So I sold the Ferari, burst out the dark man who was sitting next to me, dropping his pint into my lap and nestling his cheek into my shoulder. He caught himself sobbing. He was crying so bitterly that my shirt began to soak with tears. I'm broke, it's all gone. I was born in it, I roasted myself by its fire, I nursed it, I decorated it with horseshoes, bells, metals[1] and window frames, gasped him and wiped his nose in the same place he cried before. Then he took a picture out of his pocket and showed me a big silverly firm: `The Ferari` Smithery.
I was even asked if I was a secret agent, excepting the envy - from colleagues to superiors. I had no choice but to sell my dear car. When I was going to worship, everyone knew, as the engine sounded so nicely and roundly. Like a bumblebee. You couldn't even hear the semantron. I don't know who spread the gossip, but women started to hitchhike, even more than the widows were going at confession. The bosses threw it in my face. How come I got the car from the rivalry, and none other than a cardinal red? I gave it away. Now I've got an Aston Martin, gold like his Beatitude's clothes.
Alex Caragian
that I had outgrown it, it was tightening my seatbelt. Oh, rich people problems, but it's not my fault I was born with a full spoon of bushfire in my mouth. Speaking of gustibus[1], I returned a barrel of caviar when I found a whitish roe bead at the bottom. Jeffrey, pour a splash of champagne on my lips \'cause I'm allergic to crystal and crush some ice in my mouth, \'cause not for nothing did I put gold teeth in your mouth. Season my taste buds with soup from my mother-in-law's ice bucket bowl. Ah, la vie en rose.
[1] Allusion to gustibus, spicy, hot tomato paste.It leads to a comparison between the inner side of the narrator and the food mentioned.
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.