The Conman-in-Chief’s latest encounter with Vladimir Putin makes it clear to all but the most obtuse observer that the bloviating blowhard is scared spit-less of the Russian gangster.

Gathered with world leaders for a photo op dressed in a blue silk smock hanging to mid-thigh that violently clashed with his orangeness, looking like an aging overweight hairstylist with a fondness for excessive hair product, Trump turned to the similarly attired little murderous macho man, flashed his best salesman smile and extended a tiny hand.

The resulting grasp exhibited none of the prolonged awkwardness shown with previous world leaders. No grip and yank to show dominance. Just a brief limp-wristed clasp to set the tone for what was to come.

With all things Russian dominating the domestic political stage, the tough-talking, trumpet blaster did not deem it expedient to have a mano-a-mano sit-down with the thug his intelligence agencies say interfered with America’s most sacred democratic institution.

Instead he asked Vlad politely during a brief aside whether the ‘rumours’ he was hearing about election interference were true.

“Nyet,” replied Vlad, apparently showing some annoyance at the trumpet-blaster’s temerity. “Is plot by political foes to ruin great relationship.”

Unspoken, except perhaps by an imperceptible digging in of Vlad’s blood-stained fingernails into the flesh of a tiny hand, or maybe the subtle twitch of a killer’s eye, was the pee tape and money laundering documentation Vlad has squirreled away in the Kremlin for just the right moment.

How else to explain Trump’s take-away from their encounter.

“I asked him again about election interference and he said no. How many times can you ask someone.”

And with that, the commander of the greatest military force the world has ever known, a man who thrives on his perceived toughness, who feigns patriotism for political expediency, who pulls no punches when dealing with adversaries like Rosie O’Donnell, Nordstrom’s, grieving Gold Star families, female network anchors, NFL players and even his own Republican colleagues, one of whom has terminal brain cancer, throws his entire intelligence community under the military bus.

“I believe him,” he said meekly.

After all, why would Vlad lie about something like that. Especially to his new best bro.

For all his shallowness, intellectual deficiency, pettiness and plain out ignorance, no one can deny the Apricot-tinted Conman’s cunning and incredible survival instincts.

Ask yourself why a man facing the pressure of a massive investigation into all things Russia would publicly take the word of his country’s number one enemy, a Russian tyrant who murders his political enemies, over the documented findings of Americans who risk their lives gathering the information in service of their country.

It’s a head-scratcher.

My guess is, money laundering and other financial crimes aside, it dates back to the Miss USA pageant in Las Vegas in 2013. According to an account pop-singing Russian oligarch Aras Agalarov gave to a Russian news outlet, as reported in Politico, he met Trump in the lobby of his Las Vegas hotel and developed an instant camaraderie.

“He took me around the shoulder, gave a thumb’s up, saying ‘Everything is cool!’” Agalarov remembered of the Trump Hotel meeting. Later, as the two watched the pageant, Trump regaled Agalarov with his philosophy on prenuptial agreements and gossiped about VIPs in the audience, per the Russian’s account.

In light of the Access Hollywood tape, who could doubt that with the country’s most beautiful women parading on stage, that the conversation with the Russian pop star turned to “boy talk.”

Investigators looking into the existence of the pee tape video are looking in the wrong place. The encounter may not have taken place in Russia, where Trump’s spidey senses would have been on full alert, but instead in a penthouse in the desert, where Trump would have felt safe getting a golden shower. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, except when Russian spies are involved.

That explains the testimony to Congress of Trump bodyguard Keith Schiller, who recently told U.S. lawmakers that someone in the Agalarov entourage offered to send five women to Trump’s room during a trip to Moscow for the Miss Universe pageant. Schiller says he declined the offer on Trump’s behalf.

Agalarov likely knew the Old Orange Groper had a predilection for doing naughty things with beautiful women from the Viagra-fueled partying they did in Vegas. Like a good host, he wanted to return the favour, Moscow-style, with secret cameras rolling.

From the loyal Schiller’s testimony under oath, we don’t know whether Trump dropped his guard and succumbed to his libidinal yearnings in a far away land. The long-time bodyguard said Trump laughed when he told him about the offer. He said he stood at Trump’s door for several moments but could not testify as to what might have occurred after he left.

Given Trump’s taped admission that he can’t stop himself from kissing women, welcome or not, and his affinity for grabbing them by the pussy, it doesn’t take James Bond to figure out what the Russians might have on the Old Orange Groper.