And now, tonight's presentation of radio's outstanding theater of thrills, Suspense.
Tonight, the story of two young men and a frightening dare.
We call it The Game.
So now, starring Sam Edwards and Gil Stratton, Jr., here is tonight's suspense play, The
Game.
There were two of them.
They stood on the corner of Main and Elm, leaning back against the wall, indolent,
the summer sun warm, bringing to them the astringent odor of soft tar in the cracks
of the sidewalk.
It was two o'clock by the hands of the jewelers' clock a few doors down the street.
And it was at two o'clock, quite innocently at first, that the dreadful game began.
What do you want to do, Pen?
I don't know.
You?
No, I don't know.
I guess we could have a couple of games of ping pong.
You got the bill?
I don't know.
Forty cents.
We could, Red.
I don't know.
No, I don't feel like it.
Okay.
Hey, we could shoot some pool.
What's the matter?
You always want to play games.
Kid stuff.
Know something?
What?
I feel like getting drunk.
You're kidding.
I'm not kidding.
You're kidding.
What do you want to get drunk for?
For fun.
My folks won't be back till later tonight.
Not me, boy.
Not me.
I can get hold of a bottle.
Not me, boy.
Chicken?
That's me.
Okay, so long.
Hey, Red.
Wait a minute.
You kidding?
What do you want to do that for?
You got any better ideas what to do?
No, but...
Okay, I'll see you.
You know what would happen if they ever found out?
They won't find out.
You can stay over at my house tonight, call your folks, nobody will know.
That's crazy.
No, it isn't.
Don't you ever want to do something different?
We're not kids.
Maybe you are.
Maybe you need a couple of drinks to grow up.
Big man, I'm two weeks older than you.
Not up here, boy.
Not up here.
Nuts to you.
And they walked slowly, carrying the idea to a White house with gray trim.
A house well lived in, empty now, but waiting.
And the boys went in, upstairs, and to a room papered with ships and pennants, signs and
maps.
The one, Red, disappeared for a few minutes.
The other tried to become interested in a book of fighting ships.
He was afraid of what was to come, knowing why, and not quite knowing.
That your father's?
No, the gardener hid it in the wood shed.
I found it a couple of weeks ago, hid it somewhere else.
Boy, I bet that fractured.
How do you like it?
I don't care.
Straight?
Sure.
Water chaser?
What about you?
No water for me.
Same thing then.
Sit down, we'll talk.
They drank, and they didn't like it.
But they'd started the game, and they couldn't stop.
A small clock with an owl front piece ticked above them, the eyes of the bird metronomically
switching from side to side.
A car passed occasionally, and there was a tension, until the sound of tire and engine
faded away.
It didn't take too long for the warmth to grow, and the eyes to become hot, the tongue
loose.
Thanks.
Boy, not bad, huh?
Feel pretty good?
Yeah, pretty good.
Boy, Elaine, wouldn't be bad having her up here now, huh?
Yeah, wouldn't be bad.
You ever take her out?
A couple of times, I guess.
All right, huh?
Nick?
No, not much.
Oh, I thought you two were like that.
That's what I heard last term.
You kidding?
You know, you know what's the matter with you, Pen?
What?
You're soft.
I'm your friend, boy, I can tell you.
What the other guys say, think, you know?
Guts, boy.
Not all there, not enough.
I'm your friend, Penny.
I like you.
But you gotta have guts.
I've got guts.
Not enough.
And that's what all the guys think.
Pen's okay, but kind of soft, you know?
Chicken.
Yeah?
I'm telling you.
I don't want to be a pal to a guy who's soft.
You gotta be hard.
Be like the other guys.
How do you figure all this?
Nobody asked you.
I know what I am.
I know.
I'm not soft, not chicken.
Ah, you.
You're afraid to get drunk with me.
I'm getting drunk with you.
Because you're afraid I'd think you were chicken, that's why.
That's why.
You're crazy.
I've seen you afraid, Penny.
I had to explain it to the guys.
When?
That time we went shooting ducks with your old man's shotgun.
You were chicken then.
You're crazy.
The guys thought you were.
Afraid of the gun.
That's not chicken.
That's what I told them.
But I'm not sure.
Let's forget it.
Uh-uh.
You can't run out on that, boy.
I'm your friend, Pen.
I'm telling you for your own good.
Okay, okay.
You've told me.
I'm chicken, no guts.
Forget it.
Afraid of a gun.
You and me could never go hunting up in the mountains, I'll tell you that.
Cut it out.
You're a kid.
You're chicken.
You want to fight.
