The Confessions of a Doppelgänger, or Prigozhin’s Brat Summer – Vincenzo Barney
May 16, 2025
Editor’s note: This memoir was found in the drafts of Yevgeny Prigozhin’s Telegram account in March of 2025 and shared with journalist Vincenzo Barney by a protected source close to Prigozhin. It is allegedly written by one of Prigozhin’s much-speculated body doubles.
“Rizhik” is a diminutive in Russian meaning “red-head,” and “Vova” is a diminutive for Vladimir. As in Putin.
I’ve been trying to untie this mangled shoelace. But of course, whenever anyone of special ingenuity puts their talents to a new field, they always go too far. With this shoelace I have clearly overinnovated: I’ve doubled it. For a solid forty-three minutes I wrestled with the thing until finally, falling from my stool and then standing up in the mirror with a look of appalled transport on my face, I held two laces in my hand of unequal length instead of one. In retrospect, my choice of stool was far too tall for this endeavor. But at least my boot was free.
Just as I was threading a new lace through the eyelets of my jackboot I felt a hand on my shoulder.
It was one of my aides.
“What is it?” I asked. I gathered he’d been trying to get my attention for quite awhile. (Had he been watching my jackboot ballet? I’m not embarrassed—I felt I’d moved with the arabesque pliés of my inner Tchaikovsky.) I turned to him in full battledress and oligarch mystique.
“The helicopter is ready, Yevgeny Victorovich, on your word!”
Oh, well, that’s what I like to hear!
“Let’s get a move on then! Come now, little Rizhik!” I said, turning to my little redheaded pet on the floor – I’ll explain him later. “We’ll see how Vova finds this!”
But of course, it wasn’t really Putin I wanted. It was Yevgeny Prigozhin.
I mentioned fields just now, vocations. There is something about certain fields, like, super special fields, that allow one the right to be aloof. I’d say one of the requirements of being a political body double is definitely aloofness. You can’t have Prigozhin down one end of the barracks slapping Wagnerian shoulders while another Prigozhin’s telling a dirty joke down the other end, or wielding a bloody sledge hammer in front of a camcorder in a holding cell. People would catch on. No, I’d say aloofness is one of the involuntary prerequisites of being a body double. The other is public accessibility. Instantaneous public accessibility. When Putin’s dropping bombs on his own paramilitary convoys, what better tactic than to swap the real Prigozhin out with a lookalike? You think Prigozhin’s gonna waltz through throngs of celebratory Russians in a motorcade with his windows down, so vulnerably adored?
Well, yes, that was the real Prigozhin in Rostov-on-Don, soaking up all the fanfare. There’s a lot we have in common, Prigozhin and I, and that’s definitely one of our great loves: adulation.
But then Prigozhin went and did something totally out of our character, something totally out of the blue. He vanished!
Or he might not have completely vanished, but run off down his maze of doubled mirrors. You see, I used to have a brother, a twin brother, named Prigozhin. (Alright, his name wasn’t really Prigozhin, but in revealing his identity we’d start getting into matters of national security, and my testimony and chances of survival depend on nothing if not discretion.) His name was Alexei. He sorta got this whole double thing started. He was the first Prigozhin if you will. The first second Prigozhin. The two knew each other back in their St. Petersburg days. They ran rival hot dog carts. Lot of fun you can get into, playing as someone’s double. I should know, because I used to get into it too, with my brother. Trade workshifts, trade girlfriends, trade lives. That’s what we did a lot: trade lives. But then my brother was killed.
Or at least I hope it was my brother, for I ordered it.
You see, the only ones who know about the other Prigozhins are, well, the other Prigozhins. That’s the way it was set up originally, with my brother. As Prigozhin rose through various stations in the unlikeliest of self-made oligarchical vogues, he’d call upon my brother to fill his shoes: nasty hangover here, important dinner there, Putin up your ass here. But Putin’s chef soon needed him for a lot more than just trading hot dogs with his girlfriends. Naturally, being my brother, he looped me in as well.
