Hello, campers, grab your marshmallows and gather around the true crime campfire.

We're your camp counselors. I'm Katie. And I'm Whitney. And we're here to tell you a true

story that is way stranger than fiction. We're roasting murderers and marshmallows around the true crime

campfire.

Art is a mysterious thing.

It's hard to pin down why one thing moves us and another does not.

Similarly, it can be hard to identify that special spark, that unique creativity that an artist can have that lifts their work into something magical.

If you don't have that, all the technical skill and carefully one knowledge in the world

won't get you to that special place.

Unless, of course, you just steal it from someone else.

This is Fakinit, arts greatest forger.

Music This is Fakinit. Art's greatest forger.

So, campers, for this one, we're on the beautiful Spanish island of Ibiza in the early months of 1967.

Nowadays, Ibiza is most famous for its club scene, but in the 60s it was a quieter place,

home to the locals and a colony of mostly bohemian foreigners, artists and hippies alongside

a few millionaire retirees from Britain.

Among the first category was a middle-aged Hungarian gentleman

named Elmere Dori Bhutan, and when we say gentlemen, we mean he had blood as blue as a sapphire.

At least that was what most people on the island assumed. The rumor was that Elmere was a sion

of the Hungarian monarchy, which had been officially abolished in 1946 after Soviet occupation.

Elmere, a dapper chap who wore Kashmir sweaters and a monocle on a gold chain, neither confirmed nor denied those rumors, but he was less shy about his connections to the rich and famous.

He liked to drop names so heavy they'd crush your toe if you didn't move fast enough.

...