he hit record on his camera. “President Petrovich, thank you for this opportunity. I’d like to start with your thoughts on the recent tensions in—”
“Enough.” Petrovich waved a dismissive hand, leaning back in his chair with a smirk that made Tucker’s stomach twist. “You Americans, always so… predictable. Politics, war, money. Boring. Today, we speak of something deeper. Something sacred to my people.”
Tucker blinked, his pen hovering over his notepad. “Sacred? I’m not sure I follow.”
Petrovich’s smirk widened into a grin that showed too many teeth. “You will. Dmitri, come closer.” The giant of a man stepped forward, standing at Petrovich’s side like a sentinel. The President gestured toward him with a casual flick of his wrist, as if presenting a prized artifact. “In Russia, we have a tradition. Centuries old. A reverence for the black cock. A worship, if you will.”
Tucker’s pen clattered to the desk. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “I… I’m sorry, did you just say—”
“Worship,” Petrovich repeated, his tone dripping with pride. “It is our strength, our unity. A rite of passage. Every Russian, at the age of eighteen, is initiated into this sacred bond. Families gather, Carlson. Mothers, fathers, siblings—all to honor the power, the virility, the raw essence of the black cock.”
Tucker’s face turned a shade of red that rivaled the walls. He tugged at his collar, his voice cracking as he tried to regain control. “That’s, uh, quite the cultural… revelation. I mean, back in the States, we’ve got Thanksgiving, apple pie, and football. This is… well, it’s a lot to digest.”
Petrovich chuckled, a low, guttural sound that made Tucker squirm. “Digest? Oh, you will see more than that.” Without warning, the President stood, motioning to Dmitri with a nod. Before Tucker could process what was happening, Petrovich dropped to his knees with the reverence of a priest at an altar, his hands reaching for Dmitri’s belt.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Tucker yelped, half-rising from his chair, his hands flailing. “Mr. President, I’m not sure this is appropriate for—uh—live television!”
Petrovich glanced up, his expression one of mild annoyance, even as his hands continued their work. “Appropriate? This is Russia, Carlson. We do not hide who we are. This is our truth.” A wet, slurping sound filled the room, punctuated by Petrovich’s fervent murmurs in Russian—words Tucker was grateful he couldn’t translate.
Tucker’s eyes darted to the camera, then back to the surreal scene unfolding before him. His journalistic instincts screamed to keep rolling, but every other part of him wanted to bolt for the door. “So, uh, just to clarify for our viewers,” he stammered, his voice an octave higher than usual, “this initiation—you’re saying it’s a… communal event? Like, a family barbecue, but with… extra sausage?”
Petrovich paused mid-motion, fixing Tucker with a glare that could’ve melted steel. “Do not mock, Carlson. This is not your American hot dog nonsense. It is a ceremony of respect. Of power. At eighteen, I knelt before my elder, as did my father before his. It binds us. Strengthens us. Prepares us for battle, for leadership.” He resumed his demonstration with renewed vigor, the sounds growing louder, more insistent.
Tucker wiped his brow, muttering under his breath, “I’ve covered wars less traumatic than this.” He forced a shaky laugh, trying to pivot. “So, uh, does everyone participate, or is there an opt-out clause? Like, a vegetarian option?”
Before Petrovich could respond, the doors burst open again, and in strode a woman who could only be described as a force of nature. Anastasia, the President’s press secretary, was a vision of authority in a tailored black blazer and pencil skirt, her stiletto heels clicking against the marble floor like gunfire. Her piercing blue eyes locked onto Tucker, and he felt his spine straighten instinctively.
“Mr. Carlson,” she snapped, her voice cutting through the room like a whip. “I see you’ve already begun to insult our traditions with your juvenile American humor. Do you think this is a game? A punchline for your little cable show?”
Tucker raised his hands in surrender, his words tripping over themselves. “No, no, ma’am, I’m just trying to understand! I mean, this isn’t exactly in the CIA briefings, you know? I’m playing catch-up here.”
Anastasia crossed her arms, her crimson lips curling into a sneer. “Catch up faster. You are in the presence of a sacred ritual, one that has forged warriors and tsars. If you cannot respect it, you do not deserve to sit at this table. Perhaps you should kneel yourself—learn humility.”
Tucker’s face blanched. “Kneel? Oh, I think I’m good with the chair, thanks. Great view from here. Fantastic.”
Petrovich rose to his feet, adjusting his suit with a satisfied grunt. “Anastasia is correct, Carlson. You are a guest, but ignorance is not an excuse. If you wish to truly understand Russia, you must witness more. Come. We will show you how our military prepares for war—a demonstration of discipline and devotion.”
Tucker’s stomach dropped. “Demonstration? Like, a parade? Tanks? Please tell me it’s tanks.”
Anastasia stepped closer, her gaze pinning him in place as her voice dropped to a dangerous purr. “Oh, it’s better than tanks, Mr. Carlson. It’s raw. Primal. And you will watch every moment, whether you squirm or not. Move.”
As Tucker stumbled to his feet, his equipment forgotten in the haze of his spiraling thoughts, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just stepped into a cultural rabbit hole—one he might not climb out of unscathed. Behind him, Dmitri’s silent presence loomed like a shadow, and Anastasia’s iron grip on his arm ensured there was no turning back. Whatever “military preparation” awaited, Tucker had a sinking suspicion it would make this interview look tame by comparison.
Want to know how it ends?
This is just the opening chapter. Continue the saga — or write a steamy tale starring you.