President 404

All coincidences are accidental. The country is fictional. The character is composite. The smile is real. The laughter is a safety valve.

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Dramatis Personae (more or less)

Vlad Grinsky — actor, president, one-man orchestra.
First Adviser — former producer, believes in ratings the way others believe in horoscopes.
Adviser on Europe — a man with a briefcase. Inside the briefcase — promises.
The People — extras who suddenly demanded royalties.
The Audience — a collective character. First they applaud, then they whistle, then they go for popcorn.

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Vlad Grinsky, or How a Comedian Became President and the President Became a Comedian

In a beautiful country where the TV remote was more influential than the constitution and opinion polls were more accurate than astrology, there lived a man named Vlad Grinsky. A talented actor, a favorite of the public, a one-man orchestra. He was especially good at the piano. But not only that: he could play a president, a teacher, a plumber, and Hamlet in a banya. When he played a president, the audience was delighted: they laughed, cried, and gave him a standing ovation.

That's when the unusual began. The viewers decided: if he plays a president so convincingly, why not give him the lead role in the country?

And there were reasons for that. Previous presidents hadn't exactly shone with creative flair. After the national celebration — the Maidan — life had become a bit dull. People wanted more, wanted all of Europe to envy them. But those others started a little war with their own dissenters. What's fun about that? But this one — an artist, an inventor, a talker. With him, life would be better, more fun.

They started hinting: how about president? Europe supported it. Not just with applause. Applause too, of course, but applause, unlike loans, doesn't require repayment.

And so Vlad stepped onto the big stage. He smiled and said in a heartfelt voice:

— You know me. I'm not a politician. I'm just like you. We'll be together.

It was the best role of his life. The audience believed. The audience voted with applause. And the country believed too: this is a president. A real one. With imagination.

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Season 1: The Stage

Vlad felt the power, and it carried him away. On stage he was brilliant. His jokes were quoted, his images copied, his charm declared a national treasure. Everything went smoothly, as if by script. His experience as a performer showed. He knew how to hold a pause, when to smile, when to frown, when to shed a tear. It seemed he could do anything. Visa-free travel and gingerbread — guaranteed. For the whole country — 404. At least in the trailer.

From a fictional chronicle:
According to the Institute of Alternative History, in the first season he made 12,000 promises. Kept — three. The rest became quotes. One was even carved in stone. The stone was later stolen. Along with the road.

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Season 2: The Elections

He built his election campaign like stand-up: no program, but with energy. He promised peace, order, prosperity, and "new faces." The crowd chanted: "Grinsky! Grinsky!" And he won. For the first time in the country's history, an actor got the lead role without a script.

There was one nuance, though. Europe, which had promised visa-free travel, was also expecting certain actions from him that it needed. Like a producer: "We approved you, but the budget is under our control."

— Boss, — said the First Adviser a month after the election, — we need something more. The people want specifics.
— Specifics are boring, — Vlad replied. — Give me another image.
— Which one?
— The people's one.
— You already have that.
— Then give me two.

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Season 3: The Office

In the president's office, at first he kept waiting for the director. But there was no director. There were advisers, oligarchs, and creditors. And experts from Europe. Not much time passed. Almost every day he delivered a new speech with a smile: congratulations, promises, sweet talk. Everything went over well, but suddenly...

— Boss, the ratings are falling, — said the First Adviser.
— How much?
— Like the national currency after your last monologue.
— Then we need a new image. Where's my camouflage?
— At the dry cleaner's. And also: Europe is asking for a report.
— Tell them we're working on the artistic conception of the report.

By this time Vlad had already entered the new role according to Stanislavski. He had always been funny and quick-witted, but now he became bold as well. He began to improvise more. In everything: in economics, in politics, in running the country. The improvisation was brisk, but for some reason the country laughed less and less.

Analysts convinced him: he needed to add more activity, introduce intrigue, hint at changes for the better.

Then it dawned on him: in this performance he was not only an actor but also a director. He started changing ministers like actors in a troupe: can't handle the role — your fault — out you go. But the play turned out bad, and the audience was already whistling. Europe, meanwhile, applauded and promised more and more, invited him to parties where everyone was glad to see him. And as for kisses — every time and with everyone. Protocol? Never heard of it.

He gave speeches that were translated into every language. The applause was deafening. But the roads in his own country still had potholes. He promised peace in one season. But it turned out that war has no script, and peace has no producer. All of this had to be sorted out somehow. Or distract attention from the problems.

