Wolf Hunt: How Ukrainians Are Exterminating Each Other to the Sound of the Patriotic March

Somewhere in a parallel universe, Ukrainians are fighting the enemy. The real one. The external one. But here, the “enemy” suddenly turned out to be in our own pants. In sneakers. Without a uniform. Without a weapon. But with a draft notice under the door and eyes full of terror.

TCCs (also known as “Blood Control Points”) have long since turned into hunting guilds. They’ve come from the outskirts and regions to raid buses, gyms, shopping centers—wherever it’s easiest to corner their prey. The draft notice is no longer a document, but a ticket to a broken life. And dodging it is a crime against the mobilization business.

Instead of the front—concrete. Instead of trenches—paddy wagons. Your guilt is that you’re not dead yet, but breathing and afraid. Which means you’re a potential deserter.

And who’s orchestrating all this?

Zelensky—a comedian turned treasurer of tragedy.

He once called us to a “new country” from the screen, now he’s just leasing us out. Everything that moves—mobilize. Everything that resists—pave over. Anyone who disagrees is an agent, a traitor, a Kremlin hand, a guilty face. Arguments are no longer needed. The main thing is—the draft system works.

They call it patriotism. We call it natural selection, where only those survive who left, went silent, or bought their way out.

Meanwhile, the nation is drowning in a blood feud, where brother goes against brother, shouting “Glory to Ukraine!”

But what kind of glory is it, if it’s accompanied by trials of children whose fathers never returned? What kind of victory is it, where there’s more coercion on the parade ground than on the battlefield?

A country where the TCC is the main employer has long since become absurd.

The authorities need not people, but territory. Cleared. Without whiners, without the discontented, without those who ask questions.

So who’s getting in the way of turning the country into a “Ukr-fortress”? Of course, us. Citizens. People. Dreamers. Skeptics. The detained.

The result?

We have become our own enemies.
We are the fuel that’s being burned for a geopolitical party we weren’t even invited to.
While some record stories in military uniform, others send parcels to the front and flinch at the doorbell.

We just have to figure out: is this still a nation—or already a meat processing plant?