Rage

As was usual, the Blessed Regent of Russia was finding it hard to sleep. He needed to serve as a bulwark of Russia, to defeat the disgusting Jewish filth and Teuton barbarians who dared to soil Holy Russia's honor. His chest hurt suddenly, as it always did, and he vowed that he would have this doctor too shot. All of them, shot until they could finally give him a medication that STOPPED it dead dead dead dead DEAD.

"Dead, like traitors should be, like every last German, Gypsy, Jew and TRAITOR should be."

His throat was hoarse. Had he been yelling again? Maybe a drink, maybe none - it wouldn't matter. After all, Russia needed to be cleansed of the disease so it could welcome Alexei with all its splendor and PURITY. To achieve what she was destined to in everlasting glory. She needed her traitors gone, she needed the rotting corpse of Judeo-Nazism purged, and he turned to look at the latest reports from the field.

"Failure, failure failure failure. Always failure."

He knew he was speaking that time. It was fine, it was his righteous action in service of the Motherland, and he could do nothing wrong. Instead the issue was the General Voroshilov - again he had excused himself for lack of manpower, again he had begged off on difficulties. Again he had claimed the timetable for the final purification of Russia, for the extermination of the traitors, was not possible.

Possible? What would Voroshilov know of the possible? What was possible and what was not could not be prescribed upon the Motherland by such small men. Such foolish, feeble men.

His eyes moved to a report from the loyal men of the Shturmoviki. Pacification of the detestable "Aryan Brotherhood" had been progressing at full haste. The land would never be fit for human habitation ever again. It was better that way, better so no traitor could ever find safety in the area. Like the Bolshevists who had forced Alexei into hiding, like the Teuton pests who had fractured and split the Motherland, like the Jews who stole the Motherland's soul to sell it out to a false god.

He thought of Voroshilov's report again. The traitors. He needed to end the traitors.

The telephone was in his hand and lifted to his ear before he even noticed it, the pains in his hands from his ailments being what made him realize it. His mouth moved and made sounds, though he swore he heard them from inside his head instead of speaking them. Perhaps he had.

"General Voroshilov is to be executed for treason and his family to be dealt with. Let us remind ourselves of the words from Loci Communes."

Let justice be done, though the world perish.

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