Vladmir Putin gets a sex swing

Chapter 1

Water. It gets you places, it keeps you clean, it keeps you ALIVE. And of course, it keeps me employed. As a sailor of a cargo ship by day and I suppose also a sailor of a cargo ship by night, water is probably the only constant in my life. After Judy left me and took the kids, I had nothing left. But then Bill, the crazy old git down by the docks, told me he would give me a job working on his rusty old haulier, and since then I've worked my way through the ranks, all the way from the pitiful barnacle-scrubber to the glorious ship-loader.

It was another day at work, but on this day I had to work on the docks. I fucking hate the docks (remember Bill????). Yeah. I had to talk to Bill about his "functional family". Also, something else you should know about me: I hate it when people talk about their kids. It's like...they aren't your WHOLE personality you know? Anyway, it was another day on the docks and I was on scanning duty. I gripped tightly onto the barcode scanner and made sure everything was exactly where it should be. I eyed Bill, and saw him chatting on the phone; I could vaguely make out him saying words such as "proud" and "what's for dinner?". God, I hate Bill. EVERYONE hated Bill. The more I thought about Bill, the more I realised how stupid he is. Bill's SO stupid.

"You missed a box there matey!".

What? Fuck. I looked down and he was right, there was a large rectangular white box directly in front of me, which was unusual because most boxes I saw were the cardboard box-brown colour. Upon closer inspection, it didn't have a barcode at all. I started to mention this to Bill, to justify me missing it. But of course, he didn't care. He was now looking away as if humiliating me was just another pastime of his, he was now smiling widely while talking to a customer. Classic Bill. At least I know it's an act. I sighed deeply and picked up the box to take it to the unlabeled section. But what I saw next was unforgettable. The address was written in a sharp red marker, and the first line said: Mr Vladimir Putin.

But if I am being truthful, it wasn't that unforgettable. You often saw celebrities' names on these parcels as a prank, a trick, a ruse. Vladimir Putin was certainly a popular option, but what surprised me most was that it was written in a red marker. It didn't mean anything bureaucratically, but it was highly unusual. I shrugged and chucked it into the pile of likely thrown away parcels. If I got a penny for every piece of faeces sent to a celebrity, I'd be earning more than minimum wage.

A week later, I was working another shift on the docks. This time it was with Stacy. Stacy was hired around the same time as me by that bastard Bill, and we had become quite close after numerous shifts spent together on the dinky docks. It was a Friday, which was famously known as Paperwork day. I was filling out a form for a customer, I remember their name being "Margaret Thatcher", which was a funny coincidence because my aunty was also called Margaret Thatcher. I was about to tell Stacy about this anecdote when I started to hear vibrating. She looked up at me, somewhat startled and we made brief eye contact. We then both simultaneously turned our heads in the direction of the sound. It was the pile. The pile in which parcels are thrown into and forgotten about. I stared at it for what seemed like several hours. I turned back to Stacy to see her looking at me, nodding towards the pile.

"Go on, aren't you going to take a look then?"

I gulped. This situation reminded me of a point several years ago, just after Bill had hired me. He had practically forced me to watch his kids as they did a roly-poly on the floor of his office. I remember the feeling of utter resignation. There was nothing I could do at that moment. I remember the sick look on Bill's face as he looked towards me with some sort of "pride". I wouldn't have it. It couldn't happen again. I stood up and looked down at Stacy.

"No," I said. "That's your job."

My moment of valour had clearly not been perceived by her as she shrugged, bounced up and walked towards the pile. Picking up a stick, she began prodding and poking at random, trying to find the culprit of the buzzing. Realizing it was hopeless, she sighed and began picking out parcels at random, holding them to her ear, and throwing them into a new pile. As the self-proclaimed highest-ranked naval officer in the room, it was my privilege to stand back and watch my colleague work tirelessly at the task at hand. Eventually, she pulled out a large rectangular white package, looked at it and through her gum-chewing I heard her mumble, "Do you know a Vladimir Putin?"