Stephen King - The Bachman Books

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Stephen King

Why I Was Bachman

Between 1977 and 1984, I published five novels under the pseudonym of

Richard Bachman. These were Rage (1977), The Long Walk (1979), Roadwork

(1981), The Running Man (1982), and Thinner (1984). There were two reasons I

was finally linked with Bachman: first, because the first four books, all

paperback

originals, were dedicated to people associated with my life, and second,

because

my name appeared on the copyright forms of one book. Now people are asking

me why I did it, and I don't seem to have any very satisfactory answers. Good

thing I didn't murder anyone, isn't it?

I can make a few suggestions, but that's all. The only important thing I ever

did in

my life for a conscious reason was to ask Tabitha Spruce, the college co-ed I

was seeing, if she would marry me. The reason was that I was deeply in love

with her. The joke is that love itself is an irrational and indefinable

emotion.

Sometimes something just says Do this or Don't do that. I almost always obey

that voice, and when I disobey it I usually rue the day. All I'm saying is

that I've

got a hunch-player's approach to life. My wife accuses me of being an

impossibly

picky Virgo and I guess I am in some ways-I usually know at any given time how

many pieces of a 500-piece puzzle I've put in, for instance-but I never really

planned anything big that I ever did, and that includes the books I've

written. I

never sat down and wrote page one with anything but the vaguest idea of how

things would come out.

One day it occurred to me that I ought to publish Getting It On, a novel which

Doubleday almost published two years before they published Carrie, under a

pseudonym. It seemed like a good idea so I did it.

Like I say, good thing I didn't kill anybody, huh?

In 1968 or 1969, Paul McCartney said a wistful and startling thing in an

interview.

He said the Beatles had discussed the idea of going out on the road as a

bar-band named Randy and the Rockets. They would wear hokey capes and

masks a la Count Five, he said, so no one would recognize them, and they would

just have a raveup like in the old days.

When the interviewer suggested they would be recognized by their voices, Paul

seemed at first startled . . . and then a bit appalled.

Cub Koda, possibly America's greatest houserocker, once told me this story

about Elvis Presley, and like the man said, if it ain't true, it oughtta be.

Cub said

Elvis told an interviewer something that went like this: I was like a cow in a

pen

with a whole bunch of other cows, only I got out somehow. Well, they came and

got me and put me in another pen, only this one was bigger and I had it all to

myself. I looked around and seen the fences was so high I'd never get out. So

said, "All right, I'll graze. "

I wrote five novels before Carrie. Two of them were bad, one was indifferent,

and

I thought two of them were pretty good. The two good ones were Getting It On

(which became Rage when it was finally published) and The Long Walk. Getting

It On was begun in 1966, when I was a senior in high school. I later found it

moldering away in an old box in the cellar of the house where I'd grown up-

this

rediscovery was in 1970, and I finished the novel in 1971. The Long Walk was

written in the fall of 1966 and the spring of 1967, when I was a freshman at

college.

I submitted Walk to the Bennett Cerf/Random House first-novel competition

(which has, I think, long since gone the way of the blue suede shoe) in the

fall of

1967 and it was promptly rejected with a form note . . . no comment of any

kind.

Hurt and depressed, sure that the book must really be terrible, I stuck it

into the

fabled TRUNK, which all novelists, both published and aspiring, carry around.

never submitted it again until Elaine Geiger at New American Library asked if

"Dicky" (as we called him) was going to follow up Rage. The Long Walk went in

the TRUNK, but as Bob Dylan says in "Tangled Up in Blue," it never escaped my

mind.

None of them has ever escaped my mind-not even the really bad ones.

The numbers have gotten very big. That's part of it. I have times when I feel

as if

I planted a modest packet of words and grew some kind of magic beanstalk . .

.or

a runaway garden of books (OVER 40 MILLION KING BOOKS IN PRINT!!!, as

my publisher likes to trumpet). Or, put it another way-sometimes I feel like

Mickey

Mouse in Fantasia. I knew enough to get the brooms started, but once they

start

to march, things are never the same.

Am I bitching? No. At least they're very gentle bitches if I am. I have tried

my best

to follow that other Dylan's advice and sing in my chains like the sea. I

mean, I

could get down there in the amen corner and crybaby about how tough it is to

Stephen King, but somehow I don't think all those people out there who are a)

unemployed or b) busting heavies every week just to keep even with the house

payments and the MasterCharge bill would feel a lot of sympathy for me. Nor

would I expect it. I'm still married to the same woman, my kids are healthy

and

bright, and I'm being well paid for doing something I love. So what's to bitch

about?

