FOREWORD

You think you’ve heard it all?

Please.

I give more interviews in a day than most people have hot meals in a week.

Honestly, it’s a full-time job.

So, what’s today’s burning question?

Oh, that. Right. Here’s the scoop—there’s this little rock, orbiting Mars. My girlfriend and I run the place: I tinker, hack the DNA, keep things healthy, she—turns my creations into an actual functioning full-blown ecosystem.

The idea? Build the perfect home for people out here, paradise in space.

My job’s to make sure everyone lives to 120—that’s the magic number they threw at us before we left. Personally, I get creative with it. I’m pretty sure that pep talk came from a Jew—they’ve got a thing for that number. You hit two hundred? Now that would impress me.

I also keep an eye on the old man. He’s doing fine. He eats well, works out, even still tries to flirt—which, frankly, I take as a good sign and a compliment.

He’s always talking about going back to Earth. Says he’ll shower me with gold. Cute. Honestly? I’m perfectly happy right here, thank you very much.

His double? Yeah, the guy was fine. Didn’t really try to get close to me, though. At first, I didn’t even realize it wasn’t him making the trip. Maybe that was for the best. Word is, he saved everybody back home. Would it have been better if he came along instead? Who can tell?

They told me to “build a connection” with him and take the place of his captured wife during the mission. He said no. Waited for her. Believed she’d make it. Guess he had the right idea—rumor is they were unstoppable together.

But hey, why am I telling you all this? It’s all in the books. If you want the real dirt, pick up “Putin in Space” and you’ll see exactly how those American hustlers hijacked a whole country.

Anyway, I’ve got fish gene to tweak.

Putin’s Last Wife