There’s about twelve of us. Apostolic numerology. At least, there used to be. Syria saw the number drop to ten. Back in our heyday we were like a fan club, a cult, a cover band. But I’m confident I’ve got it narrowed down to just two now: me and Prigozhin.
I promised you Rizhik, my little red head. Let me start by saying, I’ve got to have my fun. And don’t get me wrong: I have my fun. Yevgeny Prigozhin has his fun. Did I mention already the brainwet sledge hammers glopped in pineal glands and caudate putamen, the gyri ripples of the Ukraintsi mind yielding to erasure? Oh I did, did I? We are mystics, the Wagner Group, with our enforced transcendence of the body. Enlightenment now! Bang! Sloosh! A background of ultraviolet souls lifting off the warm puddles. Yes, we are mystics, inventors of heaven, knee deep in Christian real-estate.
But this is a common, vulgar kind of fun. A man can only enjoy the invisible absorption of the soul into nothingness for so many hours in a day. No, Yevgeny Prigozhin is vulnerable to the invincible innocence of higher tastes. So I have taken a friend. A bosom buddy! From “down unda…” Say hi Rizhik! Ha ha! Say hi little Rizhik! Oh but you can’t even lift your poor swollen eyes. When they came to me like a fluttering faun they were so sunken, so starved and sleepless, and what did Prigozhin do, huh? Flatter your friend, Rizhik, and remind him what he did. Come now, he rose them into bulging blooms, sealed black and too swollen to burst. How touchingly sheer were those first tears, the ones you were ashamed to shed in front of me that now cannot escape their lids if they tried. I took them away! I turned your eyes into hard violet facts. (They have grown so big beyond their sockets that I have taken to covering them when I’m not poking them like a shy, curious child grossing himself out.)
When I saw the Wagner boys messing with Rizhik on Telegram I knew I had to step in and take him under my protection. Reach across the divide, so to speak, and save him from those mean mean men. He came all the way from Australia to fight for the Ukraintsi. Brave little squirrely man. I felt compelled to make him feel a guest in our country.
“Как тебя зовут?” What is your name, the soliders ask in the video. (Do not let it escape your notice, attentive reader, how much more imposing these questions look in their native Cyrillic!)
Rizhik’s eyes twinge in frightened geniality under his dirty red hair. “Oscar. Oscar Bentley. 32 years-old,” he answers.
“Что тут делаешь?” What are you doing here?
Again, the genial twinge! As if to say, “Hmm? Beg pardon, kind sir?” “I am a teacher.” Well that you can tell straight away by the cheery obedience! But he thinks they ask what he does—for a living. Smack! Big Russian paw across the squirrely face.
This is my favorite part. “Жить хочется?” Do you want to live?
He thinks awhile, his eyes downcast. Yes Rizhik, chew it over, it is a big question. “Live!” they yell at him in English. Our little existentialist’s eyes alight, as if to say “Ah, yes!”“I live in Australia.” Smack! Ha ha!
I see online they call him a “woke libtard.” That is, they call him this in America. In America! That is not so nice you ruffians!
Stalin used to have body doubles. Oh yes, at least seven. (With today’s inflation, our Prigozhin Twelve was not much to boast of. But then again, we were just on the make in Ukraine when Prigozhin had us march on Moscow.) One of them was named Felix Dadaev. Look him up, he wrote a memoir, only one chapter of which survived our bold censors. He was some prole juggler from Dagestan who used to get teased about his resemblance to Uncle Joe, until he was absorbed into the ripples of his likeness. Sliding away from his own soul over the edge of the double’s waterfall.
Putin’s got doubles too. That was my first order of business when Prigozhin disappeared to Belarus and left me holding up his aborted coup: leak reports of Putin’s body doubles to the English-speaking press. Well actually, the first order of business I got up to was cracking down on leaks of Prigozhin’s body doubles and liquidating all his imposters. (I find this “cleaning house” style very Putinesque of me, don’t you?) What else do you think brought me to St. Petersburg in such a hurry?
