The Exile is shutting down. Last night I met with my Russian publisher to "put one in its brain," as George Romero's humans would say. Except that putting this paper down is not so easy—imagine if Romero's zombies had things like tax bills that can't be ignored, debts to pay off, favors owed to other important zombies—because you never know when you'll run into that zombie again.

The partners who'd financed us fled for the hills, leaving my publisher and me holding the debt-bomb in our hands. This is not an easy situation. As a rule, my publisher is unusually easy-going for a Muscovite, but he's also quite large and intimidating—I mean Baltimore Ravens defensive end large. He also runs a massive nightclub, and, well, let's just say that my publisher knows a lot of people, including a pal of his who runs the Rasputin Gentlemen's Club, a multi-floor fleshpot that is everything a male wishes the Winchester Mystery House would have been: rooms that lead to everywhere, to desires and fantasies that you never even knew you had, and that you'll never admit to the following morning. Rasputin is more than a strip-club and more than a Moscow institution: It's the apex of a flesh-network, involving scores of smaller, lesser strip clubs that feed into Rasputin like minor league teams feeding into the major league club. For nearly five years, from 2002 to 2007, my newspaper's office was located in the back of Rasputin's sex club; when we'd order business lunches during work hours, strippers in see-through negligees and glass high-heels brought Borsch and Kotleti to our offices for a mere 40 rubles ($1.50), leading one American former editor to spasm in dangerous palpitation sweats.

Point being: These are good friends to have, but bad enemies to make.

So when my publisher told me last night, "As far as I see it, the Exile's debts are yours as well, Mark," my little saga took a very unforeseen and unpleasant turn.

And then today the media circus finally erupted here in Moscow. What set it off was an article about the Exile's closing in today's Der Spiegel, which was translated into Russian for the online media. Throughout the course of the day today, I've been deluged with phone calls and e-mails from the Russian media, who have already begun posting articles misquoting me in that special way that only the Russian media can manage.

Edward Limonov, the politician-columnist whose articles are at least partly responsible for attracting the authorities' attention, told me that he too was posting an article on www.grani.ru about the government attack on the Exile, and he told me that his opposition partner Garry Kasparov had called him today to ask him about us.

I'd tell you more, vaguely related stuff, like about how the northern city of Syktykvar just had all of the sand stolen from its makeshift "beach" on its river, and the prosecutor is looking for the sand-rustlers, who are believed to be operating a barge on the river ... but I have to run to a meeting with my remaining employees, to give them the final death notice, and they keep ringing me as I write this.

Later tonight, FHM magazine is holding a party on the top floor of a new Moscow skyscraper. Since everyone is treating me as if I'm dripping in polonium, I plan to attend, to shake hands with everyone I can, take photos with them, thank them for their crucial support. You see, ever since I was a kid I vowed that if I wound up paralyzed and in a wheelchair, that I'd have my nurse wheel me up to restaurant windows and leave me there to drool, to make the ambulatory types squirm.

My current situation isn't exactly stick-on-the-forehead dire, but it's close enough. I'm going to see how people try to squirm from me tonight. Try to squirm, and not get away with it.

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A Troublesome Visitor