Chapter Nine - The Most Extra-Ass Murder Ever

CHAPTER NINE

The Most Extra-Ass Murder Ever

SO IT’S DECEMBER 1916. Saint Petersburg is frozen solid. The empire’s on fire. The war’s a disaster. And Rasputin? Still alive. Still meddling. Still being gross.

The conspirators have had enough.

The trap is set.

Now, most of what comes next comes from Yusupov’s own retelling. A man who loved drama almost as much as murder. Some of it is true. Some is theater.

So Yusupov invites Rasputin to his palace on the night of December 29. Tells him there’s a party. Says his wife wants to meet him. Tells him to come downstairs for a drink first.

Rasputin, never one to turn down booze or flattery, accepts.

The basement is decorated like a cozy lounge. There’s wine. Cakes. A phonograph playing quietly. Rasputin sits. Smiles. Drinks. Eats a few pastries.

These pastries are laced with potassium cyanide.

Nothing happens.

He keeps eating.

Yusupov watches, confused. Tries not to panic.

Offers wine, also poisoned.

Rasputin drinks it. Still nothing.

At this point, Yusupov excuses himself and runs upstairs, probably freaking out like a man who just realized his murder plan is going off-script fast.

They whisper. They improvise.

Yusupov grabs a revolver.

Back downstairs, Rasputin is standing up, probably mid-ramble. Yusupov walks in, raises the gun, and shoots him in the chest.

Rasputin collapses.

They breathe.

It’s over.

Or so they think.

A few minutes later, Yusupov walks back down to check the body. Leaning in. Staring at the man who’s caused a national crisis.

And Rasputin opens his eyes.

Then he stands up.

Then he lunges.

Then he tries to flee the palace.

This man just ate poison, got shot in the torso, and now he’s sprinting through the snow in the middle of the night like a cursed NPC who refuses to despawn.

The other conspirators, terrified, start firing. They shoot him again. At least two more bullets hit. Still not enough.

They chase him down, beat him with clubs, shoot him again, and finally collapse him in the snow.

Then, just to be sure, they drag his body to the edge of the Neva River, cut through the ice, and toss him in.

When his corpse was pulled from the river days later, rumors spread that his lungs were full of water. People said he died thrashing under the ice. Others swore he’d still been alive when he hit the river.

He didn’t die from poison.
He didn’t die from the first bullet.
He didn’t die from blunt trauma.

It took a borderline supernatural amount of punishment to get there.

This was not a man.

This was a glitch in the matrix.