Parties. Parties and women brought me to St. Petersburg in such a hurry. But also the secret queues of Prigozhins I knew were in storage there. A harder task than you think, liquidating his look-alikes, for the problem of finding Prigozhin doppelgängers has never been, “How many people in Russia look like Prigozhin?” It’s, “How many people in Russia don’t look like Prigozhin?” The droop, the anger, the charisma! Try walking down the street here and not finding this face! (Even Rizhik is starting to take on his dear friend’s flaccid physiognomy. They say this happens with old couples. Talk about facial droop! You should see him make the rounds at the parties, by the way. He is the revolving center of St. Petersburg nightlife.)
Saddam, Saddam had them too, body doubles. Ok, Saddam’s not such great shakes but he had them. I always felt for him, down in that spiderhole. How disheveled he looked at his dingy, basement execution. Oh well, out of all of them, Stalin’s the one I wish I could have met. I feel like I could have had a really significant conversation with Stalin.
Prigozhin too. I never met the man.
That’s not entirely true. But while we’ve technically been in the same room, up till now Prigozhin and I have had only a glancing, dare I say flirtatious acquaintanceship. You know, a relationship comprised solely of side eye, of implication, imminent rendezvous’s of world-historical import. Then, of course, he disappeared. Left me to rendezvous with myself.
I don’t talk about it much. After all, I’m the only one who knows. Everyone thinks I’m the real Prigozhin. It instills a certain sense of guilt not to tell Rizhik, whom I confide everything to. Instead, he and I have long chats about Putin, deep into the night. He doesn’t say much, Rizhik. But he listens with stoical absorption. “In my heart of hearts, Rizhik,” I will begin by saying, “I really do wish to be released from the responsibility of having an opinion on this war. As for Vova, please. What do you think of him? What do you think will become of him if I march on the Ministry?” Rizhik manages to respond with a wise silence, a refusal to answer conveying prophetical abstention. He tries to blink his eyes. He can’t. They don’t work.
A double’s true heart cannot be located, and so it cannot be placated. Instead it is tucked into history. Into the warm, cozy contours of the world stage. So I keep a necklace of Rizhik’s fingers hanging over my heart. Its cupped pulse. The heart’s first throb which, in trying to double itself endlessly, turned itself into a heartbeat. Consider, dear reader, the unvisited loneliness of my poor, undoubled soul. So I add to my Rizhik necklace, finger by finger. Rizhik loves me he loves me not. Ha! But you came to me with ten fingers, an even number. That was not so wise. The laws of the even integer. The destiny of the chetnoye chislo: Четное число. He loves me he loves me not. He has only his two middle fingers left, and last I checked he loved me not! Uh oh! For Prigozhin knows how to count! O I am doomed to be spurned, to be unrequited by my little redhead! This does not bode well for you, Rizhik! For a spurned Prigozhin is not a nice Prigozhin.
But I think I will keep these last two fingers awhile. Aides often burst in and tell me, “Putin this, Putin that,” and I say, “Oh yeah? Tell Vova this,” and I raise Rizhik’s two-fisted salutes to them.
(You can’t see me but I’m laughing quite hard. Quite hard.)
At the last party, under the enlightening effects of three bottles of red wine drunk at the right speed, I thought for a moment of doing something not entirely benign to Rizhik’s genitals. But that fantasy was trumped by watching him get fucked by concubines. That is a lesson in resilience, watching the cock stand tall for its chance at pleasure, at repopulation, in the midst of bodily carnage. To watch a man with no legs below his knees, unmoving, getting ridden, and cum! Actually watch the white beads of the soul issue out of a desecrated body for just a shot at self-propagation. Not that it was a strong cumshot, mind you, but it had the will to live in it. We made a video of it for all the Wagner boys and released it to Telegram. For the spirit, the uplift.
Oh, did I mention I removed his legs? We tossed them into a crate of Australian mercenaries back when his eyes could still open a sliver. (I would put my face to his lids and see within.)