Nothing.

Almost.

Memo to Paul McCartney, if he's there: the interviewer was right. They would

have recognized your voices, but before you even opened your mouths, they

would have recognized George's guitar licks. I did five books as Randy and the

Rockets and I've been getting letters asking me if I was Richard Bachman from

the very beginning.

My response to this was simplicity itself: I lied.

I think I did it to turn the heat down a little bit; to do something as

someone other

than Stephen King. I think that all novelists are inveterate role-players and

it was

fun to be someone else for a while-in this case, Richard Bachman. And he did

develop a personality and a history to go along with the bogus author photo on

the back of Thinner and the bogus wife (Claudia Inez Bachman) to whom the

book is dedicated. Bachman was a fairly unpleasant fellow who was born in New

York and spent about ten years in the merchant marine after four years in the

Coast Guard. He ultimately settled in rural central New Hampshire, where he

wrote at night and tended to his medium-sized dairy farm during the day. The

Bachmans had one child, a boy, who died in an unfortunate accident at the age

of six (he fell through a well cover and drowned). Three years ago a brain

tumor

was discovered near the base of Bachman's brain; tricky surgery removed it.

And

he died suddenly in February of 1985 when the Bangor Daily News, my

hometown paper, published the story that I was Bachman-a story which I

confirmed. Sometimes it was fun to be Bachman, a curmudgeonly recluse a la J.

D. Salinger, who never gave interviews and who, on the author questionnaire

from New English Library in London, wrote down "rooster worship" in the blank

provided for religion.

I've been asked several times if I did it because I thought I was

overpublishing

the market as Stephen King. The answer is no. I didn't think I was

overpublishing

the market . . . but my publishers did. Bachman provided a compromise for both

of us. My "Stephen King publishers" were like a frigid wifey who only wants to

put

out once or twice a year, encouraging her endlessly horny hubby to find a call

girl. Bachman was where I went when I had to have relief. This does nothing,

however, to explain why I've felt this restless need to publish what I write

when I

don't need the dough.

I repeat, good thing I didn't kill someone, huh?

I've been asked several times if I did it because I feel typecast as a horror

writer.

The answer is no. I don't give a shit what people call me as long as I can go

sleep at night.

Nevertheless, only the last of the Bachman books is an out-and-out horror

story,

and the fact hasn't escaped me. Writing something that was not horror as

Stephen King would be perfectly easy, but answering the questions about why I

did it would be a pain in the ass. When I wrote straight fiction as Richard

Bachman, no one asked the questions. In fact, ha-ha, hardly anyone read the

books.

Which leads us to what might be-well, not the reason why that voice spoke up

the first place, but the closest thing to it.

You try to make sense of your life. Everybody tries to do that, I think, and

part of

making sense of things is trying to find reasons . . . or constants . . .

things that

don't fluctuate.

Everyone does it, but perhaps people who have extraordinarily lucky or unlucky

lives do it a little more. Part of you wants to think-or must as least

speculatethat

you got whopped with the cancer stick because you were one of the bad guys (or

one of the good ones, if you believe Durocher's Law). Part of you wants to

think

that you must have been one hardworking S.O.B. or a real prince or maybe even

one of the Sainted Multitude if you end up riding high in a world where people

are

starving, shooting each other, burning out, bumming out, getting loaded,

getting

'Luded.

But there's another part that suggests it's all a lottery, a real-life game-

show not

much different from "Wheel of Fortune" or "The New Price Is Right" (two of the

Bachman books, incidentally, are about game-show-type competitions). It is for

some reason depressing to think it was all-or even mostly-an accident. So

maybe

you try to find out if you could do it again.

Or in my case, if Bachman could do it again.

The question remains unanswered. Richard Bachman's first four books did not

sell well at all, perhaps partly because they were issued without fanfare.

Each month paperback houses issue three types of books: "leaders," which are

heavily advertised, stocked in dump-bins (the trade term for those showy

cardboard

displays you see at the front of your local chain bookstore), and which

usually

feature fancy covers that have been either die-cut or stamped with foil;"

subleaders,

" which are less heavily advertised, less apt to be awarded dump-bins,

and less expected to sell millions of copies (two hundred thousand copies sold

would be one hell of a good showing for a sub-leader); and just plain books.

