It was a Friday afternoon, and the grand conference room felt less like a place of diplomacy and more like a pressure cooker. President Trump, seated at one end of the massive mahogany table, was gesturing with his hands, a habit that seemed to add physical weight to his words. Across from him, President Putin listened with his characteristic stone-faced intensity.

Between them, a newly acquired curiosity—a magnificent, jeweled gold oil lamp, a gift that neither man had yet bothered to inspect.

“Look, Vladimir,” Trump began, leaning forward. “We’re making great deals, the best deals. But what we need, what the world needs, is more… branding. A symbol of success. A real symbol of peace and prosperity, you know?”

Putin simply raised an eyebrow. “Peace is found in strength, Donald. Not in symbols.”

As Trump prepared a rebuttal, his hand swept across the table, his cufflink catching the ornate filigree of the lamp.

A plume of brilliant green smoke erupted from the spout with a sound like a thunderclap, swirling into the shape of a colossal, mischievous Genie.

The Genie’s voice boomed, rattling the crystal chandelier above them. “Thank you for rubbing me! You, President Trump, and you, President Putin, have each earned three wishes!”

The two men froze, their political posturing giving way to stunned silence.

Trump, ever the first to recover, pointed at the Genie with a confident smile. “This is fantastic. The best! Okay, listen. My first wish is for a solid gold Trump Tower to be built in the center of every capital city in the world!”

POOF!

The room shook. The windows rattled. From outside came the sound of a thousand construction cranes. News alerts flashed on silent monitors in the corner: GOLDEN TOWERS MATERIALIZE IN EVERY WORLD CAPITAL. Putin stared, momentarily speechless, as Trump grinned with unbridled delight.

“Now that’s what I call a great start,” Trump said. “A symbol of the best deals, in every city. Beautiful.”

Putin, his face a mask of annoyance, gestured to the Genie. “My turn,” he said, his voice a low growl. “For my first wish, I want all television news to be replaced with endless footage of me riding bare-chested on a bear.”

POOF!

On every screen in the room, and indeed, around the globe, anchors mid-sentence were replaced by a seamless montage.

There was Putin, shirtless, astride a massive, very annoyed-looking brown bear. The bear lumbered through snow, splashed through rivers, and occasionally glanced back at the camera with a look of profound, ursine displeasure. He looked younger with hair on his head.

“This will provide more… accurate news,” Putin said with a slight nod of satisfaction.

Trump, still admiring his towers on a distant monitor, turned back to the table. “Alright, my second wish. This is a big one. I wish my good friend and fellow leader, Mr. Zelenskyy, were right here with us. We can settle this, man-to-man, as gentlemen do.”

POOF!

In the third chair at the table, a stunned and slightly frazzled-looking Volodymyr Zelenskyy materialized in a puff of smoke. He was in a camouflage hoodie, holding a half-eaten sandwich, and looked completely bewildered.

The Genie, ever the pragmatist, immediately addressed him. “As the third party in this magnificent meeting, you, President Zelenskyy, have also been granted three wishes!”

Zelenskyy, after taking a moment to process the fact he was sitting between Trump and Putin with a magical Genie, carefully placed his sandwich on a plate. “Well, if wishes are being made… I wish that from this moment forward, all disputes between world leaders can only be settled by breaking into a spontaneous, choreographed song-and-dance number!”

POOF!

A sudden, upbeat disco tune blasted through the room, and all three men were compelled to stand up, their feet moving involuntarily. Trump, a clumsy blur of finger-pointing and shuffling, looked utterly mortified. Putin, his face a mask of iron determination, performed a stern, highly disciplined series of high kicks. Zelenskyy, ever the charismatic performer, was a surprisingly good dancer.

Putin, red-faced and furious, finally managed to stop his kicking and pointed a finger at the Genie. “My second wish is to negate that last wish!”

POOF! The music stopped, and the three men collapsed back into their chairs, gasping for air. The chandelier, however, began to glow with a faint, pulsing light.

The Genie chuckled. “Alas, wishes cannot be negated, only countered! His wish will return after a brief five-minute intermission to allow you all to catch your breath.”

Zelenskyy, still smiling from his brief dance number, took another bite of his sandwich. Trump and Putin looked at each other with a mixture of dread and comical realization. They still had more wishes to make, and they knew that the real fun—and the true chaos—had only just begun.