Going to meet the man
[A large room with plain cream-colored walls framed by 19th-century wainscotting, chair rails, and occasional gold wall sconces. VLADIMIR PUTIN, looking pale and phlegmatic in a dark blue suit, sits with his hands lightly folded at the end of a ten-foot-long oak table. About halfway down the table sits VLASIC, dressed similarly to PUTIN, about 30 but almost completely bald; he scribbles in what looks like a thick book on a desktop lectern. Against the wall sits OGNIR, a thick and very muscular man of about 40 in grey slacks, clunky brown shoes, and a thick white shirt with the top three buttons undone and thin gold chains showing. A bell quietly sounds. Entering cautiously is ROD DREHER, wearing an oversized and faded brown herringbone three-piece suit; his hair is disordered and his beard is overgrown; he looks like a skinny tween cosplaying Solzhenitsyn.]
DREHER: [Nervously] President Putin — I humbly beg your pardon, I cannot speak Russian. I’ve been doing Duolingo and I wanted to try but the moment I came in I knew I — [Looks around; to VLASIC] Can he —
PUTIN: I understand enough. I am glad you could come.
DREHER: [Bowing frantically] Oh, why thank you, thank you, President Putin! The honor is all mine! Thank you! [Gestures to chair at end of table] Shall I sit down?