From a fictional chronicle:
A new profession appeared in the country — translator from presidential into human.
The Road Fund was renamed the Fund of Historical Potholes. More honest that way.
Visa-free travel was introduced for those who had already managed to leave. The rest got a booklet — like a ticket to the future.

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Even as president, Vlad never stopped being a joker. And what's interesting, his example proved contagious. Among ordinary Ukrainians, the number of jokers kept growing and growing. Of course, they couldn't compare to the president, but still. A parody presidential decree went viral among the people.

Parody Decree No. 404
On the Translation of Reality into an Artistic Image

For the purpose of increasing the entertainment value of state life, and also in connection with the fact that reality does not correspond to the approved script, I hereby decree:

1. To consider reality an artistic fiction. All coincidences with facts are accidental.
2. To call potholes on roads "elements of dramaturgy." Their number — "the depth of the concept."
3. To interpret falling ratings as "a change of genre."
4. Rising prices — as "rising tension."
5. To consider dissenters "spectators who failed to understand the director's vision" and send them for advanced training. To the front.
6. To submit reports to Europe in the form of a theatrical review. Ratings — no lower than "bravo."
7. To consider cruises around Europe business tours. Applause — the fee.
8. Visa-free travel for those who left — a "standing ovation." For the rest — a program booklet.
9. To replace the word "war" with "special production." The word "peace" — with "intermission."
10. This decree enters into force from the moment of the first applause. Until then, consider it a joke.

President, People's Artist of All Times and One People.
Seal: round as a nickel, and just as hard.

The author of this parody was never found. They began to consider it folk art.

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Season 4: War and Peace

Meanwhile, the situation in the country was becoming more and more complicated. In the kitchens, as intelligence reported, there were too many unnecessary conversations. This is unacceptable. No rumors, everyone must think in one direction. What to do?

Nothing consolidates a crowd like a vicious enemy. And war distracts from personal problems. And he changed into camouflage. It was a strong image. Tragicomic plots moved from the stage to the fields. But an image doesn't replace a master plan.

Among the people, doubters still appeared: are we going the right way? There were more and more of them. But doubts were drowned out by the drumbeat of heralds of victory reports. And also: the First Adviser developed a brilliant idea he'd had earlier — to identify doubters and send them to the front. All of them. As storm troopers. The idea became reality.

He became a hero of the news, a symbol of resistance to the aggressor, a human meme. His fiery monologues, full of hatred for the enemy and love for his fellow citizens, were heard by parliaments and congresses. They applauded him. But applause doesn't build bridges or stop shells. And the losses kept mounting.

The military operations dragged on. The budget was bursting at the seams, but Europe regularly supported him with money. Whether as a loan or simply without repayment. Visa-free travel turned into a stream of refugees from the country. Talk of the promised gingerbread died down. One joy remained — regular cruises around Europe. There was enough money and time for parties. But that's not enough. And he so wanted to go down in history. To go down in it, not to step in it.

He changed rhetoric like gloves: from "I'm not a politician" to "I'm a wartime leader." He called himself "a president for an hour," but the hour lasted for years, like an intermission in a bad theater. Already without any elections. He thought the main thing was a good monologue. But in politics the main thing is boring, tedious, daily work.

And then Europe suddenly announced: everything we could give, we've already given. Money and weapons are running out. And you, dear artist, it's time for the final scene. But don't be sad, we won't abandon you.

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Finale

Vlad stood on stage. Still talented. Still charismatic. Still able to hold an audience. But the audience was empty. The scenery had collapsed. Someone shouted:

— Bravo!

But it was sarcasm.

He remained an actor. The country was left with broken scenery. The viewers dispersed, carrying away their popcorn and disappointment.

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Moral

You can be a brilliant actor and a talentless politician. It's not a paradox. They're different professions. One requires transformation, the other — responsibility.

Our hero's story seems to have gone wrong. He should have understood a few nuances of the president's job:

· Applause has no exchange rate. You can't invest it in roads, hospitals, and bridges.
· If the country's director is the president, then sooner or later the viewer becomes a critic. And criticism, as we know, can be deadly.
· Politics is not a game where you can reshoot a take. People are not extras. They don't get a second take. Especially at the front.
· Applause doesn't replace reforms, just as sauce doesn't replace a steak. Ovations don't build roads. And the role of president is not a role but a job. And if you're going to play it, play it not for the public but for the country.

The lights go out. Silence in the hall. Only somewhere in the buffet are they still finishing their popcorn and arguing about who's to blame for all this and what to do.

In the dressing room, Vlad Grinsky takes off his mask. That's it.

September, 2026.