Is that what you want?
You want to?
Because if you do, I...
What for?
That doesn't mean anything.
Kid stuff.
I got a better idea.
You want to really do something that'll show, boy?
That'll really show it?
Do what?
Play a game.
You like games?
Real easy game to learn.
Nothing to it.
Here, have a drink.
Sit down.
Game?
Mm-hmm.
I read about it a while back.
Russian roulette.
Never heard of it.
Some kind of gambling?
I'll tell you.
It's real easy.
First you get a gun.
A revolver, Penny.
Bullet gun.
So what?
You take one bullet and you leave it in the gun, see?
Then we take turns.
What kind of a crazy game is that?
We take turns pointing at our heads and pulling the trigger.
If nothing happens to you, I take the gun, spin the cylinder and point it at my head
and shoot.
You call that a game?
Sure.
See which one goes chicken first.
You never know where the bullet is.
If you spin the cylinder and the bullet comes up on your turn, bluey.
That's nuts.
In this book, it went on a long time.
Then one guy got like you'd get.
He was chicken and he folded up.
Listen, I'm sick of hearing you say that.
I'm sick of it.
You hear?
You want to know something?
You'd get chicken before me.
You.
I wouldn't do it to you, Penn.
Don't worry.
It wouldn't be fair.
Forget it.
Wait a minute now.
You started this.
So go ahead and finish it.
Your old man got a gun, has he?
Sure.
Okay.
You want to be crazy?
Okay.
Go ahead.
Get the gun.
Go ahead.
Well, go on.
Get it.
Let's start playing.
Red smiled a smile of pity.
With deliberate ease, he sauntered from the room.
Penn might have seen him stagger a moment as he reached the door, but Penn wasn't looking.
He was noticing for the first time his hands lying flattened on the table, disassociated.
And there was a scar on the right index finger.
He got it when he cut himself 12 years before on his first borrowed scout knife.
Now the scar, a memory on a trigger finger.
He didn't look up again until Red came back with the gun.
38.
That's the best gun.
Want to hold it?
No.
I figured you wouldn't.
It's okay.
We'll forget it.
Go ahead.
Take out the bullets.
Okay.
Take out five, leave one.
Huh, Penny?
Yeah.
Take out five, leave what?
One bullet.
For you or for me?
Okay?
Okay.
The gun.
The gun rested muzzled to the wall in the center of the table bearing scratches made
by a three-year-old in the forgotten moment of high experience.
The boys sat opposite each other looking down at the gun.
And the gun waited.
You want to go first?
Doesn't make any difference.
Me either.
Flip a coin.
Okay.
Call.
Heads.
Okay.
I'll take the first shot.
There was a ceremony to the game then.
A matchmanship with a toss of a coin, a drink of whiskey.
The glass put down and next to come the lifting of the gun.
Pins stared at it and thought how he could best reach out to take the handle gracefully,
practically.
He had never held a revolver in his life.
I've got to spin the cylinder?
No, no, the other way.
Now.
What's the odds the bullet comes up when I shoot?
I don't know.
One in six, I guess.
I don't know.
Okay.
He was a careful boy.
And so he didn't put the muzzle to his head immediately.
At this point of the game, there was a numbness which did not allow for speculation of pain,
mother, father.
Rather he was surprised by the weight of the gun, the physical oneness with it lying in
his hand.
He was afraid of it and fascinated in his fear.
Red watched.
His mouth open a little.
His eyes reddened with drinking, but bright, watchful, seeing the friend of his youth slowly
raise the gun unsteady and awkwardly turning the barrel to his head.
He wet his lips and waited.
Didn't go off.
No.
How did it feel, Pen?
I don't know.
Were you scared?
I guess so.
I don't know.
You sure looked scared.
Real white.
I didn't think you'd do it.
You took long enough.
You're doing a lot of talking.
You scared?
It's your turn.
Give me the gun.
Boy.
It's a real gun.
Remember when we were kids, cap pistols.
Bet you never thought we'd be doing this.
No.
Okay.
My turn.
Where are you, baby?
Where are you?
You want to make a side bet on this one?
Who's going to pay me if you lose?
Watch, Pen.
When you make up your mind to do it, do it quick, see?
Like this.
Now, you sweat it out.
Pretty good game, huh?
I'll make you one bet, though.
What's that?
You crack before I do.
You're nuts.
A buck?
Sure.
A buck.
The game had taken another turn.
It presented an added incentive to win.
A dollar bet that one boy would be a coward.
A boy would lose his nerve, wouldn't have the guts to take another chance at blowing
his brains out.
