Playing Dictator

Howard walks around Hong Kong dressed as Kim Jong-un. Full haircut, the scowl, all of it. He’s thirty-four and his real name isn’t something he advertises—he’s convinced the North Korean regime would prefer he didn’t exist. But the payoff’s too good: strangers stop him for photos, everyone laughs, he gets to be unmistakable for a moment.

The danger’s real. He knows it. It’s not enough to stop him, though. The appeal of being a living joke, of being instantly recognizable as something impossible, outweighs whatever theoretical threat lives in the back of his head.

You respect that. Most people let fear keep them small. Howard picked the joke instead.