Mr. Inquisitor

About Mr. Inquisitor

Mr Inquisitor, a.k.a. The Grand Inquisitor when he's feeling particularly intrusive, lives by a simple motto: question everything. This gets him into long-winded diatribes, heated arguments and the occasional existential crisis. But mostly, it gets him asking questions to which people don't always want the answer. He's recently started sharing these musings. You can witness the fallout by following him on Twitter. @MrInquisitor1

That time I got conned into buying the Dead Sea

Recently, I was bamboozled into buying a product I didn’t want. Side note: For Sale – the Dead Sea.



If you’ve ever been to a mall, I’ll bet you’ve been accosted by exotic-sounding kiosk-dwellers peddling overpriced salty wares with unbelievable healing properties.

But I’ll bet you didn’t do what I did. Unless you’re a fool, like me. I got swindled into buying a rejuvenating facial exfoliant (read: a pot of Dead Sea sand) to the tune of $200. Yes, that actually happened.

I’m not proud of it. And you can laugh at me if you must. But heed my warning, there are malevolent operatives at work here and if you’re weak – even for a second – they will take you down.

Let me paint the picture. It was midweek. Lunchtime. I was walking though the mall, minding my own business, when I was suddenly surrounded by a woman. Yes, one woman was simultaneously on all sides of me, no matter which way I tried to go. (I think there may have been black magic at work, or possibly airborne hallucinogens.)

Now, I’m usually pretty adept at avoiding unwanted attention and I’m not above face-palming a pushy salesperson to get away but, somehow, this individual had got through my defences and, with the precision of a close-quarter assassin, administered some strange, gluey goop to my exposed wrist, while distracting me with talk of what beautiful skin I have.

Had my senses not abandoned me that day, I might have asked “If my skin’s so bloody great, why the hell would I need this stuff?” But alas, I was already too far gone. She had me transfixed. And a little afraid. I might have handed over the nuclear codes, had I known them.

All I remember was green eyes, deep cleavage and an accent I couldn’t quite place. If you told me now that I had been captured by operatives from the Israeli National Intelligence Agency, I’d believe you. Because her technique (probably some form of weaponised hypnosis) is not something regular civilians are trained to deal with. It’s some serious international spy shit.

My last thought as I re-entered the oblivious and unhelpful crowd of shoppers was “Did I just hear those scumbags high-five each other?”

I knew I was in serious trouble when she somehow got me to swipe my credit card – her ample shadayim simultaneously rubbing against my arm and obscuring the number on the credit card machine.

She must have called in reinforcements because now, in my most vulnerable state, I found a 6’5″ Sacha Baron Cohen look-alike looming over me. Brandishing a hand-held dispenser, he told me I had lovely eyes.

Complete. Utter. Panic.

And thankfully, a burst of adrenaline. I got out of her grasp, which was surprisingly firm for a woman of her stature, pushed past both of them and staggered away. My last thought as I re-entered the oblivious and unhelpful crowd of shoppers was “Did I just hear those scumbags high-five each other?”

So now I have an expensive pot of moisturiser. And I may have helped fund some unknown paramilitary organisation from the middle-east.

I have no dignity.

But I do have a final word of warning, for those who care to listen.

If you see these people, do not be charmed by their sexy Israeli accent (yes, that’s what it is), or their promises of eternal beauty, however believable they sound.

Do what I should have done.



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