Chapter Two - The Horny Pilgrim

CHAPTER TWO

The Horny Pilgrim

SO THERE HE goes. Rasputin, 28 years old, barefoot and bug-eyed, leaving behind his wife, kids, and cow barn like a Siberian Jack Kerouac on a God-bender.

Some say he had a vision.
Some say he got bored.
Some say he thought the end of the world was coming and wanted to get right with the Big Guy.

But what’s clear is this:
He hit the road, and he got weirder.

Back then, wandering holy men were a thing.
They were called stranniki, poor mystics who wandered the countryside, praying, begging, fasting, and dropping prophecies like a medieval podcast tour.

Rasputin joined the club.
He walked from town to town, slept in haystacks, preached at crossroads, and stared at people way too long without blinking.

Some towns welcomed him.
Some threw things at him.
But he kept going. Mumbling prayers, soaking up esoteric knowledge, and radiating the exact kind of energy that makes you cross the street at night.

Now let’s talk about the Khlysts, Russia’s most chaotic underground cult.

They were a heretical offshoot of Russian Orthodoxy that believed in whipping yourself until you saw God, dancing until you collapsed, screaming the sins out of each other, and yes, purifying yourself through sexual ecstasy.

They were basically a doom metal concert with theology.

Did Rasputin join them?
He said no. The Church said no.
But witnesses said: oh hell yes he did.

He probably hung out with them.
He probably adopted some of their techniques.
And he probably kept those rituals in his back pocket for later.

Let’s just say the man didn’t invent the phrase “sinning your way to salvation,”
but he sure as hell branded it.

Somewhere along the line, Rasputin decided that washing was for cowards.
He believed that to be close to God, you had to suffer. And soap was a luxury.
So he just stopped bathing.

He wore the same robes for months.
His beard grew wild. His nails turned yellow.
He stank like a wet bear.

And yet?

People followed him.
Not because he was clean.
But because he was convincing.

He could make you believe he had a direct line to the divine.
He could hypnotize you with his stare.
And somehow, somehow, people felt better after talking to him.

Maybe it was charisma. Maybe it was placebo.
Maybe it was just the sheer force of crazy person confidence.

Whatever it was, Rasputin now had something dangerous:

A reputation.