There's a man at the bus stop, lager in hand, preaching about aliens, lizard people, and moon landing conspiracies to a captivated and increasingly uncomfortable audience. As the self-proclaimed "guru" spins his web of madness, I can't help but wonder, will his "revelations" ever make it onto my bus, or will I be the one to shut him down? Either way, I’m about to witness the most bizarre sermon of the year.
A Drunken Preacher, Conspiracy Theories, and the Bus Stop That Became a Pulpit
The ‘Conspiracy Guru’ Preacher (With a Can of “Liquid Insight”). I can see him long before I pull up to the stop, a figure that screams self-proclaimed genius.
He’s standing by the lamppost, swaying slightly, with that tell-tale can of lager in hand, as though it’s his personal sceptre of enlightenment. His lips are moving, but it’s more than just the usual chatter. This man is preaching, and whatever he’s saying, I can already tell, it’s not going to be anything short of spectacular.
I ease the bus towards the stop, slowing down, all the while keeping a keen eye on this walking conspiracy theory in action. He’s got a group of unsuspecting civilians around him now, most of them looking trapped in a polite sort of misery. It’s a perfect storm of delusion and social awkwardness, and you can bet I’m here for it.
 |
| Confidence meets chaos, pigeons unimpressed. |
“Oi, mate, mate!” the preacher begins, his voice a bit too loud for the public good. The can in his hand looks as if it’s been welded to his palm, the liquid courage sloshing around as his words do their best to drown out any semblance of logic. “Let me tell you something about what’s really going on, alright? You know that whole COVID thing? Nah, mate, that’s just the beginning.”
He pauses dramatically, perhaps for effect, and I can already hear the way his voice is starting to gain volume as he hits his stride. His audience looks increasingly uncomfortable, but none of them are brave enough to break free. Most of them are standing, awkwardly clutching their bags or phones, not daring to move, as if they're hoping someone else will put an end to this madness.
I slow the bus down just a bit more, pretending to fiddle with the brakes, but my eyes are firmly on him.
"Listen," the preacher continues, leaning in with that gleam of 'discovery' in his eyes, "the aliens, they’ve been here for years, yeah? They’re just hiding in plain sight. You seen the news? Nah, mate. You think they show you the truth? Nah, they’re just distracting us with the big stuff. Like, who’s talking about the moon landing anymore, huh? It was fake, all of it. Fake as a three-pound note.”
I almost laugh out loud. I can practically hear the poor soul he's trying to convert, their mind slipping into a quiet internal panic, realising they’re being pulled into this vortex of insanity. Still, they stand there. They stand and listen.
“Why do you think social media’s been going wild? They’re using it to control us, manipulate us. The government’s been working with the aliens, mate. You know, lizard people, right? They’re in charge of everything! Everything. The media, the banks, the whole bloody system. You think this is all coincidence?”
He pauses for dramatic effect, taking a long swig from the can, clearly convinced he's just delivered the most profound statement of the century. The listener? Well, they're nodding. Oh, how they're nodding. They’ve got that "I can't escape this trainwreck" look in their eyes, and they're hanging onto every word, as if somehow, somewhere, there’s a shred of truth in this madness.
“You’ve gotta wake up, mate," the preacher insists. "The aliens have infiltrated everything. It’s all about control. All of it. And you know who the real victims are? Us, the regular folk. They’re watching us right now. They're always watching!”
The poor guy, now stuck in the gravitational pull of this drunken epiphany, can’t tear his gaze away. It’s the ultimate polite disaster—he’s holding onto every word, trying to be courteous, trying to pretend he’s still hearing this out with some sense of rationality. The preacher’s voice, now a steady crescendo of shrill conviction, has drowned out the world around them.
I pull up to the stop, bringing the bus to a smooth halt right in front of them. I see the preacher’s face light up at the sight of the bus, thinking his moment of glory has arrived.
But no. Not so fast.
“Hold on there,” I call out, flicking the doors open. “You can’t bring that on here.”
He blinks, utterly confused, like I’ve just asked him to make a sacrifice to the moon gods. The can of lager in his hand seems to shake in his grasp as the weight of the situation dawns on him.
“I’m sorry, what? I, this is important, this is truth, mate!”
I give him my best unamused look. “Alcohol’s not allowed on the bus, mate. You’ll have to lose the can.”
He looks at the can, looks at me, and for a split second, I can see the gears in his mind grinding to a halt. He doesn’t want to part with it; the can has become his symbol of authority in this insane gospel he’s delivering. But eventually, the logic of the bus driver prevails. With a sigh of resignation, he tosses the can into the nearest bin.
“You’re ruining the message!” he calls after me, but it’s too late.
The poor listener is left standing there, utterly lost in a sea of ‘lizard people’ and government cover-ups. They look at me like they’ve just narrowly escaped some kind of cult meeting, eyes wide, the mental wheels turning, recalculating their entire belief system based on the last five minutes of their life.
I nod at them, giving them a silent moment of relief. “Don’t worry, mate. You’ll be alright. Just don’t trust any moon landings, alright?”
And with that, I pull away, the final frontier of the bus stop quickly fading into the rear view mirror. Another bizarre sermon delivered, and all I had to do was sit back and watch.
As the bus rumbles to a stop and the "Eternal Optimist" stumbles off into the abyss of his next delusion, I can't help but wonder: is it the lager talking, or is the world truly as mad as they make it out to be? Either way, there's never a dull moment at the bus stop. So, until next time, keep your cans in check and your ears closed, some things are better left unsaid.
Until the next colourful character arrives to bless us with their "wisdom,"
Vincent Roderick – Observer of the Unfiltered, Chronicler of the Unusual
Comments
Post a Comment