I gave it for 10,000 bucks. To an American. He said he only likes these speedy ones and won't quit until it gathers for an American football team. He asked me if I still had the stuff. I told him I had the Lamborghini on the pipe, but he needs to get over that mumps thing. I won't give him without 20,000 bucks, because he has blue eyes and looks just like Brusli. Now I'm waiting to get free. As soon as I get home, I'll punch Mercedesa ten times in the head. In my absence, she couldn't call that little girl anything but Dacia.
Mihaela Moisescu
I sold my soul for a Ferrari. Red, convertible. Anyway, the devil in a tuxedo, with eyes redder than the new car was getting me the stuff and I, with a Prada-clad conscience, was getting him sexy she-devils. An exchange that lasted until I said stop the debauchery, sold the Ferrari, switched sides, put a cross around my neck, donned black robes, cut my hair to zero. That's how the nuns found me, my bald head hanging from the convent bell, like a message from beyond.
Nicolae Popescu
Pricop storms through the door: Vera, I have an idea. I've been reading about that concept of minimalist living. I'm thinking of becoming a philanthropist, to write nicely on my cross: sold the fancy car and donated the money to the poor, sold the villa and built a hospital. Vera stares at him: Pric, but we don't have any of that. Pricop shakes his head: Yes, you're right. I got a bit carried away. I'll rephrase the epitaph: Here rests Pricop, who left his dear city wife for two simple country housewives.
(Translated by Iulia- Mihaela Țugulea / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.