Splendid photos. What a world of haves and have nots. How clever Rasputin must have been to slip into it. Almost as clever as the Yussupovs for building up their vast fortunes generation after generation as the empire soon grew to cover 1/6th of the globe. In the end, a young prince proved to be too clever for a weary one.
Opinions? If any. Something I'm playing with.
Peterburg, Russia
A ragged-looking fellow found himself in an odd predicament as he emerged from a dark doorway. Tall, coatless and wearing a tunic smeared in blood, a Siberian holy man stumbled out into the cold December night. He was drunk. But that was the least of his problems.
Moments ago in the palace behind him, Father Rasputin was left for dead. Now standing in a courtyard dusted with snow, he smiled as the harsh air burned his lungs. He was thankful to be alive.
“Bastards,” escaped from his wine-stained lips.
Prince Felix Yussupov was one of the bastards Rasputin was referring too. Strange yet beautiful, the young prince was thought to be under Rasputin’s spell. Apparently, the spell had been broken. The good prince was the one who was responsible for the blood presently dripping down his back.
How could he be so foolish to trust Felix? Worse turn his back to him. The priest was smarter than this. Wasn’t he? He knew the answer. All his life he had let his penis do a majority of his thinking. The priest came here in hopes to bed a princess.
Felix’s wife was well-chosen bait. Princess Irina was one of the most desirable women throughout the Russian empire. To add her to his list of accomplishments was to tempting of a feat. So, he went along with Felix’s plan. He could still hear the prince warn him that the princess was nervous. She was terrified of scandal. So Rasputin allowed Felix to orchestrate this secret gathering.
Three hours ago, the prince masquerading as a chauffeur picked him up from his apartment and drove him here. When Rasputin arrived he was escorted downstairs and told Princess Irina would be down in a moment. In the meantime, the prince played his guitar and sang sad gypsy songs while he drank.
Into his second bottle, the Siberian complained what was taking Irina so long as he moved across the room to fetch another bottle of wine. Just then, the music stopped. The last thing he remembered was a sharp pain followed by a loud noise echoing throughout his head. As Felix stood over him, the prince revealed his twisted plot.
It nearly worked too. Involving Irina was the masterstroke. Hell, he found out later that the princess was not even in the capital. Felix had even lied about that. The first of many lies spewed this evening. Rasputin’s friends had attempted to warn him about the prince but he foolishly had brushed them away. The young prince was getting bold.
Suddenly, what sounded like a woman’s high-pitched scream pierced the night as it tore him back to severity of the moment. The scream came from Prince Felix. He should have killed the prince when he had the chance. Too much was at risk.
Hopelessly, Father Rasputin traced his eyes back along his snowy tracks. A savage voice that sprung from within him screamed, “Noooo!” He needed to flee death just one last time. The priest had three days to save the Romanov regime from a bloody civil war. Members in the imperial family were preparing to strike at the current tsar. His prophecy could not come true.
Then, the door that he would use for his escape opened. With it, a tidal wave of bright, brilliant light bathed the courtyard.
“I am not yet ready to die,” he cried to the wind.
A barrel-shaped man waving a revolver emerged from the blinding light. He waddled into the open courtyard. As he stopped, he aimed his piece and fired two shots into the night, but they both missed. He could not see a thing through his steamed up glasses.
Father Rasputin finally reached his objective. The courtyard’s waist high gate. The cold metal felt wonderful within his grasp.
At that moment, a dark figure emerged from the doorway. Dmitri, a tall and dashing officer of His Majesty’s Horse Guards and member of the royal family, mechanically removed his Browning service revolver from its holster and smartly aimed the weapon.
“Felix, Felix,” shouted Rasputin with all his remaining strength, “I will tell it all to the empress!”
The fiery orange flash from Dmitri’s revolver answered his cry and quickly found its target.
The bullet’s sheer force turned him completely around. Now, facing the lighted palace, the soiled saint began to pray out loud. The blood-soaked snow became his altar. Kneeling before his God, he begged for forgiveness. The cold, soothing snow blanketed his brown, tangled beard. His famous stony eyes glared toward the illuminated doorway that once represented his artery of freedom. “Why now?”