No, the import of this spectacle was clear: nothing can be done to Rizhik’s genitals. Protect his genitals. Hands off the genitals. Can man truly be reduced to only his penis? The blind pink confidence of being engulfable, of being loveably homed in so close to death? These are mystical questions.
(Another: did the Yaponchik in Nanking stop to perform any cunnilingus, to lap at any petal-rimmed chinks in the shadows of all those slashed flowers? If so, what was the ratio of cunnilingus to rapine? Surely there was at least one sensualist in the bunch with a taste for the thigh-warm bloom. Has the first maneuver of any enemy soldier in the great historical rapines ever been cunnilingus? This strikes me at the same time: one of the drawbacks of modern warfare? We are not afforded nearly enough rapine. This is obvious, but it is worth noting.)
To honor Rizhik’s genitals we have tattooed his cock in inky strata, imprintations of our foreign grammar.
Then Dmitry Utkin tried putting him on top but that was too messy and we had to send the little slut away. Christ. I don’t think I can fuck her for a week.
I’ll admit, Prigozhin left me in a damn awkward position: run his mouth for months at Putin, coup the Ministry of Defense, then up and call it quits. But I’ve got a plan. Prigozhin’s always got a plan. And it’s not just sitting around all day on his ass, though that’s definitely a crucial part of the calculus.
Putin’s got thyroid cancer? I don’t know about that. It’s not like all the doubles in the country get together and gab. It’s not like we have a group chat. But the Putins are out there. The way you can tell? The earlobes. You can’t fake an earlobe, apparently. Which is total bullshit. Get a mold of Putin’s ears, cut off the fake Putin’s ears, sew ‘em on and you’re good to go! I should know. That’s what Prigozhin did to me. Now I can’t hear worth a damn.
Alright, enough about Prigozhin. Let’s talk about me. You should see my place in St. Petersburg! Live-in chefs, helipad, three swimming pools. The opulence is simply breathtaking. And the splendor, don’t get me started on the splendor. And my harem! My God the women. I admit, I’ve been thumbing my nose at Vova. Throwing parties, inviting all the oligarchs but him. But after all that time on the battlefield, a man should be able to enjoy himself, shouldn’t he, without mixing his business with pleasure?
Aides have tried to convince me to wear a wig when I go out to the nightclubs. But I tell them, look, I’m Yevgeny Prigozhin. I’m not going to pretend to be someone else. Lukashenko won’t get off my ass too. He’s a worry wart. But I just say, I’m Prigozhin, right? Putin and I are old friends. I’m his old fucking chef for Christ’s sakes. Besides, he wouldn’t dare. See what I’ve done to Ukraine? I could do the same to Moscow and the whole Ministry of Defense. Putin fled Moscow as soon as I turned in its direction, thousands of miles away. Do you know what that does to a man’s ego? Plus, I’ve got a growing number of emboldened garchs on my side, disgruntled little oli’s.
Course, they all say I’ve changed.
Dear Diary, Rizhik, alas, is dead. I am beside myself. I am beside myself. Yevgeny Prigozhin is utterly beside himself and the little slut who did him in. I put my necklace around him as I said my goodbyes. I left him his one-finger Putin salutes. I had had a team of doctors dressing his wounds and fighting his sepsis and he just flat out came apart under the strain of J-cup silicon tits. The doctors looked at me like I was crazy when I demanded an autopsy. He had been looking so debonair, too. I’d taken to the idea of recuperating him. Getting him some new little legs. I don’t know, but I had visions of—don’t make me say it, but ok, I will—turning him into one of my new doubles. I don’t know what I’ll do now. I had grown so attached and… my heart, dear reader, my heart…! I don’t think I can bring myself to catch this plane.
I caught the plane. The safest form of travel, planes. The first thirty seconds are the most dangerous. Just set your watch and after that you don’t have much to worry about. People don’t get loaded up on tranquilizers to drive down the Ring Road here in Moscow, even though you’re more likely to die on it. Only 124 Russian casualties in 2023 from airplanes. Most, unfortunately, oligarchs. Shame. We have so many oligarchs in Russia these days they’re practically falling out of the sky, out of top floor windows.
