The Snake

Have you ever seen a snake the size of a bus? It seemed that all the locals claimed they had, and I was deep into the rainforest to set eyes on it for myself. More than that, I was hunting it.

The sightings came few and far between, but the bodies turned up regularly. A farmer would go missing. The search party would set out. They would find the body, terribly mangled, deep in the jungle. The clock would reset and then they would bide their time until the next killing.

The mental picture that came to me was that I was clocking into a factory in 1967, with a big white sign by the door that said “7 days since our last horrific snake incident.” I hoisted the heavy hunting rifle across my shoulder. It was time to push that number a little further.

We took some kind of knockoff jeep into the jungle as far as the roads went, but eventually I had to go on foot. The locals would only lead me so far in. We got to a fork in the path at the trunk of an enormous tree and they said that they would wait for me there. I knew they were lying, but I pressed on ahead.

I estimated to be out here for at least a week before I expected I would find any sign of the beastly reptile. Snakes leave hardly any trace,  especially when they haven’t eaten for a while, and a snake as big as this one should be able to last a long time without a meal, provided it got a big meal when it did eat.

As I walked cautiously down the path I had to pause, because I could sear I heard footsteps up ahead. It was unmistakable.

“Hello?” I called out. A minute or two later, a man walked out from the shadows.

“I am the snake,” he said. He pulled out a revolver and shot me in the chest.