Well, Putin's gone!
We hexed him a year ago, not long after he invaded Ukraine. At Dark of the Moon, we baptized the poppet with holy water from a Russian church and, after we'd magically bound him, I nailed him (by the throat, no less) to the Witch Tree.
(That's how you do it around here; the offense to the tree magnifies the bale.)
There he hung, just outside the front door, for a year, scaring the squirrels and (probably) the mail carrier. Every time I went past, I'd ill-wish him afresh.
A month later, his face peeled off.
So mote it be, I thought.
Summer went by, and Autumn; then Winter.
Three days ago, I noticed that he was gone.
The nail's still there, but the P-boy himself is gone, simply gone: not on the tree, not on the ground, not anywhere. It's as if he'd never been at all.