Читаю "I am not a serial killer" Дэна Уэллса. Пока только вторая глава (был план читать днем, но я уснула на подробном описании обмывания и бальзамирования тела в морге, упс), но вот этот отрывок таки хочу скопировать. It's PG-13 rated, i guess. Надеюсь, что вся книга будет и дальше про серийных убийц и морг. И именно таким же языком с точки зрения 15летнего мальчика.
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"Who did you write about?" said Max.
"What?" I hadn't been paying attention.
"I asked who you wrote about for your essay," said Max. "I'm guessing John Wayne."
"Why would I do John Wayne?"
"Because you're named after him."
He was right; my name is John Wayne Cleaver. My sister's name is Lauren Bacall Cleaver. My dad was a big fan of old movies.
"Being named after someone doesn't mean they're interesting," I said, still watching the crowd. "Why didn't you write about Maxwell House?"
"Is that a guy?" asked Max. "I thought it was a coffee company."
"I wrote about Dennis Rader," I told him. "He was BTK."
"What's BTK?"
"Bind, Torture, Kill," I said. "BTK was how Dennis Rader signed his name in all the letters he wrote to the media."
"That's sick, man," said Max. "How many people did he kill?" He obviously wasn't too disturbed by it.
"Maybe ten," I said. "The police aren't sure yet."
"Only ten?" said Max. "That's nothing. You could kill more than that robbing a bank. That guy in your project last year was way better at it than that."
"It doesn't matter how many they kill," I told him. "And it's not awesome—it's wrong."
"Then why do you talk about them all the time?" asked Max.
"Because wrong is interesting." I was only partially engaged in the conversation; mostly I was thinking about how cool it would be to see a body that was all taken apart after an autopsy.
"You're weird, man," said Max, taking another bite of his sandwich. "That's all there is to say. Someday you're going to kill a whole bunclvof people—probably more than ten, because you're such an overachiever—and then they're going to have me on TV and ask if I saw this corning, and I'm going to say, 'Hell yes, that guy was seriously screwed up.'"
"Then I guess I have to kill you first," I said.
"Nice try," said Max, laughing and pulling out his inhaler. "I'm, like, you're only friend in the world—you wouldn't kill me." He took a puff from his inhaler and tucked it back into his pocket. "Besides, my dad was in the army, and you're a skinny emo. I'd like to see you try."
"Jeffrey Dahmer," I said, only half listening to Max.
"What?"
"The project I did last year was on Jeffrey Dahmer," I said. "He was a cannibal who kept severed heads in his freezer."
"I remember now," said Max, his eyes darkening. "Your posters gave me nightmares. That was boss."
"Nightmares are nothing," I said. "Those posters gave me a therapist."