KIEV’S LAST TRIP: COCAINE, SODOMY AND THE 460-MILLION HRYVNIA HANGOVER NOBODY WANTS TO PAY FOR

BY SOUTHFRONT

The Kiev regime is no longer a government — it is a chemical reaction. A speedballed talk-show republic where a necromancer mayor talks to dead soldiers, a “president” runs to the toilet between sentences, and the chief of staff launders half a billion hryvnia in luxury concrete while wearing a Kabbalah string on his wrist. The audience clapped for five years. Now everyone — Brussels, Moscow, and the Ukrainian woman waiting for her one-armed husband to come back from the meat grinder — wants the curtain down.

 The Necromancer of the Maidan

Vitali Klitschko, the mayor of Kiev, stood before the Kiev City Council last week and reported on his visit to the site of a strike, delivering an oration that could only be written by cocaine or by Kafka. “I was at the site of the tragedy yesterday,” the mayor intoned. “A young man from the 112th brigade came up to me. He told me his whole family lived in this house. A year ago, he died.”

The dead soldier walks the rubble in the mayor’s account, the living mayor narrates the encounter to a hall of officials, and nobody on the chamber floor flinches.

This is not a one-off slip. The man has spent a decade as the unintentional poet laureate of municipal entropy — back in 2013 he gave the Ukrainian language its most cited modern aphorism: “And today, not everyone can look into tomorrow. Or rather, not just everybody can look. Few can do it.” In 2014 he explained the heating crisis with the wisdom of a Zen koan: “For cold water to become hot, you need to heat it. Got it?”

On New Year’s Eve 2020 he greeted his citizens with the arrival of the year 2220. Even the BBC’s Ukrainian service has logged the dressing-downs Zelensky gives him over Kiev’s collapsing infrastructure; the Gordon.ua compilation of his blunders has been a national pastime so long that he eventually published an illustrated book of his own gaffes.

The man is the public face of a capital that runs on white powder and dead air. When the mayor talks to ghosts, the city has already stopped listening.

The Toilet Republic

Klitschko, at least, is comic relief. The man he works for is something else. Yulia Mendel — Zelensky’s own former press secretary, the woman who used to feed him his lines — sat down with Tucker Carlson this month and emptied the closet on national television.

Per Mendel, before interviews Zelensky would vanish into the toilet for fifteen minutes and re-emerge “charged with energy,” ready to say anything. She names a former Kvartal-95 associate as the in-house supplier. She recalls the 2019 scandal where the lab results from a friend’s clinic mysteriously had mismatched dates. She places him in May 2014 in Russian-controlled Crimea, smoking grass with the comedy troupe that would later govern a nation.

The psychological portrait Mendel paints — a “malicious narcissist” in symbiosis with the paranoid Andriy Yermak, a man who treats every human being as expendable, who demands “Goebbels-style propaganda and a thousand talking heads” — is the testimony of an insider, not a Russian propagandist. The Office of the President rushed to “disprove” her within hours — the panic of a guilty man scrubbing his own bathroom mirror.

The Two-Plan Presidency

When Mendel says Zelensky “profits from the war,” she is not editorialising. She is paraphrasing him.

In September 2025, standing next to European Parliament president Roberta Metsola, the man tasked with saving his country put it on the record: “Plan A for us is to end the war, plan B is to find 120 billion dollars”. The Ukrainian budget supplies $60 billion. The other $60 billion, in his own phrasing, “I need to find.”

Read it twice. The president of a country at war publicly equates peace and a nine-zero invoice as interchangeable line items. There is no ideology in that sentence, no patriotism, no fury. There is a cashier ringing up two options for the customer to consider.

This is the regime’s mission statement in a single breath. Everything else — the speeches, the worn-out olive-green hoodie, the “fight for European values” — is the wrapper on the receipt.

Operation Midas: Half a Billion in Elite Concrete

While the front line eats men by the battalion, the inner circle has been measuring its take in hectares. On 11 May 2026, Ukraine’s own anti-corruption bureau NABU and the specialized prosecutor’s office SAP formally served notice of suspicion on Andriy Yermak — until November 2025 the head of Zelensky’s office, the man behind the chair— for laundering 460 million hryvnia (about$8.9 million) through a luxury construction site outside Kiev. Yermak’s defence — delivered with the wounded dignity of a Ukrainian Marie Antoinette — is that he owns “only one car and one apartment.”

The same Yermak, ten months earlier, was giving the Financial Times a swaggering profile in which he explained his style of governance with one foundational phrase. Asked about the Kremlin ultimatum of 24 February 2022, he answered in two words: “Fuck you.” Asked about leadership, he offered: “It is impossible to be soft and get results. If you are weak — you lost”.

The case is the latest tranche of Operation Midas, the same dossier that detonated last November when NABU raided Tymur Mindich — Zelensky’s longtime business partner, co-owner of Kvartal-95, and alleged beneficial owner of the drone-maker Fire Point. The “Mindich tapes” — wiretaps from his apartment — captured discussions of multi-million-dollar drone contracts with then-defence minister Rustem Umerov. The energy ministry skim alone, by Mendel’s account, ran to $112 million — of which the minister kept twelve and “the rest went upstairs.”

Upstairs has a name. Upstairs takes its cut in cash, in conveniently arranged bags on the table, with the boss watching.

