Filantropica Page #7

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-Ummm...

-The cheapest, the worst.

-And I'll recite one of my poems.

-Where did you publish?

He he. Do I look like an idiot

that messes with editors?

No, sir. You know what I do?

I recite my poem for a glass of vodka.

Look, let me choke on the vodka

if you won't like my poem.

-"The poet of the North Station".

-Yes!

Title:
"The poem of a man who wakes up one morning

and realizes he's f***ed".

I'm listening.

"In the small room,

on a crooked bed,

I lay smashed into the pillows

by an enormous fist".

-That's it?

-That's it.

-Not bad.

-You're harsh. I have another.

-Recite it.

-No, first another vodka.

Title:
"The poem of a girl that I saw on the 44 bus

who didn't fall for my pickup lines".

"The smile of the girl on the bus

charmed me for ever.

I have another drama now,

exactly like Mr. Ion Susai".

-Who's Mr. Ion Susai?

-Friend of mine, you don't know him.

-More, more. Ummm...

-No, no, that's it. I only have these two poems.

Only two?

Yeah, like you're Tolstoy!

No, you're right, ten stories are not

exactly the same as "War and peace".

Listen, how much

for those soap-opera "stories"?

less than a vodka.

I'll take all ten of them.

If you can afford that,

why are you begging for vodkas?

I'm begging for vodkas tonight because I'm thirsty.

Usually, I recite for money.

I couldn't believe it. The guy made in a month

more than five times my teacher's salary.

In the evenings, if he wanted,

he could afford any expensive restaurant.

He lived better than most of my friends from

two little poems that weren't even his own.

-What do you mean, you didn't write them?

-Not really, no.

"The poet of the North Station" sent me to

somebody named Pavel Puiutz, a.k.a. "Pepe"...

...about who he only said, I quote,

"he's the smartest smart guy in the world".

He told me to show him my book

and ask for his help.

~The "Philanthropic" Foundation~

Come in, please.

Sorry, I the coffee is boiling.

Excuse me, I'm looking

for Mr. Pavel Puiutz.

-You'll find him in his office.

-Thank you.

Come in.

Ok, ok, solve this immediately.

-I was told to come here...

-I know, that drunkard from the station sent you.

Sir, I don't see how I can use you.

I'd like to show you a book.

It's a collection of short stories.

-Are you a writer?

-Beginner.

Ok, and what's the problem?

The problem is...

people don't buy them.

And I need to sell about 100 books.

-No way.

-So no...

No chance.

-Mr. Piedone is here.

-Tell him to wait a second.

So you need money.

Do you know what I do here?

Not really... I guess, since it's a foundation,

that you finance some cultural projects...

So much intuition moves me.

Come with me.

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