A megalomaniac comes of age during the Russian Revolution and through murder and mayhem and climatology and rustology and green bug infestation and maniacal worship of a skeleton witch, controls the wheat of the world.
Germany spawned from the umbra embryo of Satan’s seed, birthed heretics demanding religion’s disembowelment. “Religion is a fantasy now and always!” scribbled Marx and Freud while the masses prayed. Nietzsche’s festering brain attacked the religious impulse, “The greatest event of recent times is that God is dead! That belief, in the theory that a Christian God is no longer tenable, is beginning to cast its first shadows over Europe. Among the advanced races, the decline and ultimately the collapse of the religious impulse will leave a huge vacuum. The history of modern times will be in great part the history of how that vacuum is filled.”
Was God dead? Or interminably fatigued. Why worry what the little idiots, who peopled His garden, did with their feeble lives? Why waste time with further evolution? Let the little jerks keep their little brains and littler hearts.
During the tumultuous start of the Twentieth Century, God must have turned His gaze elsewhere. How else could it have begun? That Century of Evil.
God, created in the image of Man, turned His gaze or allowed Evil to lurk in His blind spots. God was watching, but as with all creatures, His peripheral vision was obstructed or muted. Blind spots dotted the map during this Century of Evil: this tale began in one such blind spot.
In the lush, wheat country of what was to become the USSR, there grew a most evil being: his lust, so twisted, tore life’s breath from all creatures that scurried across its path. This evil left hand of Beelzebub—the Great Mistress Beelzebub as Alexander Mackovick and his followers had the effrontery to call the Mistress of All Illusion, the Lady of Dung—began his murderous path in the shadows of a confused national revolution; a revolution that was intended to start a new age, change the face of the earth, and bring Utopia to the Workers of the world. Alexander Gregor Mackovick was a suffering child fertile for Beelzebub’s moldering Seeds of Evil. His father, Gregory Mackovick, an unfortunate aberration of humanity, fomented a Worker’s Revolution by spending his days slitting Nationalist’s throats, his nights making stilted speeches calling for the Tzar and the Tzar’s family's mutilation.
On a chilly evening at the Finland Station in Petrograd, Gregory Mackovick stood listening to an inspirational speech by Lenin. Lenin, the Marxist disciple was, atop an armored car, clutching roses. He spoke on the bloodletting that would follow if the Revolution was indeed to propel the Workers to power. He called for peasants to burn their food-stuffs rather than surrender them to the war effort. “I’ve called for all soldiers to mutiny. Force the mutiny! Don’t give food to that fool Kerensky.”
Gregory Mackovick listened intently. Someday he would have his own entourage and be given roses by the masses. Lenin’s entourage consisted of his sister, Maris, his wife, Krupshya, and his protégé, Joseph Stalin. A mutiny would destroy the war effort and the “bread winner” conscription. Screw the government! Revolution was the only way to dodge conscription; the only way for him to stay alive long enough to slit his fat wife’s ugly throat.
In the Winter palace, he would bed down with Sisters of the Revolution. He wouldn’t puke at their looks or smell. No more fat, witch wife with three hundred pounds of flesh hanging from her arms and belly and sagging breasts. A knot of vomit formed at the base of his throat; his nostrils burned; his face twisted; he swallowed back the bile. He would dump the fat bitch down some deep well—in Simbrisk—a well deep enough to accommodate a load of crap. He would tumble her lard-ass into the well then spit straight down on her ruddy face. She would choke and sputter and drown. He started with the fat pig because of her close ties to the Ulyanovs. She had placed him at the side of the elder Ulyanovs’s son—Lenin. “He believes in humanitarianism,” Gregory told his wife. “He believes in crap,” she countered. “His parents are Christians. He hates his parents. So he hates Christians.” “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, he hates that Christian crap and that Islam crap and that Jew crap and especially your Beelzebub crap. Because it’s all crap. All of it believed by crap-brained women who impregnate their crap-brained children with the same crap. If the women had let it be, religion would have died out two thousand years ago.” He stepped toward her and whispered, “Women will never contribute anything to civilization.”
“Idiots like you and Lenin will?” she said.
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