This

third category is the paperback book publishing world's equivalent of trench

warfare or … cannon fodder. "Just plain books" (the only other term I can

think of

is sub-sub-leaders, but that is really depressing) are rarely hardcover

reprints;

they are generally backlist books with new covers, genre novels (gothics,

Regency romances, westerns, and so on), or series books such as The

Survivalist, The Mercenaries, The Sexual Adventures of a Horny Pumpkin . . .

you get the idea. And, every now and then, you find genuine novels buried in

this

deep substratum, and the Bachman novels are not the only time such novels

have been the work of well-known writers sending out dispatches from deep

cover. Donald Westlake published paperback originals under the names Tucker

Coe and Richard Stark; Evan Hunter under the name Ed McBain; Gore Vidal

under the name Edgar Box. More recently Gordon Lish published an excellent,

eerie paperback original called The Stone Boy under a pseudonym.

The Bachman novels were "just plain books," paperbacks to fill the drugstore

and

bus-station racks of America. This was at my request; I wanted Bachman to keep

a low profile. So, in that sense, the poor guy had the dice loaded against him

from the start.

And yet, little by little, Bachman gained a dim cult following. His final

book,

Thinner, had sold about 28,000 copies in hardcover before a Washington

bookstore

clerk and writer named Steve Brown got suspicious, went to the Library of

Congress, and uncovered my name on one of the Bachman copyright forms.

Twenty-eight thousand copies isn't a lot-it's certainly not in best-seller

territory-

but it's 4,000 copies more than my book Night Shift sold in 1978. I had

intended

Bachman to follow Thinner with a rather gruesome suspense novel called

Misery, and I think that one might have taken "Dicky" onto the best-seller

lists. Of

course we'll never know now, will we? Richard Bachman, who survived the brain

tumor, finally died of a much rarer disease-cancer of the pseudonym. He died

with that question-is it work that takes you to the top or is it all just a

lottery? -still

unanswered.

But the fact that Thinner did 28,000 copies when Bachman was the author and

280,000 copies when Steve King became the author, might tell you something,

huh?

There is a stigma attached to the idea of the pen name. This was not so in the

past; there was a time when the writing of novels was believed to be a rather

low

occupation, perhaps more vice than profession, and a pen name thus seemed a

perfectly natural and respectable way of protecting one's self (and one's

relatives) from embarrassment. As respect for the art of the novel rose,

things

changed. Both critics and general readers became suspicious of work done by

men and women who elected to hide their identities. If it was good, the

unspoken

opinion seems to run, the guy would have put his real name on it. If he lied

about

his name, the book must suck like an Electrolux.

So I want to close by saying just a few words about the worth of these books.

Are

they good novels? I don't know. Are they honest novels? Yes, I think so. They

were honestly meant, anyway, and written with an energy I can only dream about

these days (The Running Man, for instance, was written during a period of

seventy-

two hours and published with virtually no changes). Do they suck like an

Electrolux? Overall, no. In places . . . wellll . . .

I was not quite young enough when these stories were written to be able to

dismiss

them as juvenilia. On the other hand, I was still callow enough to believe in

oversimple motivations (many of them painfully Freudian) and unhappy endings.

The most recent of the Bachman books offered here, Roadwork, was written

between

'Salem's Lot and The Shining, and was an effort to write a "straight" novel.

(I was also young enough in those days to worry about that casual cocktail-

party

question, "Yes, but when are you going to do something serious? ") I think it

was

also an effort to make some sense of my mother's painful death the year before

- a lingering cancer had taken her off inch by painful inch. Following this

death I

was left both grieving and shaken by the apparent senselessness of it all. I

suspect Roadwork is probably the worst of the lot simply because it tries so

hard

to be good and to find some answers to the conundrum of human pain.

The reverse of this is The Running Man, which may be the best of them because

it's nothing but story-it moves with the goofy speed of a silent movie, and

anything

which is not story is cheerfully thrown over the side.

Both The Long Walk and Rage are full of windy psychological preachments (both

textual and subtextual), but there's still a lot of story in those novels-

ultimately the

reader will be better equipped than the writer to decide if the story is

enough to

surmount all the failures of perception and motivation.

