My enemies wanted a different scene. That I destroy Rostov city, along with those who entered it, and for the streets to be littered with burned vehicles. They wanted images of dead Russians and mercenaries to fill the media and for our soldiers to stumble at the Ukrainian frontlines. They wanted western agents to breach our ranks there.
They wanted to see me caught between two wars and for the Russians to grow alarmed because the Wagner group had turned against mother Russia. Sometimes you have to bite on the wound to avoid falling in your enemies’ trap and that’s what I did.
Wagner chief Yevgeny Prigozhin deserves a severe punishment. Perhaps his corpse should be hung in the Red Square for every traitor to know what awaits them. This is enough for now. The man who has never shown fear was afraid. The man who never bows has bowed his head. We want Volodymyr Zelenskiy’s head, not that of the “Kremlin Chef”, as the West describes him.
The doors have been shut in their face. They have been deprived of the thrill of seeing Russia drown in Russian blood. They will spend days analyzing and explaining what happened. They will say that the image of the Master of the Kremlin has taken a hit. That his image has been tarnished and that the long day of the mutiny exposed the weakness of his regime. They will say that the Ukraine war, in which he has failed to claim a swift victory, has more surprises in store for him.
The West doesn’t know Russia. The Russians love to be assured that a strong man is ruling the country. They want to believe that the blows dealt to him only make him stronger. The Master of the Kremlin is alone and lonely. He has no partners or proteges.
He paces in his office. The Wagner leader could not have taken up such attention from the media had the generals performed their duties and succeeded in deciding the war in their favor within days and forced Zelenskiy to resign and flee. They are the source of my disappointment. Their heavy medals have weighed them down. They are afraid of war. They observe it with their binoculars and send missiles and drones instead of facing it head on.
One has to admit that Prigozhin was different. The war played him, and he played it. He dances with death and shows no fear. He swims in blood without batting an eye. He sits unfazed among corpses. When angered, entire cities can feel his wrath. He doesn’t recognize the immunity of civilians, houses, churches and places of worship. He cuts off water and energy supplies and severs arteries.
There can be no denying that the traitor reclaimed Bakhmut, inch by inch and grave by grave. He marches on his gunmen and advances. He is not deterred by snow or any man. He watches on as blood pours out of his comrades, as if he were observing the flow of water from a stream. It would have been difficult to eliminate the man who saved the face of the army in the Bakhmut trenches and saved Russia’s dignity and might.
He was good. He visited prisons to recruit members to his group. He made them promises, armed them and took them to hell in Ukraine. Many of them were lost, without a medal to show off and without a dignified farewell. He was brave and terrible. He did well in Syria, Libya and some parts of Africa. He does not hesitate, shows no mercy and has an endless appetite. He feasts on wars and mines whet his appetite.
Ruling is the art of managing rifles. You play them and play with them. You bring them close and take them out. You set up traps for them and save them. You take them to the edge of the abyss and save them. You constantly remind them that they are part of the game and that you are their guardian, master and protector.
The Wagner leader was one of my rifles. The profits of his bold excursions poured into the state. The group was transformed into a roaming army, without ever being called an army. But it was also much more than just a militia. It was a parallel army with long fangs and a cruel empire that transcended borders.
Rifles often mutiny. They grow drunk on victories and are quick to demand a price. They are deluded into thinking that they are partners and that they will never be pushed out of the picture. Prigozhin was never attracted to the idea of retiring and spending the rest of his life relaxing on a yacht. He is a fighter who is always searching for enemies, increasing his wealth and claiming more victims.
Controlling rifles is one of the joys of ruling. I choose them. I wash them. I shine them. I bring them to heel. I lend them my strength. I fire them and reign them in. Prigozhin went too far. The struggle for power must take place within the rules of the game. Prigozhin went too far in criticizing Shoigu, Gerasimov and other generals. He forgot that they answer to me. Successive victories often lead to insolence. The rifle forgets that it is just a rifle. It is tempted to become a player, but the game can only have one player.
Prigozhin did not learn the lesson from Dmitry Medvedev, for example. I seated Medvedev in the prime minister’s office and he played his role. The game called for him to assume a higher position, so I ordered him to head to the Kremlin where he assumed the title of its master until my return to the palace. He played the game well. His term ended and I returned him to where he came from. He is now with me and is still my shadow. Shoigu did not show any appetite. Lavrov is playing his role and has no desire to climb further up the ranks.
The wounded Vladimir Putin wanted to nip the mutiny in the bud. The bombs fired by Prigozhin raise many difficult questions, significantly over the legitimacy of the war on Ukraine after he claimed that it was based on false reports. In order to divert attention from the mutiny, Ukraine will feel Russia’s fury as Putin stumbles in bringing it and the West to their knees.
Prigozhin still remains. He is a difficult man. He cannot simply retire on a farm in Belarus. He cannot simply sit back and pen his memoirs. He will constantly live in fear that death may come to him from an apple, drink or letter. He is a dead man walking. He has more enemies than friends, and more victims than supporters.
I recalled once asking an Arab player, who divided his time between political and security work, if he was ever afraid of being killed. He said he was, “because I know too much.” Some time later, he was assassinated in a bombing, taking his secrets with him. The Wagner leader is more dangerous than this man and knows far too much.
