Three scientists — Papaia, Banani, and Ravioli — and their assistant Igor, who work at NASAL, start getting interested in creationism. Their superiors, worried, send them to the psychologist, Professor Faggioli, a shady character determined to get them fired by making them look insane.
We are in Professor Faggioli’s office, where Ravioli is undergoing evaluation.
Ravioli was telling the story of when, on Christmas Eve, he made all his relatives throw up, after his mother emptied his old backpack, full of rotten fish hidden there since middle school, in front of everyone.
Faggioli:
“The cousins’ sweaters! An extremely important detail, Ravioli, an extremely important detail!”
For a moment, Faggioli gets distracted, lost in his own thoughts.
FLASHBACK – Interior – NASAL public restroom – 1984
(A gray, dirty bathroom, lit by a flickering neon light.
Faggioli, panting, leans over the sink. He splashes his face with freezing water, rubbing nervously.)
(He looks at himself in the mirror. His reflection seems older, harsher.
And that’s when he hears that familiar voice, rough like sandpaper.)
Father (from the reflection, growling):
“Good job, Faggioli. Wash your face all you want. You’ll never wash off what you really are: a good-for-nothing.”
(Faggioli lowers his eyes. His hands tremble.)
Faggioli (in a low voice):
“I’m working at NASAL… It’s important…”
Father (with disdain):
“Important? This intellectual clown show?
I told you: you should’ve picked up a hoe!
The land never betrays you. But no… you had to go and play the gentleman.”
Faggioli (murmuring, almost like a child):
“I never liked the hoe… I never liked it, Dad…”
Father:
“A ‘psychologist,’ huh! Look at yourself… you don’t understand a damn thing!”
Faggioli:
“No, sir, I… I studied for this!”
Father:
“Yeah! With that correspondence course. Ah, ah, ah! And the campus… at the sports bar! Ah, ah, ah! You’re a loser!”
Faggioli:
“But I… I…”
Father (scathing):
“You’re an incompetent! You always were, and you always will be! Ah, ah, ah!”
Faggioli (trembling):
“No… no!”
Father:
“Look at you! You’re a disaster! Without that recommendation, you wouldn’t even be there!”
Faggioli:
“No, sir. It was just a little help from Cousin Ben, at the Ministry of Asteroids on Collision Course with Earth… But it was only to show my real talent.”
Father:
“Your real talent? Being an IMPOSTOR! Here’s a piece of advice: just keep pretending. Speak complicated. Take useless notes. But sooner or later, they’ll kick you out on your butt.”
Faggioli wipes his sweaty face. Then, struggling, he straightens up, slaps his cheeks lightly, and talks to himself:
Faggioli (whispering, motivating himself):
“Complicated phrases. Weird questions. They must not understand… They must not understand.”
(His reflection grins.)
Father:
“And now you know what you have to do, right?”
Faggioli (sweating and delirious, whispering):
“Yes, yes, I know what I have to do!”
Father:
“On your knees, on the chickpeas, Faggioli. NOW!”
Faggioli (as if hypnotized):
“On my knees… on the chickpeas…”
(Feverishly, Faggioli slips a hand inside his jacket’s inner pocket.
He pulls out a small, crumpled bag.
He opens it.
Inside: dried chickpeas.)
(He looks around. The bathroom is empty.)
(With quick, desperate movements, he tosses the chickpeas into a corner of the floor.
Then he kneels on them, gritting his teeth, forehead dripping with sweat.)
(He locks himself inside a bathroom stall, kneeling on the chickpeas, while a rhythmic dripping from the broken pipes echoes around him — like a shameful metronome.)
When Igor heard about this story… he ran away.
🤣🤣🤣