I'd only add that two of these novels, perhaps even all four, might have been

published under my own name if I had been a little more savvy about the

publishing business or if I hadn't been preoccupied in the years they were

written

with first trying to get myself through school and then to support my family.

And

that I only published them (and am allowing them to be republished now)

because they are still my friends; they are undoubtedly maimed in some ways,

but they still seem very much alive to me.

And a few words of thanks: to Elaine Koster, NAL's publisher (who was Elaine

Geiger when these books were first published), who kept "Dicky's" secret so

long

and successfully to Carolyn Stromberg, "Dicky's" first editor, who did the

same; to

Kirby McCauley, who sold the rights and also kept the secret faithfully and

well;

to my wife, who encouraged me with these just as she did with the others that

fumed out to be such big and glittery money-makers; and, as always, to you,

reader, for your patience and kindness.

Stephen King

Bangor, Maine

RAGE

Richard Bachman

[24 mar 2001 – scanned for #bookz, proofread and released – v1]

A high school Show-and-Tell session explodes into a nightmare of evil...

So you understand that when we

increase the number of variables,

the axioms themselves never change.

-Mrs. Jean Underwood

-Children's rhyme, c. 1880

Teacher, teacher, ring the bell,

My lessons all to you I'll tell,

And when my day at school is through,

I'll know more than aught I knew.

Chapter 1

The morning I got it on was nice; a nice May morning. What made it nice was

that I'd kept my breakfast down, and the squirrel I spotted in Algebra II.

I sat in the row farthest from the door, which is next to the windows, and I

spotted the squirrel on the lawn. The lawn of Placerville High School is a

very

good one. It does not fuck around. It comes right up to the building and says

howdy. No one, at least in my four years at PHS, has tried to push it away

from

the building with a bunch of flowerbeds or baby pine trees or any of that

happy

horseshit. It comes right up to the concrete foundation, and there it grows,

like it

or not. It is true that two years ago at a town meeting some bag proposed that

the town build a pavilion in front of the school, complete with a memorial to

honor

the guys who went to Placerville High and then got bumped off in one war or

another. My friend Joe McKennedy was there, and he said they gave her nothing

but a hard way to go. I wish I had been there. The way Joe told it, it sounded

a real good time. Two years ago. To the best of my recollection, that was

about

the time I started to lose my mind.

Chapter 2

So there was the squirrel, running through the grass at 9:05 in the morning,

not ten feet from where I was listening to Mrs. Underwood taking us back to

the

basics of algebra in the wake of a horrible exam that apparently no one had

passed except me and Ted Jones. I was keeping an eye on him, I can tell you.

The squirrel, not Ted.

On the board, Mrs. Underwood wrote this: a = 16. "Miss Cross," she said,

turning back. "Tell us what that equation means, if you please."

"It means that a is sixteen," Sandra said. Meanwhile the squirrel ran back and

forth in the grass, tail bushed out, black eyes shining bright as buckshot. A

nice

fat one. Mr. Squirrel had been keeping down more breakfasts than I lately, but

this morning's was riding as light and easy as you please. I had no shakes, no

acid stomach. I was riding cool.

"All right," Mrs. Underwood said. "Not bad. But it's not the end, is it? No.

Would anyone care to elaborate on this fascinating equation?"

I raised my hand, but she called on Billy Sawyer. "Eight plus eight," he

blurted.

"Explain. "

"I mean it can be . . . " Billy fidgeted. He ran his fingers over the graffiti

etched

into the surface of his desk; SM L DK, HOT SHIT, TOMMY '73. "See, if you add

eight and eight, it means . . . "

"Shall I lend you my thesaurus?" Mrs. Underwood asked, smiling alertly. My

stomach began to hurt a little, my breakfast started to move around a little,

so I

looked back at the squirrel for a while. Mrs. Underwood's smile reminded me of

the shark in Jaws.

Carol Granger raised her hand. Mrs. Underwood nodded. "Doesn't he mean

that eight plus eight also fulfills the equation's need for truth?"

"I don't know what he means," Mrs. Underwood said.

A general laugh. "Can you fulfill the equation's truth in any other ways, Miss

Granger?"

Carol began, and that was when the intercom said: "Charles Decker to the

office,

please. Charles Decker. Thank you."

