It was a dark and stormy night. And as Abby and Lyn and I are wont to do on such nights, we decided to take a walk. We may or may not have done this previously, and ended up walking miles in the drenching rain, but I guess history shows a little wetness doesn’t stop us.
So off we sauntered, enjoying the gloam and the bursting rose bushes. We were walking in a line- I was bringing up the rear- when suddenly there was a bit of a shriek in front of me. “I almost stepped on a snake!” gasped Abby. I swerved to avoid hitting it myself, and after we shuddered a bit from a safe distance, we determined that the snake was, in fact, alive and coiled, looking to strike. Even better, it was a copperhead.
Should we walk on? Should we kill it? We had nothing with us save umbrellas and iPhone flashlights, and night was quickly falling. We decided we couldn’t just leave it for the next person to step on, so Abby pinned the snake under a branch and Lyn and I ran down the street to a house from which we heard people sounds; they were obviously at home.
We rang the doorbell and a second later the door opened, revealing three great, hulking men. And I mean big, think pro-basketball playing size. “So, we found a snake down the road, and wondered if you all would have anything to kill it with?”
“I’ll just pick it up with my hands,” one of the men said, swaggering outside. “Well… it’s actually a copperhead,” we informed him. He beat a hasty retreat, letting loose a profanity about how he ain’t pickin’ that up!
“Why don’t you try up the road,” they said. “We don’t really got anything here to kill a snake with. Anyhow, it’s a super nice couple up there, they’ll help you.” So spurned in our advances, we trotted back up the road to a quiet little cottage and rang the doorbell there.
A sweet little older lady appeared. We told her our problem, and she promptly called her husband out to help us. A meek and quiet little man came out, brandishing a mop handle. We stood at a respectful distance as he gently and calmly stabbed the head of the copperhead. It lashed out at his mop handle, striking and striking, until he thoroughly mangled it and it died a proper snake death.
Meanwhile, the rain began to dump on our heads, as it seems to do when we take walks. Meek Little Man stood sedately in the shower, kindly warning us about the snakes that cross the road every spring, before we went on our merry (although somewhat jumpy) way.
Is there a moral to this story? Only this: Sweet little old men who kill snakes for damsels in distress trump great big talldarkandhandsome ones who refuse. The end.