An odd place for me to post my writing, but I said, whatever someone here might read it.

It's a short story about the death of Rasputin.




Across the barren tundra of Siberia a howling tempest thunders. The snows and ice form an impregnable wall, all is chaos, utter chaos.
The full moon, dripping with light, turned its gaze from this scene and cast its glance upon the large house of a Russian noble. The light carries in from the freezing realm through the fogged window and into the parlor where a party is being held. In the low-lit room sit Grigori Rasputin, Felix Yusupov, Dmitri Pavolich and several other men. It was a social gathering and Rasputin had been lured there with the promise of women. He was a deviant priest, the mad monk as some called him. His eyes searched about the room, those terribly large eyes which many accused of having powers of hypnosis. After a few hours of drinking Russian Vodka, not that cheap Swedish swill, and nibbling on some cake the party grew restless. Rasputin began to feel apprehensive, he ran his long, midnight black beard through his forefinger and thumb.
"Where are these women you said would be here, I only see men and something that looks like a woman! And Dmitri is not my kind of woman." Rasputin joked.
The others began to worry, they had secretly laced the monk's cake and Vodka with cyanide, ten times the lethal dose, yet Rasputin still called for more drink.
"I fear that he will live through this night and learn that he is a man marked for death, then we will lose our chance." Felix whispered into Dmitri's ear.
"I can fix that." Dmitiri replied coldly.
Rasputin was over in the corner courting the servant, a young, black haired Turk. Dmitri saw his chance, that pig Rasputin was mesmerized by vagina, so he walked over, pulled out his revolver and shot him in the back between the shoulders. He opened the chamber and six shells fell to the ground from the gun with a sickening thud that seemed eerily loud. The young lady screamed, Rasputin fell to the floor lifeless, his vodka spilling from the still-grasped glass.
The party kicked up then, the monster was dead. They remembered that it was two years earlier on June 29th 1914 that they had a former prostitute in their employment whom they hired to kill Rasputin. As he exited the church, she stabbed him viciously, twenty six wounds in all. They thought he was dead, for his entrails hung in heaps from his torso, yet he was taken to the hospital and healed with the best care, and his own powers. After all, he was in the confidence of the Tsar Nicholas II.
But the story truly begins much earlier, in 1905. Hemophilia was a disease widespread amongst European royalty and the Tsar's son, Alexei, was not spared from its wrath. In that year the Tsar's wife, the Tsaritsa, contacted the famed Rasputin and had him come to the palace to see if he could heal her son. He did. Every time Alexei had internal or external bleeding which would not cease, the Tsaritsa called for Rasputin and he healed him through his holy powers. No one knows how he did it, it was thought a gift from God indeed.
It did not help that Alexei was the only son of the Tsar and the Tsaritsa which meant that they had to keep him alive if their family was to rule, and they had to keep his illness a secret or the people would not accept his rule. Who would want a hemophiliac as king?
And thus the reason for keeping Rasputin at court was kept a secret as well, and the people began to worry that the Tsar was under the control of the mad monk Rasputin. Though he was a healer, Rasputin had a dark and troubled past, and many tales of debauchery surrounded him. One such tale whispered by peasants was that he practiced sins of lust with many women at a time in the belief that through these acts of mass sin he and his fellow revelers would receive salvation. Rumors spurred and tales were woven of the Mad Monk and how he held the Tsar and Tsaritsa as mere puppets using them to rule Mother Russia. Something had to be done, and that is why the conspirators rose and drew Rasputin to the party, and that is why he lies dead on the floor now.
Many hours had passed since he had died, his cold body still crumpled up in the same position, untouched. The spilt vodka soaking into the floor. Most of the celebrants had left, leaving behind countless, empty bottles of vodka and a ceiling riddled with bullets, that's how real Russians party, with six-shooters and vodka by the barrels. The last of the party exited, for they decided to go for a stroll, but Felix forgot his coat so he went back inside to fetch it. He was overly drunk and began to talk to Rasputin's corpse, he knelt down beside it and began to laugh hysterically in the cadaver's face.
"We are free of your tyranny, old man! You'll...." He stopped short and began to choke, as he spoke Rasputin opened wide his menacing eyes and grabbed Felix's throat and began to throttle him. He drew his mouth close to his ears and whispered to Felix.
"You've been a bad boy." He began to laugh hideously, threw Felix across the room as if he were but a child's plaything and then jumped out the open window, which was up on the third floor, and fled into the darkness, into the bosom of midnight.
The other conspirators saw his escape from the yard and gave chase. Racing on through the witching hour, the wind biting at their flesh. Dogs began to howl all throughout the city, nightmares were borne into the dreams of the children. Many crossed themselves and whispered prayers in the dark of their huddled houses.
They caught up with him at the bank of the Neva river which was partly frozen over with ice. Seeing he had no escape Rasputin lifted his arms up to heaven and began to chant in a strange tongue. A shaft of light shot down from the night sky and alighted on his head giving him a glowing crown, he turned around to meet his pursuers. They were horror stricken at his unearthly glow, but all of them opened fire upon him nonetheless. He fell to the ground with twenty three shots driven deep into his flesh.
"Why won't this devil die?!" One of them called out.
"He is surely dead now." Dmitri replied with a grim countenance.
Dmitri approached the body and to his terror found Rasputin still struggling to get up, he picked up a nearby branch and began to beat the monk, the others joined in as well, kicking and flogging Rasputin 'til he ceased moving. They wrapped his bleeding corpse in a cotton sheet and threw him into the icy Neva.
His body was never found, but several weeks later a letter was recovered after a short search of his room, it read as follows. "I write and leave behind me this letter at St. Petersburg. I feel that I shall leave life before January 1. I wish to make known to the Russian people, to Papa, to the Russian Mother and to the Children, to the land of Russia, what they must understand. If I am killed by common assassins, and especially by my brothers the Russian peasants, you, Tsar of Russia, will have nothing to fear for your children, they will reign for hundreds of years in Russia. But if I am murdered by boyars, nobles, and if they shed my blood, their hands will remain soiled with my blood, for twenty-five years they will not wash their hands from my blood. They will leave Russia. Brothers will kill brothers, and they will kill each other and hate each other, and for twenty-five years there will be no nobles in the country. Tsar of the land of Russia, if you hear the sound of the bell which will tell you that Grigori has been killed, you must know this: if it was your relations who have wrought my death, then no one in the family, that is to say, none of your children or relations, will remain alive for more than two years. They will be killed by the Russian people. I go, and I feel in me the divine command to tell the Russian Tsar how he must live if I have disappeared. You must reflect and act prudently. Think of your safety and tell your relations that I have paid for them with my blood. I shall be killed. I am no longer among the living. Pray, pray, be strong, think of your blessed family. -Grigori"
One year after his murder, in 1917, the Bolshevik revolution broke out effectively ending the reign of the Russian imperialist family. Russia fell into the folds of the red flag, through out the land the sickle and the hammer were raised. And it was said that countless times throughout Russian history a tall, bearded man with hypnotic eyes has been seen haunting the country.

the letter is real, actually taken verbatim from his own letter to his daughter.

No one will take the time to read it if you don't take the time to format it.