I looked at Mrs. Underwood, and she nodded. My stomach had begun to feel

shriveled and old. I got up and left the room. When I left, the squirrel was

still

scampering.

I was halfway down the hall when I thought I heard Mrs. Underwood coming

after me, her hands raised into twisted claws, smiling her big shark smile. We

don't need boys of your type around here . . . boys of your type belong in

Greenmantle . . . or the reformatory . . . or the state hospital for the

criminally

insane . . . so get out! Get out! Get out!

I turned around, groping in my back pocket for the pipe wrench that was no

longer there, and now my breakfast was a hard hot ball inside my guts. But I

wasn't afraid, not even when she wasn't there. I've read too many books.

Chapter 3

I stopped in the bathroom to take a whiz and eat some Ritz crackers. I always

carry some Ritz crackers in a Baggie. When your stomach's bad, a few crackers

can do wonders. One hundred thousand pregnant women can't be wrong. I was

thinking about Sandra Cross, whose response in class a few minutes ago had

been not bad, but also not the end. I was thinking about how she lost her

buttons.

She was always losing them-off blouses, off skirts, and the one time I had

taken

her to a school dance, she had lost the button off the top of her Wranglers

and

they had almost fallen down. Before she figured out what was happening, the

zipper on the front of her jeans had come halfway unzipped, showing a V of

flat

white panties that was blackly exciting. Those panties were tight, white, and

spotless. They were immaculate. They lay against her lower belly with sweet

snugness and made little ripples while she moved her body to the beat . . .

until

she realized what was going on and dashed for the girls' room. Leaving me with

a memory of the Perfect Pair of Panties. Sandra was a Nice Girl, and if I had

never known it before, I sure-God knew it then, because we all know that the

Nice Girls wear the white panties. None of that New York shit is going down in

Placerville, Maine.

But Mr. Denver kept creeping in, pushing away Sandra and her pristine

panties. You can't stop your mind; the damn thing just keeps right on going.

All

the same, I felt a great deal of sympathy for Sandy, even though she was never

going to figure out just what the quadratic equation was all about. If Mr.

Denver

and Mr. Grace decided to send me to Greenmantle, I might never see Sandy

again. And that would be too bad.

I got up from the hopper, dusted the cracker crumbs down into the bowl, and

flushed it. High-school toilets are all the same; they sound like 747s taking

off.

I've always hated pushing that handle. It makes you sure that the sound is

clearly

audible in the adjacent classroom and that everybody is thinking: Well, there

goes another load. I've always thought a man should be alone with what my

mother insisted I call lemonade and chocolate when I was a little kid. The

bathroom should be a confessional sort of place. But they foil you. They

always

foil you. You can't even blow your nose and keep it a secret. Someone's always

got to know, someone's always got to peek. People like Mr. Denver and Mr.

Grace even get paid for it.

But by then the bathroom door was wheezing shut behind me and I was in the

hall again. I paused, looking around. The only sound was the sleepy hive drone

that means it's Wednesday again, Wednesday morning, ten past nine, everyone

caught for another day in the splendid sticky web of Mother Education.

I went back into the bathroom and took out my Flair. I was going to write

something witty on the wall like SANDRA CROSS WEARS WHITE

UNDERPANTS, and then I caught sight of my face in the mirror. There were

bruised half-moons under my eyes, which looked wide and white and stary. The

nostrils were half-flared and ugly. The mouth was a white, twisted line.

I Wrote EAT SHIT On the wall until the pen suddenly snapped in my straining

fingers. It dropped on the floor and I kicked it.

There was a sound behind me. I didn't turn around. I closed my eyes and

breathed slowly and deeply until I had myself under control. Then I went

upstairs.

Chapter 4

The administration offices of Placerville High are on the third floor, along

with

the study hall, the library, and Room 300, which is the typing room. When you

push through the door from the stairs, the first thing you hear is that steady

clickety-

clack. The only time it lets up is when the bell changes the classes or when

Mrs. Green has something to say. I guess she usually doesn't say much,

because the typewriters hardly ever stop. There are thirty of them in there, a

battle-scarred platoon of gray Underwoods. They have them marked with

numbers so you know which one is yours. The sound never stops, clickety-clack,

clickety-clack, from September to June. I'll always associate that sound with

waiting in the outer office of the admin offices for Mr. Denver or Mr. Grace,

the

original dipso-duo. It got to be a lot like those jungle movies where the hero

and

his safari are pushing deep into darkest Africa, and the hero says: "Why don't

they stop those blasted drums?" And when the blasted drums stop he regards

the shadowy, rustling foliage and says: "I don't like it. It's too quiet."

