“I saw your wife dancing Watusi on a table at RayRay’s Elbow Room in Clearwater Beach,” billionaire Russian oligarch gangster Borys Popov said.

The booming voice on the other end of the telephone call gasped.

“Why should I believe you? Russians are pathological liars,” said the man Borys Popov called “Meester Beeg.”

“I was peeping through bar window and shot steamy video,” said the Russian Mafia boss.

“Everybody says they have video,” said Mr. Big.

“I have other smoking video, too,” said Borys Popov.

Mr. Big sounded like he was choking on what Borys would call a “Beeg Mac.”

“What other video?”

“Remember when we party hearty with fake Moscow beauty contestants who were real Moscow prostitutes? Remember hot tub full of bubbling champagne? Remember nude caviar wrestling?”

“That was Hunter Biden, not me.”

“Hookers took DNA sample when you snore in sleep. Body fluid now deposited with heavy interest in vault at secret Karl Marx Sperm Bank I own.”

“You have video of me singing in the rain?”

“In living color with big yellow raindrops falling on your head.”

Mr. Big’s voice dropped to a gravelly whisper.

“Not the pee pee tape.”

Borys’ voice overflowed with glee.

“Yes, I have pee pee tape!”

 “Fake news, fake news,” Mr. Big said.

“Tinkle time to rain on your parade,” Borys said.

“Where is my traitor wife now?”

“She and slinky governor’s wife went looking for Hulk Hogan’s house. Hulkster lives here, too, you know.”

“Is that why those two bimbos went to Clearwater Beach?”

“Governor’s wife just tired of getting shit on. Like your wife. Now they defect to other side like Patty Hearst. Now they help terrorist bird man Sam Bennett shit on you and Gov. DeShifty.”

“I hate Gov. DeShifty,” said Mr. Big. “I call him Gov. DeShafty.”

 Borys Popov threw his best psychological sucker punch.

“Big protest rally to support bird man scheduled tomorrow on beach,” Borys said. “All bird man’s friends nuts like him. They all were at condo party last night where weirdo hippie chick drugged me. Woke up this morning in parking lot Dumpster.”

“You need better security,” Mr. Big said. “I’ll send over a couple of Secret Service agents you can pay in cocaine.”

Borys Popov tightened the screws.

“I hear Mrs. Beeg and First Lady DeShifty are VIPs at tomorrow’s protest. They promise to help free bird man.”

Now Mr. Big flailed like a hooked swordfish, reverting back to sound bites from a recent speech where he resembled a rusting robot in a red necktie speaking programmed gibberish.

“I didn’t need this,” he said. “I had a nice easy life.”

Borys stifled a laugh.

“I’m a victim, I will tell you, I’m a victim,” Mr. Big said.

“I have idea,” Borys Popov said. “We sell two backstabbing tramps to Sheik of Araby for his harem. If they complain, he sells jezebels to nomad desert bandits.”

“Keep talking, Commie,” said Mr. Big.

“I give you pee pee tape in exchange for plush Palm Beach resort.”

Mr. Big knew Borys just handed him the raw end of the deal, but what choice did he have? Maybe the time had come to leave the sunshine state and go back to New York, start dating Kim Kardashian. Blathering Mr. Big sniveled.

“I go home and she says, ‘You look angry and upset.’ I say, ‘Just leave me alone.’”

Borys snickered.

“We’ll leave her alone,” he said. “Alone with the Shiek of Araby.”

Both men roared with laughter.

“In order to make America great and glorious again, I am tonight announcing my candidacy for President of the United States,” Mr. Big said.

“Give it rest, already,” Borys said. “You sound like an old Wayne Newton record.”

Mr. Big gave the art of the deal one last shot.

“You want to buy some classified documents?” he asked.