The Siberian could not believe it had come to this. He had endured far too much to be struck down like a wild beast. The wicked force that spun him stole more than his freedom. Perfectly landed, the fourth shot of the night sealed his fate.
The courtyard grew quiet.
The pale palace radiated. There stood the beaming Prince Felix. He looked almost godly as he emerged from the darkness. Blond, bold, and beautiful, the decadent prince was dressed to kill. Wearing his cadet uniform of the Imperial Corps of Pages with high Pershing collar and white leather belt, his costume was complete—except that the friend he had betrayed had torn off one of his shoulder epaulettes.
Moments earlier, Rasputin had told Felix he was unworthy to wear a Russian uniform. Somehow, the prince knew it to be true. When Felix returned to the basement to check on Raputin and he found him slowly moving up the steps.
After a brief confrontation, the Siberian was chocking the life out of the prince when he felt a moment of mercy. He tore off one of Felix’s epaulettes as he pushed him down the stairs. All the while, telling the prince he was not worth it.
But that was ten minutes ago.
Strolling across the field, Felix’s took a deep breath. He was too pretty to be a man. It was time for his grand performance.
A senator, a duke, and a prince crossed the snow-covered courtyard. Their evening’s murderous business was nearly complete.
“Tell me, my clairvoyant friend,” Felix said to Rasputin, entertaining his conspirators, “how could you not foresee all this?”
The priest had no answer to their hate. He had been wise to mail his letter.
“Lord,” the holy man prayed, “I am in your hands now. Do with me what you wish.”
The three of them circled the fallen one like birds of prey.
“Patience good father,” Felix boasted. “You will see him soon enough.”
With fresh gypsy ballads sung earlier by Felix still ringing softly through his head, Rasputin looked toward the irongate. He was so close. “Why?” he asked.
Dmitri yelled, “Scum, you know perfectly well why!”
But the priest didn’t.
“Surely you must know?” said the third man, Senator Purishkevich. He was all out of breath.
“Did you think no one was watching?” Dmitri asked.
“Watching?”
“Yes—watching! Watching you taint Her Majesty with your filthiness. I despise everything you represent.”
“An affair?” Rasputin managed. “Me … and the empress?”
“Yes,” Duke Dmitri replied, “and you dare call yourself a man of God.”
Felix hissed, “I think not.”
“What?” Rasputin laughed, “Me and the empress?” Poor Dmitri, he thought as he looked into his sad dark eyes. You’re being tricked too. He began to grow faint.
“Our Siberian friend has been indulging himself too much in drink these days,” the senator laughed. “No use denying it. We already know what you have done.”
“Senator,” the priest said, gasping for breath, “who made you judge and jury?”
“Hush now,” Felix said with an actor’s flamboyant flair, “it is only I, Grigory Efimovich, I have come for you.” Felix raised Dmitri’s revolver. “Your influence over the House of Romanov has ended.”
“That’s what you think Felix,” the clairvoyant said with a bloody smile, looking at the duke. “Poor Russia. What has it ever done to deserve this?”
“What?” the duke asked.
“Now do what you must,” the believer said, closing his eyes.
With a pull of a trigger and a flash of orange light, Felix sealed his and Russia’s destinies. The shot rang throughout the frozen embankment’s grounds. It echoed throughout the tranquil banks of the Moika and nearby Neva rivers, bouncing off the high bastions of an ancient fortress.
Felix attempted to control his trembling hand. In his mind, he compared the incident to putting down one of his hounds. It was only a dog’s death, the prince told himself. Nothing more. Rasputin deserved it, didn’t he? He had threatened to tell Dmitri of their little secret. Now, he would reveal nothing.
“Well done, Felix,” spoke the senator as he spit on the peasant.
Dmitri just stood there. It was finally done, but it did not seem real. Not yet. As if it were some play, he was waiting for the actor to get up. Serenely, Felix handed him back his revolver.
“Now,” with a long pause, the politician looked down at the Siberian’s corpse. “We have some work to do.”
“Mission completed,” the prince said. “The only thing that remains is to take out the trash. Grab a leg.”
Many miles away in a peaceful village named Moghilev another man wandered through the frosty night.
Opinions welcomed.
