Written by Ambrose Brown
Author’s Note: “Rawr Rawr Rasputin,” is a whimsical and irreverent take on one of history’s most enigmatic intrigue of early twentieth-century Russia. This story melds historical elements with a healthy dose of artistic license.
Content Warning: Please note that “Rawr Rawr Rasputin” contains elements of dark humor, violence, and language that may not be suitable for all audiences.
The year is 1916, I’ve journeyed far to the vibrant city of St. Petersburg, the cloudy jewel of Imperial Russia. Within the lavish walls of Yusupov Palace, there is an undercurrent of unrest, like a flock of aristocratic flamingos jittery before a ballet recital. Here my tale begins—a tale as twisted as the corridors of your local Gulag.
Imagine me, Alistair Worthington, British spy with a penchant for the dramatic, striding into the Yusoprov Palace. I strut, as if I am the star of a grand play and I am afraid to use every line of dialogue I have memorized. I have no idea why MI6 would want this Rasputin guy dead; we have been doing the whole espionage thing for less than seven years, you would think we would have bigger problems than some Russian monk.
Eager to blend in, I approach the Russian nobility and attempt to converse in their tongue.
“здравоохранение (healthcare)” I say to a man dressed opulently with a black tailcoat, with impeccable grooming. The man flinches at the word and eyes me suspiciously, before responding.
“Funny.” I parse but have no idea why hello would be funny.
“Do you know all of the призраки (ghosts) here?” I ask, hoping to deduce if this Rasputin guy is even here.
The man, taken aback for a moment, bursts into laughter, then places his hand on my shoulder and whispers to me. I once again listen.
“So, you are in on our latest plot. Come, I was just heading upstairs for a toast.” Of course, MI6 had others on the job, I think before following.
We ascend the stairs and enter the dimly lit chamber, and my senses are assaulted by smoke and vodka. In the corner there is a group of four men, exchanging stories and conspiratorial looks. At our entry, they fall silent and look between my fellow agent and I expectantly, then step forward one by one. “I am grand duke Dmitri Pavlovich” said the first, with a bow of his head, followed by “Vladimir Purishkevich” from another; “Dr. Stanislaus Lazovert” who gave me a slight nod; and finally, “Lieutenant Sergei Sukhotin” – the last to speak. I puzzle over why we are still speaking Russian if they are agents like me. But then, espionage does require a bit of theatrics, does it not?
The grand duke nodded. “Remember our first attempt? The poison in his wine, enough to fell a horse. Not a tremor in his hand, not a falter in his step.”
Purishkevich chimed in; his tone tinged with frustration. “No, the stabbing in Pokrovskoye. That was the first. The peasant woman nearly gutted him, and still, he survived.”
The man in the doctor’s coat added, “It defies all medical logic. His recovery was… unnaturally swift.”
Sukhotin, the military man, glanced around nervously before speaking. “We must not fail tonight. The fate of Russia hinges on our resolve.”
The agent I entered with smiled at them all. “The poison may have failed, but I have just returned from shooting Rasputin – and I don’t think he will be getting back up.”
The rest of my fellow agents burst into laughter, and the ‘Grand Duke’ pops open a new bottle. Drinking on the job like this is so unorthodox. I will not be joining; the bastard stole my kill.
I, Alistair Worthington, agent extraordinaire, descend to take my leave from the palace. However, as I saunter through the side door into the courtyard, my path unexpectedly intersects with a striking figure – a man with a wild gaze, enigmatic allure, and a swoon-worthy mane.
He is panting like he has run a marathon, and my heart, ever the follower, picks up the pace, pulled into motion by some inexplicable magnetism – must be the spy instincts. Being the master of shadows that I am, I understand his strained utterances for what they are, a peculiar form of Russian poetry. Not often would a guy instantly go for poetry with me, but I was open to it. Maybe I should not be engaging in a flirtatious exchange with the guests, but hey – the target is already dead, what is the harm?
In my best possible Russian I say, “listen handsome, I was just on my way out, but I think I can make time for a quickie in a side room.”
His eyes widen with anger as he lunges towards me. His hands, manicured but calloused, reach out to claw at my suit. I yelp, executing a clumsy pirouette as I trip over my own feet, not a rock in sight. My trusty sidearm, Old Betty, tucked under my arm jolts loose from its holster as my body tumbles onto the floor. A bang echoes through the room as a bullet shoots past Rasputin, slicing through the air and finding its target in a nearby porcelain vase.
The gunshot echo fills the area. Amidst the chaos, the beautiful and clearly distressed man hurls Russian curses and slurs I can not comprehend. Thoroughly disoriented and fearing for my life, yet also oddly still aroused, I scurry inside and behind a curtain. I leave my hideaway only briefly to retrieve my fallen gun. My heart races with a cocktail of fear and exhilaration.
I watch through the window in bewilderment as my fellow MI6 agent, Vladimir Purishkevich, closes on the paragon of rugged beauty — and fires a shot into the man’s back! After pausing a moment, Vladimir drags the man’s body back inside and exits. Silence descends, broken only by the stud’s faint groans. Driven by fear, duty, and a waning hope his lower body still functions, I emerge from my hiding spot. Of course tripping over another Persian rug, I fall toward the wounded figure.
The shockingly resilient man, somehow still breathing, spots me and spits out another string of curses in Russian. Startled, my hand clenches. Old Betty discharges, and the bullet strikes him squarely in the forehead.
Featured Image Credit: English: Grigory Rasputin with His Followers in St. Petersburg, March 1, 1914, March 1, 1914, Getty Images, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Grigory_Rasputin_with_his_followers.jpg.
Retrospect Journal 
