Rasputin stands behind the lectern, thrusting his arms in the air, making obscure metaphysical statements in the drawl of his Czar era Russian. The audience in front of him indulges in the anonymity afforded them by the light, which renders them nothing but silhouettes to his squinting eyes.

His audience is composed of "The Departed," a society of earth-shakers who, as legend has it, have learned the Name of God, have cursed themselves in defiance of Sheol, and have stolen from St. Peter's grasp the Key to Heaven. Each of them, having faked their deaths or simply disappeared, take comfort in the shadows. Their chairman, an inky blackness in the far corner of the room, would be entirely invisible were it not for the cherry of his cigar, which never seems to burn down.

Each of them sits in shadows, and each of them stands in turn to approach the crystal lectern. According to the docket, Moses is slated to speak next and to deliver a speech entitled "The Backside of God."

Rasputin emits a wheezing cough, takes a sip of water, and then commences to sing the Russian imperial anthem in his grainy voice, as is his custom at the end of his speeches. A whooshing sound is heard above the audience's head, and they all look up. What looks like a heavy mace flies cartwheeling through the air, landing forcefully upon Rasputin's head. A fountain of tissue and brain matter shoots up, and then proceeds to fall wetly like chunks of Baklava onto the heads and laps of the audience.

"Charlemagne you horse's ass!" whines a high pitched nasal voice. Rasputin's headless body wanders aimlessly around the stage. "You know you cannot kill him!" The voice is immediately identifiable as belonging to Napoleon Bonaparte, and his shadow is shaking a fist at a shadow behind him. Several other shadows stand and join in raucous protest, and by this time, Rasputin's body has tumbled stump-first off of the stage.

A voice as deep as the ocean booms in laughter, and the all the shadows hush and turn to watch the cigar cherry bounce up and down with each guffaw. The chairman has his laugh, Rasputin flails in vain, and the shadows slowly sit, one by one. None of them make a sound.