I had gotten to the office late just so Mr. Denver would be ready to see me,

but the receptionist, Miss Marble, only smiled and said, "Sit down, Charlie.

Mr.

Denver will be right with you. "

So I sat down outside the slatted railing, folded my hands, and waited for Mr.

Denver to be right with me. And who should be in the other chair but one of my

father's good friends, AI Lathrop. He was giving me the old slick-eye, too, I

can

tell you. He had a briefcase on his lap and a bunch of sample textbooks beside

him. I had never seen him in a suit before. He and my father were a couple of

mighty hunters. Slayers of the fearsome sharp-toothed deer and the killer

partridge. I had been on a hunting trip once with my father and Al and a

couple of

my father's other friends. Part of Dad's never-ending campaign to Make a Man

Out of My Son.

"Hi, there!" I said, and gave him a big shiteating grin. And I could tell from

the

way he jumped that he knew all about me.

"Uh, hi, uh, Charlie. " He glanced quickly at Miss Marble, but she was going

over attendance lists with Mrs. Venson from next door. No help there. He was

all

alone with Carl Decker's psychotic son, the fellow who had nearly killed the

chemistry-physics teacher.

"Sales trip, huh?" I asked him.

"Yeah, that's right. " He grinned as best he could. "Just out there selling

the

old books."

"Really crushing the competition, huh?"

He jumped again. "Well, you win some, you lose some, you know, Charlie."

Yeah, I knew that. All at once I didn't want to put the needle in him anymore.

He was forty and getting bald and there were crocodile purses under his eyes.

He went from school to school in a Buick station wagon loaded with textbooks

and he went hunting for a week in November every year with my father and my

father's friends, up in the Allagash. And one year I had gone with them. I had

been nine, and I woke up and they had been drunk and they had scared me.

That was all. But this man was no ogre. He was just forty-baldish and trying

make a buck. And if I had heard him saying he would murder his wife, that was

just talk. After all, I was the one with blood on my hands.

But I didn't like the way his eyes were darting around, and for a moment just

moment-I could have grabbed his windpipe between my hands and yanked his

face up to mine and screamed into it: You and my father and all your friends,

you

should all have to go in there with me, you should all have to go to

Greenmantle

with me, because you're all in it, you're all in it, you're all a part of

this!

Instead I sat and watched him sweat and thought about old times.

Chapter 5

I came awake with a jerk out of a nightmare I hadn't had for a long time; a

dream where I was in some dark blind alley and something was coming for me,

some dark hunched monster that creaked and dragged itself along . . . a

monster

that would drive me insane if I saw it. Bad dream. I hadn't had it since I was

little kid, and I was a big kid now. Nine years old.

At first I didn't know where I was, except it sure wasn't my bedroom at home.

It seemed too close, and it smelled different. I was cold and cramped, and I

had

to take a whiz something awful.

There was a harsh burst of laughter that made me jerk in my bed-except it

wasn't a bed, it was a bag.

"So she's some kind of fucking bag," Al Lathrop said from beyond the canvas

wall, "but fucking's the operant word there."

Camping, I was camping with my dad and his friends. I hadn't wanted to

come.

"Yeah, but how do you git it up, Al? That's what I want to know. " That was

Scotty Norwiss, another one of Dad's friends. His voice was slurred and furry,

and I started to feel afraid again. They were drunk.

"I just turn off the lights and pretend I'm with Carl Decker's wife," Al said,

and

there was another bellow of laughter that made me cringe and jerk in my

sleeping

bag. Oh, God, I needed to whiz piss make lemonade whatever you wanted to

call it. But I didn't want to go out there while they were drinking and

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StephenKingWhyIWasBachman1Between1977and1984,IpublishedfivenovelsunderthepseudonymofRichardBachman.ThesewereRage(1977),TheLongWalk(1979),Roadwork(1981),TheRunningMan(1982),andThinner(1984).ThereweretworeasonsIwasfinallylinkedwithBachman:first,becausethefirstfourbooks,allpaperbackoriginals,werededica...

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Stephen King - The Bachman Books.pdf

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Stephen King - The Bachman Books

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