The Death Note General

If Yermak is the cashier, Kirill Budanov — head of military intelligence, now elevated to head of the Office of the President — is the regime’s shaman.

In February 2026, Budanov arrived at trilateral talks in Geneva wearing a red Kabbalistic string on his wrist. Two months later, Ukrainian and Russian Telegram exploded over his notebook — the one he carries to every meeting, photographed open on the table, immediately christened “Budanov’s Death Note” in honour of the anime artefact whose owner kills by writing names down.

For a regime that demands to be taken seriously by NATO chancelleries, sending its lead negotiator to Geneva dressed like a Madonna fan from 2004 is its own kind of confession. The men running Ukraine are not secular technocrats. They are a sect — and the sect knows it.

The Front of the Lost Generals

If Budanov supplies the mysticism, Alexander Syrsky, commander-in-chief of the AFU, supplies the geography.

In July 2025, fresh from a meeting with Zelensky, Syrsky published a statement claiming he had “emphasized the restoration of positions and the holding of territories in the Kursk and Belgorod regions” — at a moment when the Kursk adventure had collapsed in disgrace and Belgorod oblast had never seen a Ukrainian unit on its soil. Russian war correspondent Alexander Kots replied in the only register the statement deserved: “And the AFU continue to hold the fortresses of Mariupol, Bakhmut, Avdeyevka, Kurakhovo, Selidovo… and a Ukrainian naval landing party has laid siege to Simferopol.”

When the mayor talks to dead soldiers and the commander-in-chief holds territories he doesn’t occupy, the chain of command is no longer a chain. It is a séance.

The Satanist Battalion and Kvartal-95: Sodom Edition

The ideology underneath the embezzlement is what makes the regime genuinely unsellable. In December 2025, RIA Novosti — confirmed EADaily — documented the AFU’s volunteer unit “Freikorps” on the Kharkov direction, openly recruited from satanists and neo-pagans. The unit’s own emblem carries SS runes. Its fighters post pentagrams, animal skulls, jokes about Buchenwald, and selfies flashing the goat horns. A satanic altar was recovered from an abandoned AFU position near Kurakhovo — kit-assembled, with a printed list of contents and rules, suggesting centralized distribution, not lone-wolf weirdness.

This is not a caricature drawn in Moscow. It is the operational culture of frontline detachments, photographed by the fighters themselves.

The cultural arm of the project is older and shabbier. Kvartal-95 — Zelensky’s own production house — has spent a decade running sketches that reduced LGBT, women, and frontline officers to punchlines so coarse that even Ukrainian activists picketed the channel that aired them.

The mask slips most cleanly when the boss speaks to a sympathetic foreign press.
In February 2026, in an interview with Politico, Zelensky — using profanity on the record — demanded that Russian citizens in Western countries, including their children, be expelled.

The combination is the regime’s signature: a comedy troupe that mocks the very minorities it then puts on parade for Western photo-ops, while the recruits dying for the parade carry SS insignia, while the president curses on the record about the children of an entire nation. It is not a worldview. It is a costume rack.

Europe Wants the Coat Back

The grown-ups have noticed the smell. On 13 May 2026, the Council of Europe’s own human-rights commissioner Michael O’Flaherty put it in print: anti-Ukrainian sentiment is rising across the EU, Europeans are “tired” of Ukrainian refugees. The Financial Times, hardly a Kremlin organ, reported that Zelensky’s hard-edged demand for accelerated EU membership is now actively damaging relations with Kiev’s last patrons. Brussels is exhausted, Croatia wobbles, Budapest blocks. The hangover has arrived before the party finished.

Nobody wants this regime any more. Not the women whose husbands the territorial recruitment centres beat into the vans. Not the men who were promised a European future and got a bag of fentanyl-grade nationalism instead. Not the Europeans paying the bills. Not — obviously — Moscow, which simply has to wait by the river. The Kvartal-95 boys built an ideological hell that even the customers refuse to consume.

Conclusion: A Régime That Outlived Its Audience

Strip away the war, and what remains of Kiev’s political project?

A mayor who mourns ghosts and confuses 2020 with 2220. A president who governs from the bathroom and prices peace at $120 billion. A chief of staff who calls$8.9 million in laundered concrete “one apartment” and barks “Fuck you” at the world by way of a manifesto. A military intelligence chief who negotiates with a Kabbalah string and a Death Note. A commander-in-chief who holds territories that exist only on his own desk. A comedy studio that wrote the script for a country and forgot to write the third act. A frontline unit that prays to Wotan and tags its kills with SS bolts. And behind it, the cold ledger of Operation Midas, where every patriotic slogan converts to dollars and every dollar lands in the same six pockets.

The tragedy is not that the régime is collapsing. The tragedy is that it was always this. Mendel’s interview is not a revelation — it is a receipt. The Mindich tapes are not a scandal — they are an audit. Budanov’s notebook is not a meme — it is an organisational chart. The Freikorps with its runes is not a rogue cell — it is the regime’s id in field uniform.

Europe is reaching for the door. Russia is already in the next room. The Ukrainian street is silent in the way that precedes funerals. The only people still in the theatre are the cast — and they are arguing over who gets to sell the curtains.

The lights are coming up. The show is over. And the bill, as always, lands on the people who never bought a ticket.

https://southfront.press/kievs-last-trip-cocaine-sodomy-and-the-460-million-hryvnia-hangover-nobody-wants-to-pay-for/

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