"Bradley Denton - The Calvin Coolidge Home for Dead Comedians" - читать интересную книгу автора (Denton Bradley)

that I would never strike another person.

For several months during grade school, an older kid pounded me and my brother after we got off the
bus to walk home. He threw us down in the ditch, then kicked us. Running did no good; he was fast.
Fighting back did no good; he was stronger. Once, I gave in to my brother's insistence that we defend
ourselves, and this taught me the price of betraying my convictions. We were beaten and trampled as we
had never been beaten and trampled before.

Some weeks later, a friend invited me to spend a Friday night at his house. My parents said it was all
right, and for the first time, I didn't get on the bus after school. I sent my brother off alone.

My friend lived near school, so we walked. On the way, we encountered a kid who didn't care for my
friend. He shoved my friend; my friend shoved back. The kid then knocked my friend to the ground and
punched him until blood ran from his nose. Then he punched him some more.

I stood by.

I was a good boy.



On the morning of Friday, July 10, 1987, I kissed my wife good-bye and watched her drive away down
the gravel road. We were living in a crumbling farmhouse in the hills south of aKansas college town, and
she had to make the long trip in every day. I worried about her.

She worried about me, too. Things had not happened for me the way they were supposed to, and this
had made me bitter. Worse, I had been lied to, used, and ridiculed. The man I wanted to kill had been
instrumental in these events.

My back ached. I slept little, and awoke scowling. I shouted at my wife. I refused to speak to friends
when they telephoned. Worst of all, I couldn't work. In my profession, being unable to work is the same
as being dead.

And so it was that as the profitless days stretched to weeks, my desire to kill that man of my
acquaintance intensified. At the same time, my other instinct urged me toward Skidmore with increasing
insistence.

On July 10, as I watched my wife drive away, I knew that I could resist no longer. I would have to
answer one call or the other before the day was out. After a few minutes of indecision, I made the choice
that I believed would be the easier to reconcile with my upbringing and training. I made sure that my dog
had food and water, and then I climbed onto my motorcycle and left. The dog chased me down the road,
and I had to stop and yell at him. He slunk back to the yard.

The trip would be 150 miles, give or take 10. I had checked the atlas and memorized the roads. The
day was hot and bright.

I took the most direct route: north on U.S. 59, then northeast across theMissouri River into St. Joe.
North again on U.S. 71 toMaryville . West 11 miles onMissouri 46.

South 4 miles on 113.