The Fake

A jukebox crackled to life, belting out protest anthems that echo the fervor in the streets as patrons with bell-bottoms and turtlenecks engage in spirited conversations about the tumultuous political situation in the USA. The entire street had fallen into unrest and chaos as they joyfully awaited the arrival of Mr. Robert F. Kennedy, the United States Attorney General.

In the nondescript corner of the Farmer's Market in Los Angeles, California, stood the aromatic haven of a run-down, fresh berry truck. The bright red, jagged brick walls anchored the pocket-sized box as its wheels held on until their last breath. This box was Sasha’s everything. This box was where he had dreadful siestas that reminded him of his past. This box was his only hope of living in the city's overpriced wellness.

Beneath the neon glow of the “Sasha’s Berries” sign, a palpable tension emanated from the man himself. His iridescent ocean-blue eyes held a worried gaze as he skillfully cut the blueberries while cautiously sweeping his eyes across the street. He gradually stopped as his eyes approached the two men across the street. He could feel the menacing stare behind the opaque sunglasses of those tall, intimidating men in finely ironed black suits and slicked-back gelled hair that sat in a tiny bakery across the street. A trickle of sweat rolled off his forehead, several more threatening a downpour. Did they catch on? Do they…

“So, where did you say you were from again?”

His regular's soft, melodious voice emanated through the tension, breaking him away from the stare-down.

“Umm…Russia!” Sasha Karpanko replied wearily, afraid to say too much.

“Why did you leave Mr. Karpanko?” probed Mrs. Lawrence.

“Well, the KGB killed my family, and I couldn’t spare another minute under the watchful eyes of such callous murderers.”

A lie.

 “They made my blood boil.”

 Another lie.

“I knew they would spare no time trying to kill me. So, I fled. I fled to the first country that came to my mind.”

More lies.

It was hard for him to differentiate between his truths and lies, for he had been lying for over a decade. He was nothing more than a fake. He was dabbling with the horrors of his own identity. He had a task to complete. A task he will complete. He was here for a reason.

“Ah, I see. I empathize with the sad life you have led. May the days to come only offer you joy.”

Remarked Mrs. Lawrence with pity before whisking her fruit basked away and fading into the crowd.

Sasha’s eyes again searched for those two strange men only to find them missing. Had his brain played tricks on him? Did his nervousness make him frivolous? He could not afford to have his thoughts displaced on such an important day. It is an important day when it all finally ends. It was an important day when he finally met his purpose. An important day when he brought glory to the country he calls home.

Sasha covertly pulled out a small timber box of dark alder wood carved with a peculiar emblem that did not belong to this country and was safely hidden behind a million layers of clothing and paper. He unlatched the box, and its rusted brown-red hinges creaked as it opened to reveal the object inside.

The distant hum of a parade swelled into an exuberant crescendo as it approached, accompanied by the rhythmic beats of drums and the melodic strains of marching bands. Vibrant flags and banners fluttered in the breeze, heralding the imminent arrival of a colorful spectacle. Cheers and laughter from the crowd mingle with the trill of trumpets, creating an electric atmosphere. Confetti dances in the air, adding a magical touch to the spectacle, and the collective anticipation reaches its zenith as the parade grows nearer, promising a sensory feast for all in attendance.

The distant purr of a sleek black car grows into a commanding hum, signaling the imminent arrival of someone of great significance. The vehicle, adorned with tinted windows that hint at an air of mystery, glides smoothly along the street, turning heads and eliciting whispers of anticipation. The man of the hour, Robert F. Kennedy, sat atop the vehicle with a dignified stature, amused by the celebrations around him.

As the vehicle grew closer to the immobile truck parked at the corner of the street, Sasha slowly pulled out the object, waiting for the right moment. As the car approached the truck, Robert F. Kennedy flashed a fleeting smile showcasing his pearly white teeth, which soon turned into a sour look of horror as his numb body toppled onto the cold, rough gravel road.

Screams of terror surged through the parade-turned-stampede. Sasha’s wry smile turned into a satisfied grin as his eyes glanced between the weapon in his hand and the bullet wound in the dignitary’s skull. He did it! He made his country proud! For the KGB! He had met his purpose…

He was swiftly thrown to the ground by an armed officer and held down by heavy arms. There was no escape. He bit the cyanide tablet hidden in the corner of his mouth. He awaited death. His eyes glistened with excruciating pain and contentment. Sasha’s last words were a faint whisper that dissolved into the chaos around him: Long Live the Rule of The KGB!