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At the overnight stop in North Platte, Nebraska, Bill Wayne didn’t copy the other tourists in the party when they bought postcards to mail to friends. He was running a little low on friends these days. Once he had classed five guys as friends but they had picked up a habit of doing things behind his back, like shooting at it. The only wish-you-were-here postcard he wanted to send them was a picture of a cemetery.
— May 22, 2024 05:12AM
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“Russ’s face was grimy and the sweat coming out on it looked like drippings from a crankcase. He said hoarsely, “You don’t want to shoot me, Bill.”
“That’s odd. I thought I did. How do you suppose I got the idea?”
— May 22, 2024 05:33AM
“That’s odd. I thought I did. How do you suppose I got the idea?”
