[b]Early Morning, Sunday[/b]

Sasha melancholily wandered around the penthouse, stroking some ivory keys on the grand piano as he passed. Was he really that bored? Bored enough to go along with one of Lupe’s preposterous plans. No, of course not and once that tub of lard returned he tell him where to stick it. Spying the manila folder gave him pause however and that gnawing feeling overtook him; it was that feeling of inferiority a feeling that told him that if he backed out at the last second, he’d cement to the group that he was not their better. That was just not true, in his mind Sasha was far superior than those two mental morons. Even though it meant temporary lowering himself to their infantile level he would surely win this idiotic game, he would be the best [i]Undercover Normie [/i] and remind those bootlickers of their place. 

It was a week ago today shortly after Lupe was arrested that the pudgy Cuban came up with the self proclaimed game of kings. The group high on molly were watching t.v.  whilst Lupe spun an embellished tale of his singular night behind bars before he was bailed out. In reality the son of a senator spent the night in a private office having his whims catered to by the police and his bodyguards, while the other alleged criminals were subject to a cramped holding cell. 

“Like…this bulky Mexican dude was uh coming at me with like a shiv talking shit in Spanish and I laid homeboys ass out with one punch. True story.” Lupe exclaimed triumphally before adjusting his ankle monitoring bracelet.
 
Khorshid looked impressed and Sasha just rolled his eyes before interjecting… “Your fairytales might enthrall the slower amongst us, but we both know you just sat around stuffing your fat face with complimentary vending machine food as the Chief of Police kissed your bulbous behind.”  

It took Khorshid a few moments to the register the insult, but he was too baked to offer a retort. Lupe shoved his Sasha in offense.

“Yo String bean. Like I know you grew up in Russia picking turnips…or distilling vodka…or whatever you mutts do.  But here in America things are rough, like before my father was elected senator I had to attend public school to make sure that the stupid voters did not think our family was too rich. That makes jail look like a cakewalk my man. Like those so-called teachers were no bueno. They were always on my case for not applying myself or some nonsense. It is like they did not know who I was, but I digress. No offense I do not think that you could cut it as an average everyday American Sasha. That right there is life on hard…no impossible mode. Imagine living in a world where you had to live with in your means…with like actual consequences…scary stuff. I hate to admit it to you, but you are just not [i]Undercover Normie[/i] material boy…too privileged.“

Sasha sighed, “I know I am going live to regret this, but what exactly are you babbling on about? What is [i]Undercover Normie[/i]? 

Sasha snapped back to the present realizing that quite some time had passed as he stood ruminating on events. He grabbed the manila envelope and fished out a key ring, a piece of paper labeled itinerary, an id card, a driver’s license. He twirled his long hair now professionally dyed light brown in between his fingers a nervous habit ingrained since childhood before mustering the courage to leave the penthouse.   Before he departed he glanced in a mirror an admired the transformation; without his make up or his expensive clothing and wearing a pair of glasses  Sasha could barely recognize himself. While it sickened himself to look this plain that was the purpose of the game after all and to play he was not allowed to be the styling and profiling Sasha Zhenya Kuznetsov anymore. For one year he was to be Jocelyn Darcy Bray an everyday average American making his way in the big city. He suppressed a gag as he made his way to the elevator. 

[b] Afternoon, Sunday:[/b]
 
It had only been a few hours, but Jocelyn was already pinning for his old life back; he almost called it quits after seeing what was laughably called his accommodations.  It was unthinkable that one bedroom apartment in one of the more depilated parts of the city and a garish purple 2000 Dodge Neon were now his most noteworthy possessions, but he pushed the negativity out his mind. Things were not entirely too terrible they were certainly not like the old days as at least he did not have to sort through the trash. Compared to most people Jocelyn had a leg up as his car, rent, phone, electric, and utility bills were all being supplemented by his so-called friends and all he had to do was exist for a year on average wage of a factory worker; though he did not appreciate the assistance. The idea was tossed around about him having to work to sustain himself, but cooler heads prevailed as this was endurance challenge after all not a slaughter.  Finding a place on foot was a grueling task and he happened upon the Coffee Pot by accident, though it was good to know that he retained none of the survival knowledge from his brief years in the Young Pioneers; however, it would perhaps lessen his father’s (should the wretched man still be alive) perpetual  grimace that if he was ever set upon by a savage bear he planned on informing the foul beast of the immortal science of Marxism-Leninism before it viciously slaughtered him. 

He chuckled as he walked inside the establishment hoping that they could at least make a decent espresso.