Kirill Medvedev: On the Day of My Thirty-Seventh Birthday

On the Day of My Thirty-Seventh Birthday

On the day of my thirty-seventh birthday I ended up involved
in murdering the president.
I was in charge of watching the windows of his palace
and sending reports in code.
I did everything that was necessary, and just when I’d started getting nervous
and things were slowing down like death,
I got a message that said the president had been killed.
Then I split from the crowd of gawkers in front of the palace,
but I noticed that someone else had split off after me,
a man with a strange smile,
that’s all I need, I thought,
I’ll have to take him out.
Leading the man into a little park,
I turned and shot,
and when I ran up to finish him off,
I heard his dying words and the question—
“Why did you do it? I’m a big fan of yours, I love
the Walls song and your ‘Three percent’ book,
I just wanted to ask for your
autograph…”
Shit, I thought, what a missfire.
A tragic missfire, a mistake,
which means the good-for-nothing president
is still alive.

Translated from the Russian by Jon Platt