“Dottoré, I’m having a horrible time. As soon as I get enough money for a ticket, I’m going to Turin to throw myself under a car.”
“Can you explain this to me? You’re telling me that not only you want to kill yourself, but that to do so, you have to go all the way to Turin?”
“Dottoré, I don’t want to kill myself! I just want to get run over, break a couple of bones, and get some money from the insurance company. Without exaggerating either — just enough to get some peace of mind.”
“And why can’t this whole thing be done in Naples?”
“Nooo! If I do it in Naples, surely I’ll get myself and someone else in trouble. I’ll throw myself under a car, maybe even break a hip, and then the driver will come out, start insulting me, and in the end it turns out that he’s some kind of devil, even worse than me, and probably not insured.”
“I get it. It makes sense now. But one last question: why Turin, of all places?”
“Dottoré, you think I’m crazy, but I’ve thought this through. If I’m going to get hurt, there are two things that would comfort me: one is that the person who runs me over must pay, and it might as well be a soccer fan of Juventus.
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