Snake Man died last week. I just heard the news. He was torn apart by a pack of dogs out behind the plastic fingernail factory. The dogs had wised up since their last encounter with Snake Man. They knew to corner him, with dogs on three sides, and never let him get near a sewer grate. Then they took bite after bite, pulling loose bundles of snakes that constituted Snake Man’s arms and legs, neck and torso.

The snakes melted into black smoke in the dogs’ mouths, as was appropriate for a creature made up of the devil’s tentacles. Even so, the dogs bit down harder and harder, bloodying their gums and lower lips. They had no taste for Snake Man’s leather jacket and knotty pants. One of his boots was found in place of the Mayor’s infant son, but that and other curse-related effects were expected and prepared for. (The Mayor moved forward, accepting the classification of “Unfit to Father” to clear the way for his State House run later this year.)

What I’ll miss most about Snake Man was his sincerity. He was genuinely interested in what you had to say, in what you had going on. You looked into the two coiled, midnight-black Hertzel Snakes that formed his eyeballs and you knew: He cared.

Nevertheless I intend to deliver the speech at the dogs’ honorarium later this month. They will receive Civic Commendation Medals for destroying another of the Jungian shadow figures that plague our community, thus increasing property values.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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