IV.
“So, let me get this straight,” the reporter said finishing off his last bite of pastrami on rye. “You believe that through fasting you will be able to clearly see the meaning of life?”
“Yes, oh doubtful one, by cleansing the body, you also cleanse the soul, thereby creating a pure environment to receive enlightenment.” The great Guru Maltof explained simply to the imbecilic reporter who came to disturb his 18-month long meditational fast. The stupid fools who thought enlightenment was something easily achieved or for that matter, easily explained. He, the great Guru, could only sigh.
“Well, Malt, I can call you ‘Malt,’ can’t I?” Not waiting for an answer, he continued, “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought some munchies with me. Interviewing always makes me hungry.”
Maltof only nodded his head, ah the stupidity. The man obviously could use a little fasting himself. Why did these pathetic people continually insist on disturbing him? Ahhh, those with simple minds.
Meanwhile, Morton Natas, the reporter, proceeded to unpack sandwiches, a whole barbequed chicken, potato salad, cookies, cake, milk, coffee, etc. and an antacid. Pulling the leg off the chicken, he offered it to the Guru, who only looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Sorry, Malt, just wasn’t quite thinking there,” he said sheepishly shrugging his shoulders and tearing into the barbequed leg, sighing delightedly.
“Oh yes, getting back to the interview, so sorry. Actually, my readers are very interested in you and your quest for enlightenment,” he babbled on, chewing much like a cow, licking the barbeque sauce from his fingers with a smacking of his lips. “Now, how long has it been since you’ve eaten anything solid, Malt?” gesturing with the chicken leg as he spoke.
A small trickle of sweat went down the straight back of the great Guru Maltof. “Time is of no relevance to me. Through my meditation, time, food and all other outside distracting forces have been eliminated,” he repeated as rote.
“Well, I have that it’s been 18 months here, Malt. Wow! That’s a long time.” He insisted on shoving a whole piece of chocolate cake with caramel frosting into his mouth.
What was that smell? The Guru’s overly sensitive nose twitched as it reached to name that familiar smell.
“I said, ‘That’s a long time, Malt,’” Morton prodded finishing off the cookie crumbs from the plate and chasing them with milk.
“As I said before, time is of no consequence. Enlightenment gives me all of the sustenance I need.” But what was that smell? His palms were beginning to sweat.
“Ah, so you have reached enlightenment already. Wow! Then why are you still fasting?” Morton finished off yet another sandwich, jelly dripping from his chin.
The Guru began to twitch, that smell… “Enlightenment comes in stages…” He began to explain, his voice fading. It was that smell; he knew that smell. OH, Morton Natas could have brought with him any food – the most delicate pastry, the hardiest piece of steak, Bonbons, red wine, smoked salmon, brie, caviar – and he wouldn’t have faltered, not for anything but…
“So, do you know the meaning of life?” Morton pushed, unfolding his last sandwich in front of the now convulsing Guru, whose eyes were rolling back into his head.
“S… S… S…” He stammered, his heart palpitating.
“The meaning of life is ‘S… S… S…?’” Morton asked again.
“Spam!” Maltof blurted out his final word as he fell over dead.
“Well, we couldn’t let the secret out just yet,” Morton Natas said, taking a bite of his Spam sandwich, his eyes glowing red.
“Yes, oh doubtful one, by cleansing the body, you also cleanse the soul, thereby creating a pure environment to receive enlightenment.” The great Guru Maltof explained simply to the imbecilic reporter who came to disturb his 18-month long meditational fast. The stupid fools who thought enlightenment was something easily achieved or for that matter, easily explained. He, the great Guru, could only sigh.
“Well, Malt, I can call you ‘Malt,’ can’t I?” Not waiting for an answer, he continued, “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought some munchies with me. Interviewing always makes me hungry.”
Maltof only nodded his head, ah the stupidity. The man obviously could use a little fasting himself. Why did these pathetic people continually insist on disturbing him? Ahhh, those with simple minds.
Meanwhile, Morton Natas, the reporter, proceeded to unpack sandwiches, a whole barbequed chicken, potato salad, cookies, cake, milk, coffee, etc. and an antacid. Pulling the leg off the chicken, he offered it to the Guru, who only looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Sorry, Malt, just wasn’t quite thinking there,” he said sheepishly shrugging his shoulders and tearing into the barbequed leg, sighing delightedly.
“Oh yes, getting back to the interview, so sorry. Actually, my readers are very interested in you and your quest for enlightenment,” he babbled on, chewing much like a cow, licking the barbeque sauce from his fingers with a smacking of his lips. “Now, how long has it been since you’ve eaten anything solid, Malt?” gesturing with the chicken leg as he spoke.
A small trickle of sweat went down the straight back of the great Guru Maltof. “Time is of no relevance to me. Through my meditation, time, food and all other outside distracting forces have been eliminated,” he repeated as rote.
“Well, I have that it’s been 18 months here, Malt. Wow! That’s a long time.” He insisted on shoving a whole piece of chocolate cake with caramel frosting into his mouth.
What was that smell? The Guru’s overly sensitive nose twitched as it reached to name that familiar smell.
“I said, ‘That’s a long time, Malt,’” Morton prodded finishing off the cookie crumbs from the plate and chasing them with milk.
“As I said before, time is of no consequence. Enlightenment gives me all of the sustenance I need.” But what was that smell? His palms were beginning to sweat.
“Ah, so you have reached enlightenment already. Wow! Then why are you still fasting?” Morton finished off yet another sandwich, jelly dripping from his chin.
The Guru began to twitch, that smell… “Enlightenment comes in stages…” He began to explain, his voice fading. It was that smell; he knew that smell. OH, Morton Natas could have brought with him any food – the most delicate pastry, the hardiest piece of steak, Bonbons, red wine, smoked salmon, brie, caviar – and he wouldn’t have faltered, not for anything but…
“So, do you know the meaning of life?” Morton pushed, unfolding his last sandwich in front of the now convulsing Guru, whose eyes were rolling back into his head.
“S… S… S…” He stammered, his heart palpitating.
“The meaning of life is ‘S… S… S…?’” Morton asked again.
“Spam!” Maltof blurted out his final word as he fell over dead.
“Well, we couldn’t let the secret out just yet,” Morton Natas said, taking a bite of his Spam sandwich, his eyes glowing red.