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Burroughs and Putin in the Interzone of War

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Burroughs and Putin in the Interzone of War

Constantin von Hoffmeister

Mar 13, 2025

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Burroughs and Putin in the Interzone of War

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The Russian war machine slows, shifting gears, a brief intake of breath. Putin stands before the lights, the cameras, the simulacrum of diplomacy, a man who has played the long game and knows when to pause, when to lunge. He says Russia agrees — for now — to the proposed halt in combat operations in Ukraine. Not surrender, not submission, but a strategic moment to let the enemy flinch first. The West, addicted to its own lies, speaks of ceasefires, thirty-day truces like bandaids over gunshot wounds. But the Kremlin does not deal in bandaids. It deals in permanence. Putin makes it clear: any pause must be in the service of a lasting peace, not another sleight of hand. The Americans whimper about a temporary truce while Russian forces watch, waiting, calculating the next move. The Kursk region is a pressure point, and the question of Ukrainian troops stationed there must be resolved before any agreement can hold. The Americans don’t understand Russian patience, the ability to play decades ahead, to see history as a palimpsest that can be rewritten in blood and steel. The ceasefire remains a question of control, and control, as William Burroughs taught, is the root of all war, all sickness, all systems of power. Who runs the flesh racket? Burroughs had asked, and the answer was always the same: the West, the dealer of illusions, injecting nations with temporary fixes and calling it democracy.

The emissary from the belly of the American beast, Steve Witkoff, slithers into Moscow, his briefcase full of papers, a dull bureaucratic necromancer attempting to resurrect something dead: American credibility. His mission? The impossible. To restart Russian-American relations as if the century of humiliation never happened, as if NATO had not crept eastward like a plague. To speak of truces and temporary measures, as if history is a thing that can be paused, as if war is a Hollywood film that can be edited for a gentler rating. Putin’s foreign policy adviser, Ushakov, is unimpressed. He understands what Burroughs wrote about control: it cannot be negotiated with, only dismantled or consumed. Russia is not interested in giving Ukraine breathing room, only in finality. The roots of this war lie not in the trenches but in the rotting architecture of Western illusions. Russia’s demands are clear: territorial adjustments, the obliteration of NATO’s encroachment, the removal of foreign parasites from Ukrainian soil, and the exorcism of the Nazi demons still haunting Kiev’s corridors of power. Burroughs knew it, too: the world is full of invisible men running the show, pulling strings, injecting dreams into the bloodstream. Nothing is real, everything is permitted. But Russia sees through the haze, and Moscow does not dream — it acts.

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Somewhere between Kiev and Washington, in the rotting husk of empire, a man with no face slouches over a desk, typing out peace treaties on a machine that no longer prints. The ink is blood, the letters are nonsense. His fingers drip with a sickly black tar, and the screen flashes “ERROR ERROR ERROR.” The contract is void, the deal is off. Meanwhile, a Ukrainian officer with a NATO patch stitched to his soul leans back, a needle sliding into his arm — pure uncut Western funding, enough to keep the corpse of the nation upright for another week. He grins, teeth falling out, lips peeling back. “We’ll hold the line,” he slurs. But the line is already gone, erased, rewritten. The Interzone is here, and the war is not a war — it is a program, a script, a fever dream broadcast live. The West claps, Russia reloads. The next scene begins.

Meanwhile, from within the gilded confines of Russia’s own oligarchic underbelly, Oleg Deripaska emerges, his voice an echo from a parallel Kremlin, a capitalist with a different kind of agenda. His terms for peace lack the martial rigor of Putin’s vision; they drip with the concerns of a man whose kingdom is commerce, not conquest. He wants the West to return half of Russia’s frozen assets, to ease its economic stranglehold, to stop persecuting the Russian language and the Russian Orthodox Church. This is not betrayal — it is a different kind of warfare, the soft war of capital against the hard war of empire. It is the old alchemy of power transmuted into gold, a struggle between the Burroughsian logic of control through money and control through violence. In the Western world, control is a virus, spreading through stock markets and hedge funds, transmitting itself through the bodies of the rich. For the first time in ages, a Russian industrialist speaks openly against the Kremlin’s warlike cadence, offering an alternative that is indifferent to the battlefield. But wars are not won in boardrooms; they are won in the mud, in the trenches, in the minds of men who know that history has no patience for weak hands. Burroughs once called it naked lunch, that moment when you see exactly what is on the end of your fork. Russia has seen the meal, and it has no appetite for anything but victory.

The West plays at diplomacy, but Russia plays at reality. The Americans still believe in their dream of empire, but Russia has woken up. The future will not be negotiated in some sterile conference room; it will be written, as it always has been, in the streets of broken cities, in the deserts of shattered illusions, in the trenches where history makes its final cut. A storm in a dry place is the end of the world. The storm is coming, and Moscow is ready.

If you enjoy my writings, please consider purchasing my books Esoteric Trumpism and MULTIPOLARITY!.

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Brandon Springer

14h

"The future will not be negotiated in some sterile conference room; it will be written, as it always has been, in the streets of broken cities..."

Um, but Fukuyama told me history was over. Oh man, now I have to recalibrate all my assumptions about...nah. Screw that. Too much work. I'm just gonna call everyone racist.

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youlian troyanov

12h

Sublime. 👏

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