The Kremlin Waltz of Death: Trump, Lavrov, and the Bleeding Carcass of Ukraine

As clusterfucks go, the so-called “peace process” that staggered out of Alaska like a drunk out of a whorehouse, pants half on, shouting promises it couldn’t keep, rolled on yesterday with brutal Russian honesty. Moscow wasted no time stomping it flat. Lavrov, that cold-eyed bastard in a suit stitched from Soviet hangover fabric and a defiant CCCP t-shirt, declared Russia must have a goddamn veto over anything that happens in Ukraine after the shooting stops. Then, as if to underline the point, the Kremlin lit up the sky with one of its exquisite midnight fireworks displays: shitloads of drones, missiles, steel raining down on the already pulverised corpse of Ukraine.

The clinically insane lunatic Lavrov then rattled on about Istanbul 2022, dragging out that old framework like a bloated corpse pulled from the Dnipro river. He wants Russia and China as benevolent “guarantors” of Ukraine’s security. Kyiv, unsurprisingly, told him to go to hell. But the man doesn’t blink. He just stares through his wire spectacles as though the entire West is a schoolboy he’s about to cane.

Trump, meanwhile, is chewing the fucking furniture. On Truth Social, he ranted that Biden never let Ukraine “fight back,” calling it like an American Football team banned from playing offence. “No chance of winning!” Trump wailed, grease-stained thumbs hammering at his phone like a man swatting cockroaches in the night. That Nobel Peace Prize seems to be getting farther and farther away from his grubby reach.

Europe, in its eternal weak dithering, hinted at sending troops to secure postwar Ukraine. The French puffing Gauloises, the Brits polishing their helmets, the Estonians drunk and eager. Lavrov swatted that idea aside, calling it “foreign intervention.” The Kremlin has turned hypocrisy into an Olympic sport; they invade, rape, and flatten whole cities, then shriek about intervention the moment anyone else shows up.

Putin himself plays the part of the ice-cold poker shark, smiling faintly while raking in the chips. He’ll meet Zelensky, Lavrov said, but only if the agenda is a one-way street to Ukraine’s surrender. No compromise, no middle ground — just humiliation, offered with a polite shrug.

And still the missiles fall. One more dead, fifteen injured, and American companies smouldering in the wreckage. Russia isn’t negotiating, it’s sending a clear message in high explosive: fuck your peace, fuck your business, fuck your illusions.

Ukraine isn’t lying down, either. Its drones are tearing into Russian oil refineries, jacking up petrol prices in Moscow and making the Kremlin’s gangsters sweat. It’s not victory, but it’s pain. Sometimes that’s enough.

The White House, true to form, keeps up its upbeat karaoke routine. “Positive progress,” the spokesmen sing, as if optimism alone could patch over the blood and rubble.

But the truth is uglier. The peace Trump dreamed of is rotting on the floor, gnawed by rats. Lavrov knows it. Putin knows it. Zelensky knows it. And Trump — for all his noise, for all his threats — is still one tweet away from folding the whole goddamn hand.

We keep telling these useless fucks that there’s only two ways to deal with Russians, but of course no one listens to little old us. The war rages on, a grotesque ballroom dance where every step leaves another crater, another body. Call it diplomacy, call it politics, but it’s nothing more than a waltz of death, with Ukraine bleeding out on the floor while the band plays on.