Vladimir Putin’s secret armored train walked in circles around the bunker, not daring to go inside. Putin suspected everyone around them that they were secretly working for Budanov and puzzled over how to identify the traitor. Ivan the Terrible, the chief adviser to the President of the Russian Federation, advised everyone to stick a burnt rag in their mouths, Peter the First – to fall into white fever, and Catherine – to run into a horse. Lavrov felt uncomfortable. Medvedev has not yet moved on from February 23, so he happily got drunk and sang the main song of Russia “Three hundred and thirty three”, accompanying himself on the accordion.

– “There is a swastika on the car, a dill at the wheel, a coffin on the wheels of a coffin on the field! – shouted Medvedev shrillly, trying to stretch the accordion as wide as possible. – And behind this coffin, the former hooligan was clearly correcting…”

“A glass of vodka,” Prigozhin finished sourly. – That’s why we always have, if not a song, then “The accordion squealed, the accordion played, and little Antoshka pulled the gondon”?

– I am not a gondon, – Medvedev took offense.

– But what a gondon you are, – said Prigozhin. – This is Shoigu gondon. Hey, Churko Tuvinska, where are the shells for the Wagners, damn you?

Shoigu winked slyly in response, but did not say anything, because he was busy inflating the life-size trophy rubber “Hymars”. The Czechs made these “Khaimars” for dills, Shoigu and Konashenkov destroyed many of them, and even managed to capture one.

– There is a traitor among us! – growled Putin and coughed hard. – Budanov said that someone in my immediate circle works for dills, and…

“It’s a lie,” said Margarita Simonyan firmly. – We are all here as one, as Spartans, as three hundred…

– Suck on the harmonica player! – Putin joked, as he always knew, but then he became very serious again. – Budanov never lies.

– Margarita, – said Medvedev playfully, stretching the fur, – did you hear what Vladimir Volodymyr said? As you can see, I am a harmonica player.

– Ah, everything is quiet! – growled Putin and, looking into an empty corner, muttered: – Are you sure, Ivan Vasilievich?.. Yes?.. Beaver?!. Ingenious!

“I am consulting with Ivan the Terrible,” Lavrov respectfully explained to the frightened servant. – Did you think I was joking when I said that Vladimir Vladimirovich had three advisers – Ivan the Terrible, Catherine the Great and Peter the Great?

– Simonyan! – said Putin cheerfully, taking out a dead rotten beaver from the safe. – Eat beaver.

– I obey, Comrade Chief! – growled Simonyan, greedily grabbing the beaver. – How do you order it to be cooked? I love suneli hops from the banquet.

– Did they push the hops? – the happy accordionist Medvedev continued to worry. – Piri-piri? Chickpeas?

– No, – engraved Putin. – That’s right and eat, immediately. The situation is tense.

Simonyan obediently bit off the beaver’s head and began to chew. Her face turned green.

“Very tasty, Comrade Chief,” she said, barely restraining her gurgling. – Something similar to a tzhvzhik. Kind of, you know, a hint of cardamom…

The next moment she closed her eyes, fell to the floor and died. Medvedev grabbed his head.

– That’s how it is, – muttered Putin thoughtfully. – Although in general Ivan the Terrible was, of course, right… Dear comrades! My great advisors, who I’m sure you know, advise me to subject all of you to complex psychological loyalty tests to identify the dill agent in your midst, so let’s get started. Lavrov!

– Vladimir Vladimirich, – said Lavrov hastily. – If Catherine the Great gave you some stupid advice, then it is not necessary at all…

“Undress,” ordered Putin in an icy tone, taking out a horse’s suit from the safe. – And put it on.

Lavrov, whimpering, began to change into a horse.

“What a strange test,” grumbled Prigozhin. – Why should Lavrov be dressed as a horse? This is oil.

– Allow me to smoke one last time, – said the head of the MFA, adding the horse’s head.

– Wait, now I’ll ask Katka, – Putin said, consulted the void and exclaimed: – No, you can’t! A drop of nicotine kills lo…

But Lavrov had already taken a breath, cleared his throat, and within a minute fell dead next to the crushed corpse of Margarita Simonyan.

