The Alaska Summit

on our way

11 Aug 2025

On my way to the Alaska summit with Hyrum to meet Vlad Gilgorsky and do the Ukraine deal.

We are sprawled in the leather belly of Long Cecil, my private jet, sipping a single malt that costs more than most people’s houses. The cabin’s a bloody masterpiece—polished oak, glinting brass, and the kind of lighting that makes me look like a steampunk god. Hyrum’s across from me, my wiry, hook-nosed mate, scribbling on a napkin like he’s mapping the sodding future. Boxes, arrows, dollar signs, and “JC” in the center—my initials, naturally, because I’m the richest cunt in the world. Outside, the sky’s a bruised mess, like time itself gave up and buggered off. “Hyrum, mate, we’re late in a universe where time’s a tosser. Eternity’s got no bloody schedule, so why the rush?”

Hyrum doesn’t even glance up, his pen slashing the napkin like a saber through a native’s hide. “Late? Johnny, you’re richer than God, and you’re whinging about time? We’ve got to seal this deal before Trump and Putin start wanking for the cameras on Friday. Crimea’s gonna be the next Dubai, and you’re the nominee holding Vlad’s trillion in Bitcoin. Back in ’22, you took it at 18K a coin—now it’s 100K. You’re number one, Putin’s number two, Trump and Musk are bureaucrats and I’m the poor sod making sure you don’t cock it up.”

I chuckle, swirling my whisky, the ice clinking like a whore’s earrings. “Crimea, eh? Skyscrapers, casinos, beaches crawling with Russian oligarchs and their shiksas, all built on my Bitcoin stash. Makes Dubai look like a sodding sandpit. But what’s the play, Hyrum? You’re the Jew who gets his knickers in a twist over ‘kite’—sorry, kike.” I wink, knowing it’ll rile him. “Spell it out before we meet Vlad and his vodka-soaked goons.”

Hyrum’s eyes narrow, but he lets it slide. “Here’s the tachlis, you swashbuckling prick. You’re the front, the charming bastard laundering Putin’s trillion through a real estate empire. Crimea’s our canvas—glass towers, yacht marinas, neon to blind a cosmonaut. You invest as the nominee, funnel the cash through shell companies, and we build a playground for every tosser with a private jet. Trump and Putin sign off, take the credit, and we’re golden. But it’s got to be done by Thursday, or it’s bollocks.”

Selling out property rights

Like I'm the villain

Crimea Johnny C Rhodes

I lean forward, my handlebar mustache twitching like these guys think I’m the villain in a gaslamp fever dream. “And what’s in it for me, besides being the richest cunt in the room? I’m not playing Father Christmas for Vlad’s mob.” I down the whisky, the burn stoking my exuberance. “I want my cut, Hyrum, and I want it shinier than Bitcoin. Gold, maybe. Or women. Preferably both.”

Hyrum smirks, sliding the napkin over. “You keep a hundred billion, like last time. The rest goes to developers, bribes, whatever keeps the Kremlin happy. You’re not just rich, Johnny—you’re untouchable. But don’t get naive. Gilgorsky’s a snake, and he’ll have FSB goons watching every move. One slip, and you’re not just a misogynist, homophobic, racist tosser—you’re a dead one.”

The jet shudders as we cross the International Date Line, that invisible seam where yesterday flips to tomorrow. My head’s spinning, and it ain’t just the whisky. “A hundred billion? That’s not bupkes, Hyrum. I could buy Oxford, turn it into a dogging paradise for every shmendrik and shlimazel in the UK.” I laugh, loud and merry, the kind of laugh that echoes in boardrooms and brothels. “But what’s Gilgorsky bringing? Besides his ‘I’m not a spy’ shtick.”

Hyrum leans back, his face catching the jet’s god rays, all volumetric and hyperreal. “Vlad’s got the land titles and Kremlin backing. He’s the key to Crimea’s zoning laws. Without him, we’re two schmucks with a trillion bucks and no shovel. He’s also got dirt on every politician from Kyiv to Washington. Charm him, Johnny. Flash that ladies’ man grin, drop some Oxford bollocks—call him a ‘jolly good chap.’ Just don’t call him a kike. Or a fag. Or anything that makes him pull a Makarov.”

I snort, picturing Gilgorsky in a steampunk overcoat, filigree glinting as he scratches his scrotum in some smoky Moscow dive. “Right, I’ll keep it kosher. But why Thursday? What’s the sodding rush?” I pour another whisky, the bottle sparkling like a tchotchke in the jet’s dramatic light.

Hyrum’s voice drops, all conspiratorial. “Because, you impulsive git, the world’s watching. Trump’s got his MAGA crowd frothing, Putin’s got his siloviki itching to flex, and we’re the ones who make it happen. Miss the deadline, and it’s a shande—total embarrassment. You want to be the shlemiel spilling soup on the shlimazel? Get it done.”

Crimea

"We're flying over Crimea now sir"

Crimea Johnny C Rhodes

The intercom crackles. “Mr. Rhodes, we’re descending into Anchorage. Local time’s a day early, thanks to the Date Line. Welcome to Wednesday.” I blink, my mind catching the temporal sleight of hand. “Bloody hell, Hyrum, we’re early? In a universe where time’s a tosser, we’ve outsmarted it. Tally ho, let’s meet Gilgorsky and make Crimea the shiniest shmatte in the world.”

Hyrum grins, pocketing the napkin. “Mazel tov, you meshuggeneh bastard. Don’t plotz when Vlad starts talking. We’ve got a trillion bucks and a dream to sell.” The jet touches down, the Alaska summit looming, and I’m ready to swagger in, rewrite the world’s map, and swear my way to glory.