Hello! Hello!...
Here I am again, Mika-el. What were we saying?
What would be the errors in the script, Iblīs?
There are a lot of them, you're spoiled for choice. For example, listen to this line again: "Spending time suffering from an unhealthy relationship is a luxury that I cannot afford, not to mention that I consider it the behavior of truly miserable people." Do you recognize it? A certain Michael Kellermann said it not long ago. Now tell me, if these were the conditions, how did the character suddenly lose his aplomb and become Augustine's pathetic monkey? With the aggravating circumstance that Augustine wrote that passage for a male, not for a female: if one must be macerated, let him at least be macerated for a worthy cause. We're not there, you need to rewrite your part. We can do it together if you want, I can give you some interesting tips: I'm not trying to brag, but as a director I'm quite good.
No thank you. The fault is mine, not the screenwriter's: I know I underestimated a series of elements. And you're right to say that I was guilty of presumption: I felt safe, I thought I had the game in hand.
It's called overconfidence, and it's typical of the mountain guide who, while hopping along the usual path humming a little song, slips his foot and crashes into a ravine with the whole group.
The point is that it all happened suddenly: I didn't understand anything before. It was only when I lost her that I realized the catastrophe.
It's called a bolt from the blue, and it's typical of the housewife who, while she's been looking for her cat for an hour, suddenly realizes that what the washing machine is spinning isn't her husband's sweater.
Can you stop with your irony, please? It's no use. Even holding strategic errors against me is useless: it is a sterile dialectical exercise, a pure waste of time. I don't need words, but actions: I absolutely must be able to turn the situation around.
Do you want me to believe that you can't live without that woman? I don't believe it, come on: not even with the Stanislavskij method could you identify with such a role.
She can't live without me, even if she doesn't know it.
It's difficult to understand the logic of the paradox: that's how you always fool me, you good guys. But then, Mika-el, are you really sure that your main motive is goodness? Do you want to save your loved ones or are you unable to accept defeat? Sin of pride is my prerogative, not yours.
You're right, I have to think about it for a moment.
Think about it.
I thought about it. I'm sure: I want to save them, even if it's true that defeat burns me.
I don't take it well either: luckily it doesn't happen to me often. But let's get back to the point: what made you believe you had the game in hand? I told you, yours is an unlikely character. Let's analyze the role you have chosen together. First of all I would have opted for Mika-el, your name forever, especially considering the fact that your brother is called Emmanuel. Pronouncing this name always gives me a shiver, who knows why. Then I would have avoided the Semite surname.
Semitic: it is an adjective.
“A goat with a Semite face”: it is an adjective in that case too.
Touché.
Let's then move on to Michael Kellermann's work activity. He is the scion of an industrialist from the Piedmontese upper middle class who manages a fabric factory for car interior upholstery, therefore closely linked to Fiat: and here we already have the first mistake, since the Italian industrial economy is heading for a slow and inexorable decline carefully planned by my colleague's earthly vassals. In other words, Italy must fail. Since you know this ab aeterno, you are without excuses. The situation you have chosen is already a losing one in the short term: if you wanted to conquer the female with the discreet charm of money, you should have oriented yourself instead towards speculative finance, the trend of the near future.
Not everything can be bought with money.
Nonsense. Idealism is the factory defect of conventional angels. But let's go back to the profile of your character: good guy, handsome but not too much, short hair, bon ton clothing, loyal to work and duty, lover of family, predisposed to following already established social lines, no party membership because you are too intelligent to believe in that politics, and I must give you credit for this; but tell me: why choose Turin if you didn't have the courage to join serious Freemasonry? Only white Freemasonry, rear-line stuff, not even the front line: cultural-philanthropic organizations like Rotary or Lions. Zero charm, Mik. Someone like that can only attract banal women who seek social status, and that woman, with all her limitations, is not so banal. You yourself were able to see that your eighteen-year-old brother has a better chance with her than you: I imagine that there were sparks in bed, while with you, let me guess, the lady was rather lukewarm.
You won't be able to make me hate him: I love my brother, despite everything.
She loves him too, and he loves her, right?
He cannot save her, nor can she save him. Only I can.
You can't save anyone, you poor deluded person. In a few years you will find your father lying on the bathroom floor in a pool of blood: he will shoot himself in the mouth with the unreported Smith & Wesson 38 caliber that he keeps hidden in the false bottom of the third drawer under a pile of white handkerchiefs, with a lock snap that can be opened by leveraging the central pin with a 3.5 mm slotted screwdriver, as soon as he understands that the failure of his factory brings with it the loss of the villa, the house by the sea and everything he has built in a life of work. You know this, right?
No, it won't happen.
It's written, Mika-el.
It is not written, nothing is written. Everything can be rewritten, God willing.
Are you referring to free will? Believe it, if that makes you feel better. In truth I realize that my provocations are doing you good: from the pathetic young Werther who whimpered in front of me you have gone back to being a pale imitation of the Mika-el I have always known. And in any case this doesn't make you a winner: to rewrite history you need the talent of the Cosmocreator.
I'll make it, Phosphoros: I've always made it against you, remember?
Allow me to point out that those were different times. Heroic times, I would say. I also remind you that we are a couple, my colleague and I, and we are allies; and I add: unfortunately. Our position of absolute and overwhelming supremacy is making everything deadly boring, a bit like when in Risiko you have thirty tanks and the opponent is left with two. But now I must say goodbye, my dear: duty calls me.
What duty?
Please follow the clues.
What clues?
Farewell, Mika-el.
Or rather, goodbye.