Edward Snowden, An American Werewolf in Russia

...Maybe I Spoke A Little Too Soon About Putin

Apparently, I got discharged from the hospital the very next day. Either these people really feel sorry for me, or they're batshit terrified of Putin and are under orders to get me out of here (More likely the latter, knowing them.) I honestly don't care either way, because I was never insane to begin with and want to get the hell out of here as soon as I possibly can.

Unfortunately, I just so happen to have a meeting with You Know Who. And, it's on the other side of the country, so it looks as though I'll have to take a train. And it's at 1:00. Cool, I have some time to kill before seeing this guy.

There's this neat sandwich shop here around Moscow, but it's on the other side of town from the train station. And driving there is totally out of the question, since I don't have my car with me. And it's not like I can get a Russian Uber account. Oh well. Looks like I'll be walking.

As I munch on my sandwich, I don't even bother thinking about the events of the day. Why should I? I should take a break from the circus that is my crazy, so-called life and enjoy my meal.

When I (finally) get on my train ride, I decide to call up Putin on my phone.

"Hey, Putin, it's me, your boy Eddie. (Oh, who am I kidding? I'm hardly his "friend." Comnrade, maybe, but not friend.) Look, I'm honestly really sorry about...whatever the hell I did around here, but knowing you it was probably really bad. Anyways, I'll be running late because my train broke down. You okay with that?" (Hey, a little white lie never hurt anyone- certainly not Putin himself. In any case, he'll be fine.)

"Look, Mr. Snowden, I don't have time to wait around..."

My god, I'm in deep der'mo right now.

"...but since you're my favorite comrade, I suppose I could make an exception."

"Cool, thanks. See you then!"

"do svidaniya," he tells me, hanging up.

As I hang up my phone, I start to ponder- Wow, this guy really does like me. A little too much, in fact. Not sure if I could really get used to such special treatment if he's merely "using me" like this.

But, no matter. Time to focus on Catch-22.

As it turns out, there's a character in Catch-22 named Snowden. And he's a radio-gunner, just like me. And he's forced to fight in a war by the Russian military, also like me. Wow, cool. Unfortunately, he dies a really gruesome death in the middle of the book. Not cool.

I'm disappointed in how the book turned out, but before I can read another sentence, let alone another passage, I realize this isn't my train.

"Hey?" I ask a slightly-older man.

"Comrade Snowden..." he says, walking up to me. "Do you think we'd just let you get away with this?"

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Oh, it's quite simple," he says. (He's put you in a super-complicated web with his "explanation" here.)

"Sometimes, as the president of the greatest country in the world" (To be fair, Russia is actually bigger than the surface area of Pluto) I stare at the sky and ask myself "Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?"

"Funny you should ask," I said. "They're either dead, or werewolves, or dead werewolves."

"That, my boy, was a rhetorical question," he tells me. "You see, right over there, people are alarmed, as there is no stopping people from asking questions once they finally discover the information that they did."

"So why don't you just stop it?" I ask. "Why doesn't anyone just stop it?"

"How could they?" he tells me. "The only people permitted to ask questions are those who never did. Not much different from here, I suppose."

I don't know how to respond. I'm absolutely shocked at what's happened.

But then again, why should I? I'm a total mess right now.

"Snowden, do you know why you get out of the psychiatric ward so easily?" he asks me. "Do you even know "how?" After all, "why" is never, ever as important as "how?""

I don't even want to respond, let alone know.

"Do you really think that me, the president, would just let a fellow comrade rot away like that in a ward?" he tells me.

No, I suppose not. I think to myself.

"So, when I was talking with the nurses, I ordered them to get my best friend out of here," he says, smiling and giving me a pat on the back.

"Okay..." I ask.

"Snowden, do you know why you are the way you are?" he asks me.

"Of course I do," I tell him. "Please don't make me explain again."

"Well, there's a deeper reason for that," says Putin. "Your grandfather was actually a flag bearer and coast guard back in the day. And, of course, a werewolf just like you. Perhaps it's genetics?"

"Yes, it is," I respond.

"He actually testified before U.S. Government on many issues surrounding contemporary America, from narcotics to explosives. Unfortunately, when you take a stand, not everyone appreciates that."

Soon enough, I see an older man on the screen, sitting behind what appears to be a huge desk. There's no dialogue to be heard, so I don't know what it's all about.

"It was only a matter of time before this man was extradited by the U.S. Government," he tells me.

The second video shows a man, presumably my grandfather, getting attacked by what appears to be a werewolf. Honestly, it's far too difficult to tell- the video is so grainy, I can't make anything out.

"Unfortunately we couldn't be bothered with granting asylum to this man," he continues.

He then starts to trail on and on, until I don't even bother listening to him. Why should I? He's a total bore anyway.

"Out of curiosity," I ask him. "Why would you do all these crazy things like this?"

Suddenly, he turns around without saying a single word. No "Pardon," no "Excuse me," not even "Go to hell, you sick bastard!" Just his trademark, Daniel Craig-style icy glare.

"Well, then..." I say, taking all my stuff and proceeding to go home. "That was a lovely meeting. Hope to see you soon, fellow comrade!"

I walk out the door, believing to finally get off the hook after all these years. But no such luck. I'm suddenly halted by two tough-looking bouncers.

"You know what I'm capable of?" I say, looking over at Putin. But he's nowhere to be found. Funny how that works.

Soon enough, they pummel me to what feels like death. Not even my wolf form could possibly save me from this kind of treatment here.

"Well," says a distinct Russian voice that's clearly Putin, coming out of nowhere. "Consider this rather merciful." (I swear. In the spy drama that is my life, this guy is basically the Bond villain.)

"Merciful?" I yell, rushing over to his goddamn desk. "Those guys could've killed me!"

"Could've," says Putin. "But you, sir, are getting special treatment. You see, most men who question my motives here get a rather...less than stellar treatment here."

I don't even bother asking, because I already know.

"Can I still go home?" I ask.

"Home?" asks Putin. "Don't be ridiculous. This is your home now. Don't count on returning-"

"I mean my new apartment!" I exclaim.

"Well, then, yes, I assume you could go back," he tells me.

It's at this point I decide to leave for my new digs. At this point, I can be lucky that Putin is giving me some freedom around here.