 tired of the everyday grind. Have a dream of a life of romantic adventure, want to get away from it all. I'd have free you from the four walls of today for a half hour. Present a story. You might have read about it in your newspaper. It might have happened in your top. And if it did, so listen now, as this gate brings you Anthony Ellis' terrifying play, The Game. He stood in the corner of man-and-man leading back again. Some were some warm, bringing to them the astringent odor of soft tar, and the crack knocked by the hands of the jurors, clocked a few doors down the street. And it was at 2 o'clock, quite innocently at first, that the dreadful game began. What do you want to do, Pam? I don't know. You? I don't know. The game's a thing, Paul. You got to go get some pool. What's the matter? You always want to play games, kid stuff. I feel like getting drunk. You're a kid. I'm not kiddin'. You're a kid. What do you want to get drunk for? For fun. It's some fun. Folks won't be back the later than night. Not me, boy. Not me. I can get ahold of a bottle. Not me, boy. That's me. OK, so long. You got any better ideas what to do? No, but I don't care. I'll see you. Nobody will know. It's crazy. Oh, it's nice to grow up. Big man, I'm two weeks older than you. Not up here, boy. Not up here. And that's to you. I've been bored with ships and tenants. The other tried to become interselectronomically, which the car passed occasionally, and there was a tension. It didn't take too long for the wants to grow, and the eyes to become hot. You got to be hard. Be like the other. How do you figure all this? I'm nobody at you. I know what I am. I know I'm not soft. I'm not ch- Ah, you. You're afraid to get drunk. I'm getting drunk with you. Because you were afraid, I think you were chicken. That's why. That's why. I've seen you're afraid. I had to explain it to the guys. When, when? That time we went shooting ducks for the old man's shotgun. You were chicken man. You're crazy. The guys thought you were afraid of the gun. Well, that's not chicken. That's what I told them. I'm not sure. It's just, uh-uh. Now, you can't run out on that, boy. And I'm your friend, and I'm telling you for your own good. OK, OK, you told me I'm chicken. No guts, no forget it. I'm making never go hunting up in the mountains. I'll tell you that. Cut it out. You aren't, kid. You're chicken. You want a fight? Is that what you want? You want a, you want a, what did you want? That doesn't mean anything. Kid, stop. You want to really do something that'll show boys, that'll really show it, play a game. You like games? Really easy games to learn. Nothing to it. Pointing at our head, and pulling the trigger. And to you, I picked the gun. Then the soldier, and pointed at my head, you never know where the bullet is. Comes up on your turn. I got like you'd get, he was chicken and he folded. Listen, I'm sick of hearing you say that. Now, I'm sick of it. You're here? You want to know something? You get chicken before me, you. Your old man got a gun, has he? You want to be crazy? OK, go ahead, get the gun. Noticing, flying flattened on the table. The scar on the right index finger, he got it when he cut himself 12. On a trigger finger, he didn't look up again until red came back with the gun. The gun, the gun was clear and presigned. The gun waited. You want to go first? Practically, he had never held a ballerina's life. I guess, I don't know. Which was not allowed, for if he was surprised by the weight of the gun, the physical one that's red-watched with drinking, but bragging the friend of his youth slow to his head, he wet his lips. We're all white. I didn't think you'd do it. You took off. We'd do a lot of talking. You scared at your turn. Prevented an added incentive. The boy would lose his nerve. Wouldn't have the guts to take another chance of blowing his brains out. You would bet that. Right young man and fire the middle afternoon sun blaze down the hop on the heavy sycamore tree, a 12-year-old on his way to the drug store. The guy who's as scared of guns as you are, you're doing all right. It gets tough with your lucky pens. I'm not lucky. I'm not anything. You didn't have a drink, huh? I don't want any more. See, I did, huh? What do you want me to eat for her? No, I'm not scared. That'd be like murder. You want to play, you play it right. Who says the way we've been playing is right? I'm trying to get out of taking your next shot. I'm asking you, who says the way we're playing is right? What do you mean, who's pointing at me? What difference does it make? Just tell me that. It's a difference. We're playing Russian roulette. That's a difference. You want a quick space, so that's all? I'm not quick. OK, then. Take your shot. Considered on the part of red, the abstract quality of what a gun pointed at him. Gun held in another hand. This was not a game of his choosing. Just standing, there was no stopping the player. That pin was sober, too. He didn't raise the gun, but steadily this time, pressure frightening the index finger. The muzzle touching just at a pulsing vein, you have noticed in pin's temple. It takes his turn now. I've lived twice. He hasn't yet. I wonder why it doesn't stop. So drunk, he hasn't got the sense. Why didn't he quit? I gotta do it. He'd tell everyone if I didn't. He'd tell them all and they'd laugh. I don't know. It feels like the bullet might be coming up. It feels like the bullet might be coming up. It feels like the bullet might be coming up. It feels like the bullet might be coming up. Not yet. Not yet. Smile like I'm enjoying it. This'll be something to tell our kids. How's that? Make you nervous? Okay, then shut up, huh? The only one. All his big talk. He's no more than me. All that big talk. Look at him. That moment that pin discovered this truth that he knew he wanted to, he could quit the game. And as he looked at Reddy, he became aware of the game. He had no direction, no apparent reason, but it stills him and made him strong. Let's quit. Quit. Nice shot. I don't care what quit. You could when it's your shot. I'll take care of myself. I'm telling you, Red, put the gun down. Drop dead. And when I was able to express their closeness, then there was the last thing that they had to know. So they walked to the edge of the town into a shallow ravine. Red took the gun from his pocket. He still had the shot. He'd never fired at him. The game that a half-burned tree stomped some 50 yards away, and the slowly began to squeeze the trigger.