Good bet that.
The room was too warm, and outside the middle afternoon sun blazed down hot on the heavy
sycamore trees.
Dusty and still, a 12-year-old passed by on the street, whistling tunelessly on his way
to the drugstore for a soda.
Go ahead.
Or do you want to quit now?
I'll do it.
Don't worry.
I'm not quitting.
Boy, I'll say this for you.
A guy who's as scared of guns as you, you're doing all right.
It gets tougher now, though.
It's all in luck, you know.
You lucky, Pen?
Yeah.
I'm lucky.
That's good.
Maybe you need another drink, huh?
No.
Not one anymore.
Okay.
Well?
Red?
What's the idea, huh?
What are you pointing it at me for?
You scared?
No, I'm not scared.
Maybe we should play it this way for a while.
I shoot at you, and you shoot at me.
That's not the game.
Why not?
Same thing.
No.
That'd be like murder.
You want to play, you play it right.
Who says the way we've been playing is right?
Oh, I get it.
You're trying to get out of taking your next shot.
I'm asking you, who says the way we're playing is right?
Listen, will you quit pointing it at me?
What difference does it make?
Just tell me that.
It's the difference we're playing Russian roulette.
That's the difference.
If you want to quit, say so.
I'm not quitting.
Okay, then.
Take your shot.
It was a thing to be well considered on the part of Red.
The present abstract quality of self-destruction was one thing.
But a gun pointed at him, a gun held in another hand.
This was not a game of his choosing, and he would have no part of it.
Suddenly he knew himself to be sober, terribly sober.
And because of this and the fact that the game had mushroomed beyond his understanding,
there was no stopping the play.
He knew that Pin was sober too.
And as from a great distance, he saw his friend raise the gun, but steadily this time, pressure
whitening the index finger, the muzzle touching just at a pulsing vein he had noticed in Pin's
temple.
You're a lucky guy.
Yeah.
I'm lucky too.
You better be.
My turn now.
My turn.
Why didn't he quit?
He's never had guts.
Why didn't he quit?
Maybe he's so drunk he hasn't got the sense.
No, he's not drunk.
Why didn't he quit?
It's my turn.
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.
Not yet, then.
Not yet.
I gotta smile like I was enjoying it.
This will be something to tell our kids, huh, Pin?
Yeah, sure will.
How long are you gonna take?
What's the matter?
Make you nervous?
Why should I be nervous?
It's your shot.
Okay, then.
Shut up, huh?
He's scared.
Red's scared.
He doesn't want to do it.
I'm not the only one.
All this big talk.
He's no more than me.
All that big talk.
Look at him.
He's scared.
It was at that moment that Pin discovered this truth, that he knew he wanted to.
He could quit the game.
And as he looked at Red, he became aware of a great anger that had no direction, no apparent
reason, but it filled him and made him strong.
Let's quit, Red.
You're crazy.
I want to quit.
Nuts to you.
It's my shot.
I don't care who are quitting.
You quit when it's your shot.
I'll take care of myself.
I'm telling you, Red, put the gun down.
Drop dead.
Put it down.
You're chicken.
A!!
Control!!
You!
Ok, I'm voting,
Ok, kita会.
Come on.
Ok, ok.
We crazy?
You better answer the phone.
Hello?
Oh, hello mom.
Oh, fine.
No, I'm with Penn.
No, I'm fine.
Oh, out of breath.
We've been playing.
Kind of rough, I guess.
Oh, sure mom.
Everything's fine.
Okay.
Okay, mom.
Sure, mom.
So long.
Oh, I'm sorry.
I guess we came back in.
That was mom.
Oh?
She said we could go to the tavern for dinner if you like.
Charge it.
That'd be okay, Ren.
It's well.
Yeah.
Guess we better clean up, huh?
Guess we better.
They cleaned up, not saying much to each other.
They felt very close and were not able to express their closeness.
Then there was a last thing to do and the last part of the game to be played.
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 this shot he'd never fired at himself.
He aimed at a half-burned tree stump some 30 yards away and slowly began to squeeze
the trigger.
Suspense.
In which Sam Edwards and Gil Stratton, Jr. starred in tonight's presentation of The Game.
Next Tuesday, the story of a rehearsal and the performance of murder.
We call it The Cellar.
That's next week on Suspense.
Suspense is produced and directed by Anthony Ellis, who wrote tonight's play.
The music was composed by Leith Stevens and Lucian Morawick and conducted by Wilbur Hatch,
featured on the cast was Mr. John Boehner.
This is the CBS Radio Network.