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The writer and former television director Yin Pedraza Ginori published this Saturday, exactly on the fifth anniversary of 11J, a fictional chronicle on his Facebook in which he imagines how Raúl Guillermo Rodríguez Castro —“El Cangrejo,” grandson of Raúl Castro— reacted upon reading the article that Michel Torres Corona dedicated to him on the Uruguayan portal Mate Amargo. The verdict of the "princely crab prince": three letters angrily stamped in the corner of the paper: PLP. “Break His Legs.”
The scene begins at four in the morning on July 11, a significant date that justifies the early start in the report because, for those in charge, "it implies extra work in terms of controlling the situation." El Cangrejo de Pedraza Ginori arrives at the Palacio de las Convenciones —to the office that "now belongs to him," the same place where his grandfather announced Fidel's death— dressed in artisanal selvedge Italian denim jeans, a Hugo Boss t-shirt, and Hermès sneakers worth 890 euros. Nothing that hasn't already been seen in the royal interview the character gave to USA Today on July 6, where he declared his willingness to negotiate with Trump about the future of Cuba while sporting that same wardrobe plus a Rolex Submariner on his wrist.
On the historic table, Secretary Yunisleidys —a name chosen by Pedraza Ginori with sarcastic precision— has placed a printed copy of the article "The Crab and the Vampire," signed by Torres Corona and published on July 9 in Mate Amargo. The text leaves "Raulito" speechless: it calls him "a Cuban protobourgeois, fond of flashy bars with the customary vassal aesthetics of the nouveau riche," denounces that "photos of him in similar settings, marked by complacent vanity, circulated through digital networks," and reproaches him for "going around mocking the officials, the men and women who sacrifice every day to keep the country afloat, flirting with the enemies."
When he finishes reading the "tome" —a word that Pedraza Ginori uses with utmost intention— El Cangrejo scribbles the initials and signs. At noon, with a Salvatore Ferragamo leather portfolio under his arm, he goes to his daily meeting with his grandfather and lays the papers in front of him: “This is a document created by someone named Michel, presenting a television program that puts me through the wringer.” The elderly general examines the initials and asks, “I see you labeled it PLP.” The grandson's response leaves no room for doubt: “Yes, I think 'Partirle Las Patas' is the least he deserves.”
Raúl Castro, in Pedraza Ginori's account, not only approves but also expands the scope of action: "You're right. You can't be lenient with these people. In fact, find out who's behind him and take them down as well." A familiar threat for anyone who knows how the Cuban State Security operates, but here delivered in a farcical tone, as casually as one would request dessert.
What makes the satire particularly piercing is that Torres Corona is neither a dissident nor an exile: he is the host of the program "Con Filo" on Cuban Television. He was already censored in April 2026 when he attempted to criticize Sandro Castro—"the Vampire," grandson of Fidel—on air after his interview with CNN. This time, he went directly to a Uruguayan portal to ask what official television forbids him to: "What justifies his impunity?"
The week leading up to the report was marked by unprecedented internal turmoil. The singer-songwriter Israel Rojas publicly apologized for being “naive” about the privileges of the elite. The mother of the head of Communication at the Palace of the Revolution demanded on Facebook that someone “silence” Raúl's grandson. And Prime Minister Manuel Marrero accused critics of executing “a well-designed plan to generate uncertainty and distrust,” labeling dissenting voices as “reputation assassins.” All of this while the Cuban people continue to face power outages, food shortages, and a lack of answers.
Pedraza Ginori, who directed and wrote for Cuban television from 1965 to 1995 before going into exile, has spent years publishing humorously sharp chronicles on social media that depict power from the inside with a discomforting acuity, precisely because they feel believable.
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