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Stephen King
“Then shit,” I croaked (потом дерьмо, — крикнул я хрипло;
precognition ["prJkPg'nIS(q)n], solemn ['sOlqm], leather ['leDq]
Long enough to have a dream that I'd gotten a ride with a dead man. What dead man? George Staub, of course, the name I'd read on a grave-marker just before the lights went out. It was the classic ending, wasn't it? Gosh-What-an-Awful-Dream-I-Had. And when I got to Lewiston and found my mother had died? Just a little touch of precognition in the night, put it down to that. It was the sort of story you might tell years later, near the end of a party, and people would nod their heads thoughtfully and look solemn and some dinkleberry with leather patches on the elbows of his tweed jacket would say there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamed of in our philosophy and then —
“Then shit,” I croaked. The top of the mist was moving slowly, like mist on a clouded mirror. “I'm never talking about this. Never, not in my whole life, not even on my deathbed.”
But it had all happened just the way I remembered it (но все произошло именно так, как я это помнил), of that I was sure (в этом я был уверен). George Staub had come along and picked me up in his Mustang (проезжал мимо на своем “мустанге” и подобрал меня), Ichabod Crane's old pal with his head stitched on instead of under his arm (старый приятель Икабода Крейна, с пришитой головой, вместо того чтобы держать ее под мышкой), demanding that I choose (требующий, чтобы я сделал выбор). And I