Death of a Rattlesnake
About twice a week, I drive 45 minutes out of town and into the Texas boondocks. My destination, the central compound of Gene Crick and Main.org , is deep within bat country. Upon arrival at the compound, the wind wispers, "You ain't from 'round here, are ya' boy?" Basdrop is one place where I can't help but feel that the abnormally close together eyes of Texas bumpkinism upon me -- it must be my shaggy hair, and urban hipster look..
That said, Gene's compound is a wonderful hideout that is in a truly beautiful part of the country. However, as we are forward thinking, pragmatic types dedicated towards protecting and advancing democracy through the internet(that's what we keep telling ourselves, at least), the great spirit of Bush country constantly keeps us on our toes. For example, today, upon exiting my car, I suddenly found myself involuntarily jumping 5 feet in the air. Upon landing, I looked at the curious blur that had spurred my reflexive action. It was nothing less than an adolescent western diamond-back rattlesnake.
I made note of this to Gene -- fully aware that although he is a lover of nature and wildlife, he maintains a zero-tolerence policy toward poisonous snakes. "I'll be right back, if it tries to escape... follow it.", orded Gene. I nodded, and looked back into the beady black eyes of the snake. I took unusual amusement in the snake's defensive, and arrogant posture, and my knowledge of its not to far off fate. "Damn apple pusher...", I silently barked (snakes can read minds, you know). The snake replied telepathically, "Keep of m'property, boy". Snakes, I've noted, feel a great sense of entitlement to whatever land that find themselves on at any given moment. Much like 17th-19th century Europeans.
Two minutes later Gene returns with a shotgun. He aims in our camoflauged enemies general direction, and -- without removing the marlboro from his lips -- asks, "where is it again?" I reply, "next to the yellowish rock." Punctuating my sentence, was the blast of a shotgun. The poor bastard's poisonous triangular head sprung off in one direction, while his limp body flopped in the other. Clean shot, right at the neck. One gets a sense that Gene didn't learn to shoot at Intel. I found out that what they say is true: a decapitated snake's head does in fact behave very much as though it was alive (for about 8 minutes or so).
At the end of the day, Gene asked if I wanted the snake head; "makes a great key chain" he rightfully pointed out. I thanked him for his gracious offer, but regretfully, I decided I'd pass.