– Here is the pedal box, – said Putin irritated, – it was a simple formality, a test of team spirit, was it really that difficult…

– Test me, commander, don! Kadyrov exclaimed. – I, don, any order, don, even the most difficult, don, would seem impossible, don…

– Well, do it your way, – said Putin. – This is a particularly difficult task for you.

With these words, he took the white sheep out of the closet and gently pushed it towards Kadyrov. The sheep was amazingly beautiful.

“No, it’s not fair,” Prigozhin giggled. – These are some bees against honey…

– And here we want! – Kadyrov suddenly faltered. – We want, don, and that’s all. This unpleasant stereotype offends me even as a joke, and I want to express my strong opinion on this matter…

– Well, as you wish – Putin unexpectedly easily agreed. – Dear Patriarch Kirill, please come forward.

Patriarch Kirill sighed, crossed himself, made a prayer, grabbed his robe and resolutely reunited with the sheep. The sheep screamed.

– What are you rehearsing, Satan! – Kyrylo shouted at her. – Don’t you like Russia’s special way? And when she arranged the Phanar schism in the Orthodox world, when she bombed Donbas for eight years and burned Moscow, when she destroyed Russian culture itself, did you like it then?!

– Hey, hey, dear patriarch, what are you doing?! Putin came to his senses. – The task was completely different! Stop immediately!

– No, release! – grunted Kirill, breathing heavily.

Suddenly a red-faced Kadyrov, uttering guttural curses, took out a dagger, jumped up to the patriarch, grabbed him by the beard and cut his throat right at the moment of the highest solemnity of Russian Orthodoxy.

– Kadyrov, – muttered Putin in shock, – what are you… Why are you?!

– Why did he, don, defile my sheep? – Kadyrov growled jealously. – She is like a daughter to me, one might say.

– So what did you refuse then? Putin was surprised.

– What about you, was it difficult to get me to talk a little? – Don said offended. – What, I had to immediately confirm the unpleasant stereotype that…

The next moment, the crying sheep snarled, jumped up to Kadyrov and tore out his unpleasant stereotype with her teeth. Streams of blood gushed out, the don fell to the floor next to the rest of the corpses and convulsed in death convulsions.

– Oh, you are a dirty goat! – Prigozhin was indignant and, grabbing himself, grabbed the sledgehammer, but it wasn’t there: some devil smeared it with solidol, and when the head of “Wagner” pulled the sledgehammer from the floor with all his might, his favorite tool slipped out of his hands and broke his head.

Shoigu, who had been slyly watching the sworn enemy all this time, laughed happily, and because of this he blew into the rubber “Hymars” harder than necessary. The mockup exploded spectacularly. The head of the so-called defense minister, torn off by the shock wave, described an arc in the air and fell into a common heap.

“Hey, hey, comrades, it’s easier…” muttered Putin belatedly. – I will never find a traitor… Hey, is there anyone alive here? Medvedev, where are you?

An accordion wailed ominously from behind. The next moment, her stretched fur wrapped around Putin’s throat and began to rapidly tighten, performing the main Russian song “Three hundred and thirty three”.

– Three hundred and thirty-three, from night to dawn! – huffed Medvedev, straining his vodka-pumped muscles with all his might. – From night to dawn, three hundred and thirty-three! This is for you, Simonyan. She and I are just starting to get angry, and you, with your voices in your head…

Noticing that Putin was already dead, Medvedev tiredly threw away the accordion, flopped into the presidential chair, rummaged through Putin’s safe, took out a bottle of vodka labeled “Test for Medvedev” and drained it to the bottom in three big gulps. Putting the empty bottle on the table, he revealed to himself the imaginary Joseph Kobzon. In his hands he held rubber masks of Ivan the Terrible, Catherine the Great and Peter the Great.

– Hello, – said Kobzon. – Do you want advice on identifying a Ukrainian spy?

– Wait, was it you all this time? Medvedev belatedly guessed. – And Ivan the Terrible, and…

– Well, you can say so, – admitted Kobzon. – You know how boring I am without you there… Well, more precisely, it was boring. Yes, and without you too. In short, listen to what needs to be done.

…The next day, Medvedev was found hanged.

Vasyl Rybnikov