The Investigative Reporter

I was perusing my library of downloaded podcasts to select an episode for the train commute when I noticed from the corner of my eyes an older gentleman affording me the most intense scowl. I looked around and behind me to make sure I was indeed the recipient of such a pronounced glare, and removed my right earbud, keeping my left intact in case what was about to transpire would end up being a short conversation. The gentleman did not remove his gray-eyed gaze from my direction.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

He huffed exaggeratedly as if to make a finer point. “You certainly can!” he yelled, his voice crackled with age. A couple of fellow passengers glanced his way. “I don’t appreciate what you did to my friend!”

I was confused. “I don’t understand—”

“Oh, you don’t understand, huh?” he interjected. “Mr. Investigative Reporter? Ha!”

“Sir, I think you’ve mistaken—“

“Don’t play dumb with me, Kyle Iboshi!” he huffed, while attempting to get up. The movement of the train and what I assumed to be frailty in his bones prohibited the motion. “Nothing you can say will bring my dear friend’s business back, you nosy, no-good know-it-all!”

“Sir,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m not Kyle Iboshi.”

“What?” the gentleman asked, putting on the glasses that dangled by a chain across his chest. His eyes widened with realization and his cheeks began to take on a crimson glow. “Well, you all look alike!”

“Don’t we all?” I responded, brushing off his mildly racist remark. “Oh, and in case you were wondering, I do know karate.”

At that, the older gentleman glowered at me for a few more seconds, removed his glasses then looked away.

I smiled, put my right earbud back in, and selected a podcast episode.



Written for the 2018-04-16 prompt of "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge"   by Arakun the twisted raccoon
Prompt: Write a story that includes a case of mistaken identity.
Word Count: 300