Faldien Taladia
A few years ago, I made my pilgrimage to Groote Schuur Hospital for my bi-annual heart check-up — also known as “Faldien’s Full Body MOT.” You know the drill: sit in a cold waiting room, get poked with sharp objects, and then receive that awkward lecture about cutting down on deep-fried things that start with “ch.”
Gold Medal in Queue Olympics
But this time, it was different. I walked in… and I was FIRST in line! FIRST! I’d basically just won the Olympics of the hospital queue. I floated through my appointment like Beyoncé at the Grammys, got my clean bill of health, and walked out with the swagger of a man who’d beaten the system. And of course, being a man of refined taste and high cultural standards, I celebrated with a sandwich. Not just any sandwich — this was the Leonardo da Vinci of polony sandwiches. Polony, cheese, mustard… a symphony of questionable processed meats and regret.
Sandwich Interrupted by Spy Thriller
I found myself a cozy bench, unwrapped my masterpiece, and just as the angels began to sing the intro to my first bite… a man appeared. Not just any man. A well-dressed man. His suit was so sharp I think it actually sliced the air when he sat down. Being the generous soul I am, I offered him one of my sandwiches. That’s when the plot took a turn straight into “Netflix documentary” territory. Without even glancing at my Michelin-star polony, he leaned in and whispered: “Don’t look at me when talking to me. They’re watching us.” Naturally, my brain went: Oooh, spies! So I started turning my head to see who “they” were. Big mistake. HUGE. The man’s hand shot out like a ninja with a gym membership and clamped my wrist. “No, don’t turn around!” he hissed. “They’re here to kill us both… because we know too much.”
Mystic on the Divine Mustard Hotline
I froze mid-bite. Now, I don’t know about you, but my personal bucket list does not include “assassinated in public for classified sandwich knowledge.” Trying to keep my cool, I asked: “So… what exactly do we know?” He looked around, eyes darting like a meerkat at a rave. “We know the truth. The secret of the universe. The Illuminati. The grand cosmic joke. The punchline to existence.” I was already regretting getting out of bed that morning. “And you found this out… how?” He leaned in, lowering his voice: “Divine revelation. God talks to me all the time.” I looked down at my sandwich, suddenly wondering if I’d grabbed the wrong kind of mustard. “The next time you speak to Him,” I said, “can you tell Him I’m truly sorry for what happened at that club when I was 35?”
The mystic stared into the distance. “Hold on… He’s sending me a message now… wait… okay… He says it’s all okay. You’re forgiven.”
Lizard People and Zumba Heartbeats
“Well that’s good. While you’re at it, could you get Him to forgive, you know, all my sins?” The man sighed. “You’re asking for too much. He’s busy. A lot of people sinned last weekend.” At this point, I decided to play along. “So what’s the plan?” “We act normal,” he said, straightening his tie like James Bond in a budget remake. “Eat your sandwich slowly. Like nothing’s wrong.” I took the slowest bite of my life while my heart was doing Zumba in my chest. “And then what?” I mumbled through polony and paranoia. “Agent Cynthia will arrive shortly. She has intel. The Reptilians are here. They’re taking over the world. You… you’re an important part of the rebellion.” Now, let me just say — I was THIS close to believing him. I was about to start Googling “how to defeat lizard people” when a young woman came running up. “Dad, there you are! Your psychiatric appointment is starting. We’ve been looking all over for you!”
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Exit Batman, Enter Psychiatric Ward
She turned to me, apologetic. “Sorry if he bothered you.” “Not at all,” I said. “We had a lovely discussion.” “About what?” she asked. “Alien invasion,” I replied. She laughed. “Ah, yes. He loves that one.” As she led him away, the man slipped a folded paper into my hand and whispered: “If you ever need to reach me… burn this.” I stared at it. “You mean read this?” He shook his head gravely. “No. Burn it. Trust me.” And with that, he disappeared into the crowd like a well-dressed Batman who couldn’t afford the car. I stuffed the note in my pocket, finished my sandwich, and went home. And that, dear friends, is how I met the Mad Man. Moral of the story? The universe’s greatest mysteries often arrives as a mystic wearing a three-piece suit; a stranger whispering cosmic conspiracies… and ruins your lunch.
