[ WP ] Write a story in which a `` Chekhov 's Gun '' is actually Chekhov 's Gun and a `` Red Herring '' is actually a red herring .

Dvor Chekhov braced himself for the fatal volley. His blindfold chaffed, as did the coarse ropes binding his hands. 
 
 `` paré, en joue, feu!'' ( Ready, Aim! ) a french officer bellowed. 
 
 In that brief instant before Chekhov's death, his mind flited to the events of the previous evening. The night he had failed his Tzar and county. A mixture of Shame and fear mingled in the pit of his stomach. 
 
 -- - 
 
 The date was the 15th of August 1811; Napoléon Bonaparte's birthday banquet. That year the fragile Franco-Russian relations had finally broken at the violation of the Treaty of Tilsit. Tsar Alexander I 
 had ostensibly sent Chekhov to renegotiate a truce. However his real objective was assassination. War was a foregone conclusion as Napoléon's grande armee mustered on the borders of Russia. 
 
 Seated at the banquet table Chekhov's hands darted to the primed flintlock pistol concealed within his regalia. The reassuring bulge stilled his nervous fingers. It was at that moment a french accent startled Chekhov to awareness of his surroundings. A finely dressed waiter held a silver tray and gestured to the empty spot on the table. Seeing the distracted look on the Russian Duke's face the waiter repeated himself. 
 
 `` Le Entrée Monsieur Chekhov?'' ( First course Mr Chekhov? ) 
 
 `` Oh, Why yes that would be delightful. erm, What is it?'' 
 
 `` c'est pour brouiller les pistes'' ( It is a red herring ) 
 
 The running joke of the day was that the Russian nobility only ate one meal a day. 
 It stated at dawn and ended at dusk. 
 
 `` J'espère que cela est suffisant.'' ( I hope this is enough ) smirked the waiter. 
 
 Red fury bloomed in the Dukes cheeks he as bristled at the indignation. But the thought of the delicious fish calmed his temper. After all it was his favourite and it had been a whole hour since he had last dined. With the hunger of the dammed Chekhov forked the salty kipper into his mouth. But then regretted his decision as he began to choke. Feeling his airway clog Chekhov knew his assassination attempt was a do or die. 
 
 `` I must act now, before I suffocate'', rasped the duke. 
 
 
 Unexpected hands wrapped around Chekhovs' waist, thrusting upwards into his abdomen. The french waiter pulled with all his might and the red herring flew across the room. The fish arced in a parabola which ended on the plate of Napoléon. A shocked silence blanked the hall as all eyes turned to the Russian Duke. 
 
 This near brush with death was only an appetiser thought Chekhov. A light snack which could be brushed aside as non-noteworthy. Chekhov withdrew his pistol and levelled it at the emperor's head. With a fizz the black powder spluttered. Chekhov's gun did not fire. 
 
 `` Ha.'' Napoléon yelled in terrible Russian. `` An assassin has been foiled. Not by a fish but by his own gun! Guards, seize this man for execution. Shoot him at dawn'' 
 
 -- - 
 
 Feeling the first rays of dawn warm his cloths Chekhov heard the last words before his existence ceased. 
 
 `` au feu!'' ( Fire! )