The tranquilizers I’m taking though aren’t for the fear. Lukashenko’s got a party tonight and I’m just getting into form. I’ve got a feeling Prigozhin might be there. See, I’ve got a plan. Find the real Prigozhin, offer him up to Putin on the biggest silver platter you’ve ever seen (I have a lot in my St. Petersburg abode), and go on with life. Maybe get a hearing aid. Yeah, I might get chewed out, I might get a gun in my mouth, but then, with all I know about Prigozhin, I’ll work out a deal, are you kidding! I’ve got leverage, see. My intel for a fat lump sum and a sunny villa. Ok, I’ll throw in a public apology, on my knees. Ok, I’ll accept exile in Belarus. Abdicate all control of Wagner? Done. I’m reasonable. Done done done. A million times over. Prigozhin is a reasonable man!
I can just see me now: tan and tended to poolside by some sugary concubines. I like that one Russian pornstar, Aletta Ocean. Throw in Aletta Ocean, Vova, and you got yourself a deal! She’s more my generation than these younger naturalism-feigning “models,” much more my style: that bottomless erotic goodwill that leads to ever bigger tits and lips and ass. An Overton Window of silicon. Every year a new cup size. Like that fine specimen on the arm of Bezos: take me O goddess! Everything so big you hardly need reach out to have a handful of whatever you’d like. Aletta enters any room in this villa and it’s all right there. You turn around and your cock’s already in her mouth her lips are so big. You’d have to titty fuck her just to get to the bathroom. I did meet her once, in the pre-Prigozhin days. Sharing the same room I felt I was merely in the midst of her, her tits implicated in every turn of my head, every culinary assignation—as I was still verst-deep in the darker protocls of the hot dog trade at the time, and “running train” with my brother on the glue-sniffing heroin semi-chic of St. Petersburg.
You say all this fame has gone to my head. Well, it would for you too if you lived the life I led, from hot dogs to hand grenades!
Hello my diary. Can’t stop thinking about Rizhik. Rizhik—that was the sound he made when he tried to speak in his last days! “Riii-zziiik”–that’s the sound he made at night with his brains fucked out lying sprawled on the floor, trying for words. An aptronym, his whole existence reduced to his nickname. “Rizhik” his destiny all along…! Wow. Wow. I’ve broken down and made plans to send him back to Australia for a hero’s burial. I’m quite taken with myself, quite impressed: I gave him some great last days. Truly great. I saved him from the sledgehammer: the pink mist, the irradial amethyst of the soul coming off the body. Prigozhin, be proud of yourself: you’re a real one.
Helicopter’s just touched down. I’ve been in Moscow, of all places, making some direct contact with Putin’s aides. Buttering him up. Now I’m back to St. Petersburg to grab a few things, and then it’s Belarus and Lukashenko’s rave!
Oh God, would you take a look at my plane? This jet? The nose on it. The Concordean nose. I get lost in its gloss, its slippery shine. Look just how far I’ve come, between these pre- and post-gozhin days, so to speak.
“What?” I say.
“RIGHT THIS WAY,” my aide responds. (As I explained earlier, my hearing’s not what it used to be.)
Right, well. This is where I leave you. You can watch from the ground. The roaring run up, the sleek take off, the graceful dip of the wing. The speed. The poise. Oh now that’s nice: the sun is setting. Watch it catch my underbelly. Watch me pink through the sky. Watch me, waiting, asking yourself all the time: What’s Prigozhin’s next move?
What will Prigozhin do next?
Editor’s note: Less than an hour after take-off Prigozhin’s plane exploded mid-air. Astute readers will note, he did not survive.
Or did he? This memoir was found as a draft on Prigozhin’s Telegram account. Perhaps the real Prigozhin is still out there, at large and unduplicated. Undated footage was released a year after Prigozhin’s death showing him in the passenger seat of a jeep in Africa, telling the world to “Stay tuned.” Speculation abounds. Citizen journalists unite: this is your story to break.